ON TWO occasions within half an hour, Cecilia stepped out of her bedroom, caught sight of herself in the gilt-frame mirror at the top of the stairs and, immediately dissatisfied, returned to her wardrobe to reconsider. Her first resort was a black crêpe de chine dress which, according to the dressing2 table mirror, bestowed3 by means of clever cutting a certain severity of form. Its air of invulnerability was heightened by the darkness of her eyes. Rather than offset4 the effect with a string of pearls, she reached in a moment’s inspiration for a necklace of pure jet. The lipstick’s bow had been perfect at first application. Various tilts6 of the head to catch perspectives in triptych reassured7 her that her face was not too long, or not this evening. She was expected in the kitchen on behalf of her mother, and Leon was waiting for her, she knew, in the drawing room. Still, she found time, as she was about to leave, to return to the dressing table and apply her perfume to the points of her elbows, a playful touch in accord with her mood as she closed the door of her bedroom behind her.
But the public gaze of the stairway mirror as she hurried toward it revealed a woman on her way to a funeral, an austere8, joyless woman moreover, whose black carapace9 had affinities10 with some form of matchbox-dwelling insect. A stag beetle11! It was her future self, at eighty-five, in widow’s weeds. She did not linger—she turned on her heel, which was also black, and returned to her room.
She was skeptical12, because she knew the tricks the mind could play. At the same time, her mind was—in every sense—where she was to spend the evening, and she had to be at ease with herself. She stepped out of the black crêpe dress where it fell to the floor, and stood in her heels and underwear, surveying the possibilities on the wardrobe racks, mindful of the passing minutes. She hated the thought of appearing austere. Relaxed was how she wanted to feel, and, at the same time, self-contained. Above all, she wanted to look as though she had not given the matter a moment’s thought, and that would take time. Downstairs the knot of impatience13 would be tightening14 in the kitchen, while the minutes she was planning to spend alone with her brother were running out. Soon her mother would appear and want to discuss the table placings, Paul Marshall would come down from his room and be in need of company, and then Robbie would be at the door. How was she to think straight?
She ran a hand along the few feet of personal history, her brief chronicle of taste. Here were the flapper dresses of her teenage years, ludicrous, limp, sexless things they looked now, and though one bore wine stains and another a burn hole from her first cigarette, she could not bring herself to turn them out. Here was a dress with the first timid hint of shoulder pads, and others followed more assertively15, muscular older sisters throwing off the boyish years, rediscovering waistlines and curves, dropping their hemlines with self-sufficient disregard for the hopes of men. Her latest and best piece, bought to celebrate the end of finals, before she knew about her miserable16 third, was the figure-hugging dark green bias17-cut backless evening gown with a halter neck. Too dressy to have its first outing at home. She ran her hand further back and brought out a moiré silk dress with a pleated bodice and scalloped hem—a safe choice since the pink was muted and musty enough for evening wear. The triple mirror thought so too. She changed her shoes, swapped18 her jet for the pearls, retouched her makeup19, rearranged her hair, applied20 a little perfume to the base of her throat, more of which was now exposed, and was back out in the corridor in less than fifteen minutes.
Earlier in the day she had seen old Hardman going about the house with a wicker basket, replacing electric bulbs. Perhaps there was now a harsher light at the top of the stairs, for she had never had this difficulty with the mirror there before. Even as she approached from a distance of forty feet, she saw that it was not going to let her pass; the pink was in fact innocently pale, the waistline was too high, the dress flared21 like an eight-year-old’s party frock. All it needed was rabbit buttons. As she drew nearer, an irregularity in the surface of the ancient glass foreshortened her image and she confronted the child of fifteen years before. She stopped and experimentally raised her hands to the side of her head and gripped her hair in bunches. This same mirror must have seen her descend22 the stairs like this on dozens of occasions, on her way to one more friend’s afternoon birthday bash. It would not help her state of mind, to go down looking like, or believing she looked like, Shirley Temple.
