THE VERY complexity1 of her feelings confirmed Briony in her view that she was entering an arena2 of adult emotion and dissembling from which her writing was bound to benefit. What fairy tale ever held so much by way of contradiction? A savage3 and thoughtless curiosity prompted her to rip the letter from its envelope—she read it in the hall after Polly had let her in—and though the shock of the message vindicated4 her completely, this did not prevent her from feeling guilty. It was wrong to open people’s letters, but it was right, it was essential, for her to know everything. She had been delighted to see her brother again, but that did not prevent her from exaggerating her feelings to avoid her sister’s accusing question. And afterward5 she had only pretended to be eagerly obedient to her mother’s command by running up to her room; as well as wanting to escape Cecilia, she needed to be alone to consider Robbie afresh, and to frame the opening paragraph of a story shot through with real life. No more princesses! The scene by the fountain, its air of ugly threat, and at the end, when both had gone their separate ways, the luminous6 absence shimmering7 above the wetness on the gravel—all this would have to be reconsidered. With the letter, something elemental, brutal8, perhaps even criminal had been introduced, some principle of darkness, and even in her excitement over the possibilities, she did not doubt that her sister was in some way threatened and would need her help.
The word: she tried to prevent it sounding in her thoughts, and yet it danced through them obscenely, a typographical demon9, juggling10 vague, insinuating11 anagrams—an uncle and a nut, the Latin for next, an Old English king attempting to turn back the tide. Rhyming words took their form from children’s books—the smallest pig in the litter, the hounds pursuing the fox, the flat-bottomed boats on the Cam by Grantchester meadow. Naturally, she had never heard the word spoken, or seen it in print, or come across it in asterisks12. No one in her presence had ever referred to the word’s existence, and what was more, no one, not even her mother, had ever referred to the existence of that part of her to which—Briony was certain—the word referred. She had no doubt that that was what it was. The context helped, but more than that, the word was at one with its meaning, and was almost onomatopoeic. The smooth-hollowed, partly enclosed forms of its first three letters were as clear as a set of anatomical drawings. Three figures huddling13 at the foot of the cross. That the word had been written by a man confessing to an image in his mind, confiding14 a lonely preoccupation, disgusted her profoundly.
She had read the note standing15 shamelessly in the center of the entrance hall, immediately sensing the danger contained by such crudity17. Something irreducibly human, or male, threatened the order of their household, and Briony knew that unless she helped her sister, they would all suffer. It was also clear that she would have to be helped in a delicate, tactful manner. Otherwise, as Briony knew from experience, Cecilia would turn on her.
These thoughts preoccupied18 her as she washed her hands and face and chose a clean dress. The socks she wanted to wear were not to be found, but she wasted no time in hunting. She put on some others, strapped19 on her shoes and sat at her desk. Downstairs, they were drinking cocktails20 and she would have at least twenty minutes to herself. She could brush her hair on the way out. Outside her open window a cricket was singing. A sheaf of foolscap from her father’s office was before her, the desk light threw down its comforting yellow patch, the fountain pen was in her hand. The orderly troupe21 of farm animals lined along the windowsill and the straitlaced dolls poised22 in the various rooms of their open-sided mansion23 waited for the gem24 of her first sentence. At that moment, the urge to be writing was stronger than any notion she had of what she might write. What she wanted was to be lost to the unfolding of an irresistible25 idea, to see the black thread spooling26 out from the end of her scratchy silver nib27 and coiling into words. But how to do justice to the changes that had made her into a real writer at last, and to her chaotic28 swarm29 of impressions, and to the disgust and fascination30 she felt? Order must be imposed. She should begin, as she had decided31 earlier, with a simple account of what she had seen at the fountain. But that episode in the sunlight was not quite so interesting as the dusk, the idle minutes on the bridge lost to daydreaming32, and then Robbie appearing in the semidarkness, calling to her, holding in his hand the little white square that contained the letter that contained the word. And what did the word contain?
She wrote, “There was an old lady who swallowed a fly.”
Surely it was not too childish to say there had to be a story; and this was the story of a man whom everybody liked, but about whom the heroine always had her doubts, and finally she was able to reveal that he was the incarnation of evil. But wasn’t she—that was, Briony the writer—supposed to be so worldly now as to be above such nursery-tale ideas as good and evil? There must be some lofty, godlike place from which all people could be judged alike, not pitted against each other, as in some lifelong hockey match, but seen noisily jostling together in all their glorious imperfection. If such a place existed, she was not worthy33 of it. She could never forgive Robbie his disgusting mind.