More in resignation than irritation23 or panic, she returned to her room. There was no confusion in her mind: these too-vivid, untrustworthy impressions, her self-doubt, the intrusive24 visual clarity and eerie25 differences that had wrapped themselves around the familiar were no more than continuations, variations of how she had been seeing and feeling all day. Feeling, but preferring not to think. Besides, she knew what she had to do and she had known it all along. She owned only one outfit26 that she genuinely liked, and that was the one she should wear. She let the pink dress fall on top of the black and, stepping contemptuously through the pile, reached for the gown, her green backless post-finals gown. As she pulled it on she approved of the firm caress27 of the bias cut through the silk of her petticoat, and she felt sleekly28 impregnable, slippery and secure; it was a mermaid29 who rose to meet her in her own full-length mirror. She left the pearls in place, changed back into the black high-heeled shoes, once more retouched her hair and makeup, forwent30 another dab31 of scent32 and then, as she opened the door, gave out a shriek33 of terror. Inches from her was a face and a raised fist. Her immediate1, reeling perception was of a radical34, Picasso-like perspective in which tears, rimmed35 and bloated eyes, wet lips and raw, unblown nose blended in a crimson36 moistness of grief. She recovered herself, placed her hands on the bony shoulders and gently turned the whole body so she could see the left ear. This was Jackson, about to knock on her door. In his other hand there was a gray sock. As she stepped back she noticed he was in ironed gray shorts and white shirt, but was otherwise barefoot.
“Little fellow! What’s the matter?”
For the moment, he could not trust himself to speak. Instead, he held up his sock and with it gestured along the corridor. Cecilia leaned out and saw Pierrot some distance off, also barefoot, also holding a sock, and watching.
“You’ve got a sock each then.”
The boy nodded and swallowed, and then at last he was able to say, “Miss Betty says we’ll get a smack38 if we don’t go down now and have our tea, but there’s only one pair of socks.”
“And you’ve been fighting over it.”
Jackson shook his head emphatically.
As she went along the corridor with the boys to their room, first one then the other put his hand in hers and she was surprised to find herself so gratified. She could not help thinking about her dress.
“Didn’t you ask your sister to help you?”
“She’s not talking to us at the moment.”
“Whyever not?”
“She hates us.”
Their room was a pitiful mess of clothes, wet towels, orange peel, torn-up pieces of a comic arranged around a sheet of paper, upended chairs partly covered by blankets and the mattresses39 at a slew40. Between the beds was a broad damp stain on the carpet in the center of which lay a bar of soap and damp wads of lavatory41 paper. One of the curtains hung at a tilt5 below the pelmet, and though the windows were open, the air was dank, as though exhaled43 many times. All the drawers in the clothes chest stood open and empty. The impression was of closeted boredom44 punctuated45 by contests and schemes—jumping between the beds, building a camp, half devising a board game, then giving up. No one in the Tallis household was looking after the Quincey twins, and to conceal46 her guilt47 she said brightly, “We’ll never find anything with the room in this state.”
She began restoring order, remaking the beds, kicking off her high heels to mount a chair to fix the curtain, and setting the twins small achievable tasks. They were obedient to the letter, but they were quiet and hunched48 as they went about the work, as though it were retribution rather than deliverance, a scolding rather than kindness, she intended. They were ashamed of their room. As she stood on the chair in her clinging dark green dress, watching the bright ginger50 heads bobbing and bending to their chores, the simple thought came to her, how hopeless and terrifying it was for them to be without love, to construct an existence out of nothing in a strange house.
With difficulty, for she could not bend her knees very far, she stepped down and sat on the edge of a bed and patted a space on each side of her. However, the boys remained standing51, watching her expectantly. She used the faintly singsong tones of a nursery school teacher she had once admired.
“We don’t need to cry over lost socks, do we?”
Pierrot said, “Actually, we’d prefer to go home.”
Chastened, she resumed the tones of adult conversation. “That’s impossible at the moment. Your mother’s in Paris with—having a little holiday, and your father’s busy in college, so you’ll have to be here for a bit. I’m sorry you’ve been neglected. But you did have a jolly time in the pool . . .”
Jackson said, “We wanted to be in the play and then Briony walked off and still hasn’t come back.”
“Are you sure?” Someone else to worry about. Briony should have returned long ago. This in turn reminded her of the people downstairs waiting: her mother, the cook, Leon, the visitor, Robbie. Even the warmth of the evening filling the room through the open windows at her back imposed responsibilities; this was the kind of summer’s evening one dreamed of all year, and now here it was at last with its heavy fragrance52, its burden of pleasures, and she was too distracted by demands and minor53 distress54 to respond. But she simply had to. It was wrong not to. It would be paradise outside on the terrace drinking gin and tonics56 with Leon. It was hardly her fault that Aunt Hermione had run off with some toad57 who delivered fireside sermons on the wireless58 every week. Enough sadness. Cecilia stood up and clapped her hands.
“Yes, it’s too bad about the play, but there’s nothing we can do. Let’s find you some socks and get on.”
A search revealed that the socks they had arrived in were being washed, and that in the obliterating59 thrill of passion, Aunt Hermione had omitted to pack more than one extra pair. Cecilia went to Briony’s bedroom and rummaged60 in a drawer for the least girlish design—white, ankle length, with red and green strawberries around the tops. She assumed there would be a fight now for the gray socks, but the opposite was the case, and to avoid further sorrow she was obliged to return to Briony’s room for another pair. This time she paused to peer out of the window at the dusk and wonder where her sister was. Drowned in the lake, ravished by gypsies, struck by a passing motorcar, she thought ritually, a sound principle being that nothing was ever as one imagined it, and this was an efficient means of excluding the worst.
Back with the boys, she tidied Jackson’s hair with a comb dipped in water from a vase of flowers, holding his chin tightly between forefinger61 and thumb as she carved across his scalp a fine, straight parting. Pierrot patiently waited his turn, then without a word they ran off downstairs together to face Betty.
Cecilia followed at a slow pace, passing the critical mirror with a glance and completely satisfied with what she saw. Or rather, she cared less, for her mood had shifted since being with the twins, and her thoughts had broadened to include a vague resolution which took shape without any particular content and prompted no specific plan; she had to get away. The thought was calming and pleasurable, and not desperate at all. She reached the first-floor landing and paused. Downstairs, her mother, guilt-stricken by her absence from the family, would be spreading anxiety and confusion all about her. To this mix must be added the news, if it was the case, that Briony was missing. Time and worry would be expended62 before she was found. There would be a phone call from the department to say that Mr. Tallis had to work late and would stay up in town. Leon, who had the pure gift of avoiding responsibility, would not assume his father’s role. Nominally63, it would pass to Mrs. Tallis, but ultimately the success of the evening would be in Cecilia’s care. All this was clear and not worth struggling against—she would not be abandoning herself to a luscious64 summer’s night, there would be no long session with Leon, she would not be walking barefoot across the lawns under the midnight stars. She felt under her hand the black-stained varnished65 pine of the banisters, vaguely66 neo-Gothic, immovably solid and sham49. Above her head there hung by three chains a great cast-iron chandelier which had never been lit in her lifetime. One depended instead on a pair of tasseled67 wall lights shaded by a quarter circle of fake parchment. By their soupy yellow glow she moved quietly across the landing to look toward her mother’s room. The half-open door, the column of light across the corridor carpet, confirmed that Emily Tallis had risen from her daybed. Cecilia returned to the stairs and hesitated again, reluctant to go down. But there was no choice.
There was nothing new in the arrangements and she was not distressed68. Two years ago her father disappeared into the preparation of mysterious consultation69 documents for the Home Office. Her mother had always lived in an invalid’s shadow land, Briony had always required mothering from her older sister, and Leon had always floated free, and she had always loved him for it. She had not thought it would be so easy to slip into the old roles. Cambridge had changed her fundamentally and she thought she was immune. No one in her family, however, noticed the transformation70 in her, and she was not able to resist the power of their habitual71 expectations. She blamed no one, but she had hung about the house all summer, encouraged by a vague notion she was reestablishing an important connection with her family. But the connections had never been broken, she now saw, and anyway her parents were absent in their different ways, Briony was lost to her fantasies and Leon was in town. Now it was time for her to move on. She needed an adventure. There was an invitation from an uncle and aunt to accompany them to New York. Aunt Hermione was in Paris. She could go to London and find a job—it was what her father expected of her. It was excitement she felt, not restlessness, and she would not allow this evening to frustrate72 her. There would be other evenings like this, and to enjoy them she would have to be elsewhere.
Animated73 by this new certainty—choosing the right dress had surely helped—she crossed the hallway, pushed through the baize door and strode along the checkered74 tiled corridor to the kitchen. She entered a cloud in which disembodied faces hung at different heights, like studies in an artist’s sketchbook, and all eyes were turned down to a display upon the kitchen table, obscured to Cecilia by Betty’s broad back. The blurred75 red glow at ankle level was the coal fire of the double range whose door was kicked shut just then with a great clang and an irritable76 shout. The steam rose thickly from a vat42 of boiling water which no one was attending. The cook’s help, Doll, a thin girl from the village with her hair in an austere bun, was at the sink making a bad-tempered77 clatter78 scouring79 the saucepan lids, but she too was half turned to see what Betty had set upon the table. One of the faces was Emily Tallis’s, another was Danny Hardman’s, a third was his father’s. Floating above the rest, standing on stools perhaps, were Jackson and Pierrot, their expressions solemn. Cecilia felt the gaze of the young Hardman on her. She returned it fiercely, and was gratified when he turned away. The labor80 in the kitchen had been long and hard all day in the heat, and the residue81 was everywhere: the flagstone floor was slick with the spilt grease of roasted meat and trodden-in peel; sodden82 tea towels, tributes to heroic forgotten labors83, drooped84 above the range like decaying regimental banners in church; nudging Cecilia’s shin, an overflowing85 basket of vegetable trimmings which Betty would take home to feed to her Gloucester Old Spot, fattening86 for December. The cook glanced over her shoulder to take in the newcomer, and before she turned away there was time to see the fury in eyes that cheek fat had narrowed to gelatinous slices.
“Take it orf!” she yelled. No doubting that the irritation was directed at Mrs. Tallis. Doll sprang from sink to range, skidded87 and almost slipped, and picked up two rags to drag the cauldron off the heat. The improving visibility revealed Polly, the chambermaid who everyone said was simple, and who stayed on late whenever there was a do. Her wide and trusting eyes were also fixed88 upon the kitchen table. Cecilia moved round behind Betty to see what everyone else could see—a huge blackened tray recently pulled from the oven bearing a quantity of roast potatoes that still sizzled mildly. There were perhaps a hundred in all, in ragged89 rows of pale gold down which Betty’s metal spatula90 dug and scraped and turned. The undersides held a stickier yellow glow, and here and there a gleaming edge was picked out in nacreous brown, and the occasional filigree91 lacework that blossomed around a ruptured92 skin. They were, or would be, perfect.
The last row was turned and Betty said, “You want these, ma’am, in a potato salad?”
“Exactly so. Cut the burnt bits away, wipe off the fat, put them in the big Tuscan bowl and give them a good dousing93 in olive oil and then . . .” Emily gestured vaguely toward a display of fruit by the larder94 door where there may or may not have been a lemon.
Betty addressed the ceiling. “Will you be wanting a Brussels sprouts95 salad?”
“Really, Betty.”
“A cauliflower gratin salad? A horseradish sauce salad?”
“You’re making a great fuss about nothing.”
“A bread and butter pudding salad?”
One of the twins snorted.
Even as Cecilia guessed what would come next, it began to happen. Betty turned to her, gripped her arm, and made her appeal. “Miss Cee, it was a roast what was ordered and we’ve been at it all day in temperatures above the boiling point of blood.”
The scene was novel, the spectators were an unusual element, but the dilemma96 was familiar enough: how to keep the peace and not humiliate97 her mother. Also, Cecilia had resolved afresh to be with her brother on the terrace; it was therefore important to be with the winning faction98 and push to a quick conclusion. She took her mother aside, and Betty, who knew the form well enough, ordered everyone back to their business. Emily and Cecilia Tallis stood by the open door that led to the kitchen garden.
“Darling, there’s a heat wave and I’m not going to be talked out of a salad.”
“Emily, I know it’s far too hot, but Leon’s absolutely dying for one of Betty’s roasts. He goes on about them all the time. I heard him boasting about them to Mr. Marshall.”
“Oh my God,” Emily said.
“I’m with you. I don’t want a roast. Best thing is to give everyone a choice. Send Polly out to cut some lettuces99. There’s beetroot in the larder. Betty can do some new potatoes and let them cool.”
“Darling, you’re right. You know, I’d hate to let little Leon down.”
And so it was resolved and the roast was saved. With tactful good grace, Betty set Doll to scrubbing new potatoes, and Polly went outside with a knife.
As they came away from the kitchen Emily put on her dark glasses and said, “I’m glad that’s settled because what’s really bothering me is Briony. I know she’s upset. She’s moping around outside and I’m going to bring her in.”
“Good idea. I was worried about her too,” Cecilia said. She was not inclined to dissuade100 her mother from wandering far away from the terrace.
The drawing room which had transfixed Cecilia that morning with its parallelograms of light was now in gloom, lit by a single lamp near the fireplace. The open French windows framed a greenish sky, and against that, in silhouette101 at some distance, the familiar head and shoulders of her brother. As she made her way across the room she heard the tinkle102 of ice cubes against his glass, and as she stepped out she smelled the pennyroyal, chamomile and feverfew crushed underfoot, and headier now than in the morning. No one remembered the name, or even the appearance, of the temporary gardener who made it his project some years back to plant up the cracks between the paving stones. At the time, no one understood what he had in mind. Perhaps that was why he was sacked.
“Sis! I’ve been out here forty minutes and I’m half stewed103.”
“Sorry. Where’s my drink?”
On a low wooden table set against the wall of the house was a paraffin globe lamp and ranged around it a rudimentary bar. At last the gin and tonic55 was in her hand. She lit a cigarette from his and they chinked glasses.
“I like the frock.”
“Can you see it?”
“Turn round. Gorgeous. I’d forgotten about that mole104.”
“How’s the bank?”
“Dull and perfectly105 pleasant. We live for the evenings and weekends. When are you going to come?”
They wandered off the terrace onto the gravel106 path between the roses. The Triton pond rose before them, an inky mass whose complicated outline was honed against a sky turning greener as the light fell. They could hear the trickle107 of water, and Cecilia thought she could smell it too, silvery and sharp. It may have been the drink in her hand.
She said after a pause, “I am going a little mad here.”
“Being everyone’s mother again. D’you know, there are girls getting all sorts of jobs now. Even taking the civil service exams. That would please the Old Man.”
“They’d never have me with a third.”
“Once your life gets going you’ll find that stuff doesn’t mean a thing.”
They reached the fountain and turned to face the house, and remained in silence for a while, leaning against the parapet, at the site of her disgrace. Reckless, ridiculous, and above all shaming. Only time, a prudish108 veil of hours, prevented her brother from seeing her as she had been. But she had no such protection from Robbie. He had seen her, he would always be able to see her, even as time smoothed out the memory to a barroom tale. She was still irritated with her brother about the invitation, but she needed him, she wanted a share in his freedom. Solicitously109, she prompted him to give her his news.
In Leon’s life, or rather, in his account of his life, no one was mean-spirited, no one schemed or lied or betrayed. Everyone was celebrated110 at least in some degree, as though it was a cause for wonder that anyone existed at all. He remembered all his friends’ best lines. The effect of one of Leon’s anecdotes111 was to make his listener warm to humankind and its failings. Everyone was, at a minimal112 estimate, “a good egg” or “a decent sort,” and motivation was never judged to be at variance113 with outward show. If there was mystery or contradiction in a friend, Leon took the long view and found a benign114 explanation. Literature and politics, science and religion did not bore him—they simply had no place in his world, and nor did any matter about which people seriously disagreed. He had taken a degree in law and was happy to have forgotten the whole experience. It was hard to imagine him ever lonely, or bored or despondent115; his equanimity116 was bottomless, as was his lack of ambition, and he assumed that everyone else was much like him. Despite all this, his blandness117 was perfectly tolerable, even soothing118.
He talked first of his rowing club. He had been stroke for the second eight recently, and though everyone had been kind, he thought he was happier taking the pace from someone else. Likewise, at the bank there had been mention of promotion119 and when nothing came of it he was somewhat relieved. Then the girls: the actress Mary, who had been so wonderful in Private Lives, had suddenly removed herself without explanation to Glasgow and no one knew why. He suspected she was tending a dying relative. Francine, who spoke120 beautiful French and had outraged121 the world by wearing a monocle, had gone with him to a Gilbert and Sullivan last week and in the interval122 they had seen the King who had seemed to glance in their direction. The sweet, dependable, well-connected Barbara whom Jack37 and Emily thought he should marry had invited him to spend a week at her parents’ castle in the Highlands. He thought it would be churlish not to go.
Whenever he seemed about to dry up, Cecilia prodded123 him with another question. Inexplicably124, his rent at the Albany had gone down. An old friend had got a girl with a lisp pregnant, had married her and was jolly happy. Another was buying a motorbike. The father of a chum had bought a vacuum cleaner factory and said it was a license125 to print money. Someone’s grandmother was a brave old stick for walking half a mile on a broken leg. As sweet as the evening air, this talk moved through and round her, conjuring126 a world of good intentions and pleasant outcomes. Shoulder to shoulder, half standing, half sitting, they faced their childhood home whose architecturally confused medieval references seemed now to be whimsically lighthearted; their mother’s migraine was a comic interlude in a light opera, the sadness of the twins a sentimental127 extravagance, the incident in the kitchen no more than the merry jostling of lively spirits.
When it was her turn to give an account of recent months, it was impossible not to be influenced by Leon’s tone, though her version of it came through, helplessly, as mockery. She ridiculed128 her own attempts at genealogy129; the family tree was wintry and bare, as well as rootless. Grandfather Harry130 Tallis was the son of a farm laborer131 who, for some reason, had changed his name from Cartwright and whose birth and marriage were not recorded. As for Clarissa—all those daylight hours curled up on the bed with pins and needles in her arm—it surely proved the case of Paradise Lost in reverse—the heroine became more loathsome132 as her death-fixated virtue133 was revealed. Leon nodded and pursed his lips; he would not pretend to know what she was talking about, nor would he interrupt. She gave a farcical hue134 to her weeks of boredom and solitude135, of how she had come to be with the family, and make amends136 for being away, and had found her parents and sister absent in their different ways. Encouraged by her brother’s generous near-laughter, she attempted comic sketches137 based on her daily need for more cigarettes, on Briony tearing down her poster, on the twins outside her room with a sock each, and on their mother’s desire for a miracle at the feast—roast potatoes into potato salad. Leon did not take the biblical reference here. There was desperation in all she said, an emptiness at its core, or something excluded or unnamed that made her talk faster, and exaggerate with less conviction. The agreeable nullity of Leon’s life was a polished artifact, its ease deceptive138, its limitations achieved by invisible hard work and the accidents of character, none of which she could hope to rival. She linked her arm with his and squeezed. That was another thing about Leon: soft and charming in company, but through his jacket his arm had the consistency139 of tropical hardwood. She felt soft at every level, and transparent140. He was looking at her fondly.
“What’s up, Cee?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“You really ought to come and stay with me and look around.”
There was a figure moving about on the terrace, and lights were coming on in the drawing room. Briony called out to her brother and sister.
Leon called back. “We’re over here.”
“We should go in,” Cecilia said, and still arm in arm, they began to walk toward the house. As they passed the roses she wondered if there really was anything she wanted to tell him. Confessing to her behavior this morning was certainly not possible.
“I’d love to come up to town.” Even as she said the words she imagined herself being dragged back, incapable141 of packing her bag or of making the train. Perhaps she didn’t want to go at all, but she repeated herself a little more emphatically.
“I’d love to come.”
Briony was waiting impatiently on the terrace to greet her brother. Someone addressed her from inside the drawing room and she spoke over her shoulder in reply. As Cecilia and Leon approached, they heard the voice again—it was their mother trying to be stern.
“I’m only saying it one more time. You will go up now and wash and change.”
With a lingering look in their direction, Briony moved toward the French windows. There was something in her hand.
Leon said, “We could set you up in no time at all.”
When they stepped into the room, into the light of several lamps, Briony was still there, still barefoot and in her filthy142 white dress, and her mother was standing by the door on the far side of the room, smiling indulgently. Leon stretched out his arms and did the comic Cockney voice he reserved for her.
“An’ if it ain’t my li’l sis!”
As she hurried past, Briony pushed into Cecilia’s hand a piece of paper folded twice and then she squealed143 her brother’s name and leaped into his embrace.
Conscious of her mother watching her, Cecilia adopted an expression of amused curiosity as she unfolded the sheet. Commendably144, it was a look she was able to maintain as she took in the small block of typewriting and in a glance absorbed it whole—a unit of meaning whose force and color was derived145 from the single repeated word. At her elbow, Briony was telling Leon about the play she had written for him, and lamenting146 her failure to stage it. The Trials of Arabella, she kept repeating. The Trials of Arabella. Never had she appeared so animated, so weirdly147 excited. She still had her arms about his neck, and was standing on tiptoe to nuzzle her cheek against his.
Initially148, a simple phrase chased round and round in Cecilia’s thoughts: Of course, of course. How had she not seen it? Everything was explained. The whole day, the weeks before, her childhood. A lifetime. It was clear to her now. Why else take so long to choose a dress, or fight over a vase, or find everything so different, or be unable to leave? What had made her so blind, so obtuse149? Many seconds had passed, and it was no longer plausible150 to be staring fixedly151 at the sheet of paper. The act of folding it away brought her to an obvious realization152: it could not have been sent unsealed. She turned to look at her sister.
Leon was saying to her, “How about this? I’m good at voices, you’re even better. We’ll read it aloud together.”
Cecilia moved round him, into Briony’s view.
“Briony? Briony, did you read this?”
But Briony, engaged in a shrill153 response to her brother’s suggestion, writhed154 in his arms and turned her face from her sister and half buried it in Leon’s jacket.
From across the room Emily said soothingly155, “Calmly now.”
Again, Cecilia shifted her position so that she was on the other side of her brother. “Where’s the envelope?”
Briony turned her face away again and laughed wildly at something Leon was telling her.
Then Cecilia was aware of another figure in their presence, at the edge of vision, moving behind her, and when she turned she confronted Paul Marshall. In one hand he held a silver tray on which stood five cocktail156 glasses, each one half filled with a viscous157 brown substance. He lifted a glass and presented it to her.
“I insist you try it.”
收听单词发音 |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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offset
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| n.分支，补偿；v.抵消，补偿 | |
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tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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tilts
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| （意欲赢得某物或战胜某人的）企图，尝试( tilt的名词复数 ) | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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9
carapace
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| n.（蟹或龟的）甲壳 | |
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10
affinities
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| n.密切关系( affinity的名词复数 )；亲近；（生性）喜爱；类同 | |
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11
beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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12
skeptical
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| adj.怀疑的，多疑的 | |
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13
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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14
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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15
assertively
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| 断言地，独断地 | |
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16
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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17
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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18
swapped
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| 交换（工作）( swap的过去式和过去分词 )； 用…替换，把…换成，掉换（过来） | |
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19
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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20
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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21
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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22
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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23
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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24
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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25
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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26
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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27
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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28
sleekly
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| 光滑地，光泽地 | |
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29
mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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30
forwent
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| v.没有也行，放弃( forgo的过去式 ) | |
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31
dab
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| v.轻触，轻拍，轻涂；n.(颜料等的)轻涂 | |
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32
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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33
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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34
radical
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|
| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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35
rimmed
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| adj.有边缘的，有框的v.沿…边缘滚动；给…镶边 | |
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36
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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37
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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38
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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39
mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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40
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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41
lavatory
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| n.盥洗室，厕所 | |
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42
vat
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| n.(=value added tax)增值税，大桶 | |
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43
exhaled
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|
| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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44
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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45
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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46
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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47
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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48
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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49
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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50
ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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51
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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52
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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53
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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54
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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55
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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56
tonics
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| n.滋补品( tonic的名词复数 )；主音；奎宁水；浊音 | |
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57
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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58
wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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59
obliterating
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| v.除去( obliterate的现在分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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60
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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61
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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62
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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63
nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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64
luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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65
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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66
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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67
tasseled
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| v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的过去式和过去分词 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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68
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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69
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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70
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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71
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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72
frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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73
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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74
checkered
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| adj.有方格图案的 | |
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75
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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76
irritable
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|
| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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77
bad-tempered
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| adj.脾气坏的 | |
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78
clatter
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|
| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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79
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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80
labor
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|
| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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81
residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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82
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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83
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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84
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
overflowing
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|
| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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86
fattening
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|
| adj.（食物）要使人发胖的v.喂肥( fatten的现在分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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87
skidded
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|
| v.（通常指车辆） 侧滑( skid的过去式和过去分词 )；打滑；滑行；（住在）贫民区 | |
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88
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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89
ragged
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|
| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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90
spatula
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| n.抹刀 | |
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91
filigree
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|
| n.金银丝做的工艺品；v.用金银细丝饰品装饰；用华而不实的饰品装饰；adj.金银细丝工艺的 | |
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92
ruptured
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|
| v.（使）破裂( rupture的过去式和过去分词 )；（使体内组织等）断裂；使（友好关系）破裂；使绝交 | |
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93
dousing
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| v.浇水在…上( douse的现在分词 )；熄灯[火] | |
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94
larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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95
sprouts
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| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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96
dilemma
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|
| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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97
humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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98
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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99
lettuces
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| n.莴苣，生菜（ lettuce的名词复数 ）；生菜叶 | |
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100
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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101
silhouette
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|
| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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102
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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103
stewed
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| 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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104
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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105
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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106
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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107
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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108
prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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109
solicitously
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| adv.热心地，热切地 | |
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110
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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111
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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112
minimal
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| adj.尽可能少的，最小的 | |
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113
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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114
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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115
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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116
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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117
blandness
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| n.温柔，爽快 | |
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118
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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119
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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120
spoke
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| 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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121
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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122
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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123
prodded
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| v.刺，戳( prod的过去式和过去分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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124
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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125
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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126
conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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127
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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128
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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130
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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131
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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132
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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133
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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136
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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141
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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142
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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143
squealed
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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commendably
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| 很好地 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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147
weirdly
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| 古怪地 | |
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initially
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| adv.最初，开始 | |
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obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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150
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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153
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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154
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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viscous
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| adj.粘滞的，粘性的 | |
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