Trapped between the urge to write a simple diary account of her day’s experiences and the ambition to make something greater of them that would be polished, self-contained and obscure, she sat for many minutes frowning at her sheet of paper and its infantile quotation34 and did not write another word. Actions she thought she could describe well enough, and she had the hang of dialogue. She could do the woods in winter, and the grimness of a castle wall. But how to do feelings? All very well to write, She felt sad, or describe what a sad person might do, but what of sadness itself, how was that put across so it could be felt in all its lowering immediacy? Even harder was the threat, or the confusion of feeling contradictory35 things. Pen in hand, she stared across the room toward her hard-faced dolls, the estranged36 companions of a childhood she considered closed. It was a chilly37 sensation, growing up. She would never sit on Emily’s or Cecilia’s lap again, or only as a joke. Two summers ago, on her eleventh birthday, her parents, brother and sister and a fifth person she could not remember had taken her out onto the lawn and tossed her in a blanket eleven times, and then once for luck. Could she trust it now, the hilarious38 freedom of the upward flight, the blind trust in the kindly39 grip of adult wrists, when the fifth person could so easily have been Robbie?
At the sound of the soft clearing of a female throat, she looked up, startled. It was Lola. She was leaning apologetically into the room, and as soon as their eyes met she tapped the door gently with her knuckles40.
“Can I come in?”
She came in anyway, her movements somewhat restricted by the blue satin sheath dress she wore. Her hair was loose and she was barefoot. As she approached, Briony put away her pen and covered her sentence with the corner of a book. Lola sat herself down on the edge of the bed and blew dramatically through her cheeks. It was as though they had always had a sisterly end-of-day chat.
“I’ve had the most appalling41 evening.”
When Briony was obliged by her cousin’s fierce stare to raise an eyebrow42, she continued, “The twins have been torturing me.”
She thought it was a figure of speech until Lola twisted her shoulder to reveal, high on her arm, a long scratch.
“How awful!”
She held out her wrists. Round each were blotchy43 bands of chafing44.
“Chinese burns!”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll get some antiseptic for your arm.”
“I’ve done all that myself.”
It was true, the womanly tang of Lola’s perfume could not conceal45 a childish whiff of Germolene. The least Briony could do was to leave her desk and go to sit beside her cousin.
“You poor thing!”
Briony’s compassion46 made Lola’s eyes fill, and her voice went husky.
“Everybody thinks they’re angels just because they look alike, but they’re little brutes47.”
She held back a sob48, seeming to bite it down with a tremor49 along her jaw50, and then inhaled51 deeply several times through flared52 nostrils53. Briony took her hand and thought she could see how one might begin to love Lola. Then she went to her chest of drawers and took out a hankie, unfolded it and gave it to her. Lola was about to use it, but the sight of its gaily54 printed motif55 of cowgirls and lariats caused her to give out a gentle hooting56 sound on a rising note, the kind of noise children make to imitate ghosts. Downstairs the doorbell rang, and moments later, just discernible, the rapid tick of high heels on the tiled floor of the hallway. It would be Robbie, and Cecilia was going to the door herself. Worried that Lola’s crying could be heard downstairs, Briony got to her feet again and pushed the bedroom door closed. Her cousin’s distress57 produced in her a state of restlessness, an agitation58 that was close to joy. She went back to the bed and put her arm round Lola who raised her hands to her face and began to cry. That a girl so brittle59 and domineering should be brought this low by a couple of nine-year-old boys seemed wondrous60 to Briony, and it gave her a sense of her own power. It was what lay behind this near-joyful feeling. Perhaps she was not as weak as she always assumed; finally, you had to measure yourself by other people—there really was nothing else. Every now and then, quite unintentionally, someone taught you something about yourself. At a loss for words, she gently rubbed her cousin’s shoulder and reflected that Jackson and Pierrot alone could not be responsible for such grief; she remembered there was other sorrow in Lola’s life. The family home in the north—Briony imagined streets of blackened mills, and grim men trudging61 to work with sandwiches in tin boxes. The Quincey home was closed up and might never open again.
Lola was beginning to recover. Briony asked softly, “What happened?”
The older girl blew her nose and thought for a moment. “I was getting ready for a bath. They came bursting in and pounced62 on me. They got me down on the floor . . .” At this memory she paused to fight another rising sob.
“But why would they do that?”
She took a deep breath and composed herself. She stared unseeingly across the room. “They want to go home. I said they couldn’t. They think I’m the one who’s keeping them here.”
The twins unreasonably63 venting64 their frustration65 on their sister—all this made sense to Briony. But what was troubling her organized spirit now was the thought that soon the call would come to go downstairs and her cousin would need to be in possession of herself.
“They just don’t understand,” Briony said wisely as she went to the handbasin and filled it with hot water. “They’re just little kids who’ve taken a bad knock.”
Full of sadness, Lola lowered her head and nodded in such a way that Briony felt a rush of tenderness for her. She guided Lola to the basin and put a flannel66 in her hands. And then, from a mixture of motives—a practical need to change the subject, the desire to share a secret and show the older girl that she too had worldly experiences, but above all because she warmed to Lola and wanted to draw her closer—Briony told her about meeting Robbie on the bridge, and the letter, and how she had opened it, and what was in it. Rather than say the word out loud, which was unthinkable, she spelled it out for her, backward. The effect on Lola was gratifying. She raised her dripping face from the basin and let her mouth fall open. Briony passed her a towel. Some seconds passed while Lola pretended to find her words. She was hamming it up a bit, but that was fine, and so was her hoarse67 whisper.
“Thinking about it all the time?”
Briony nodded and faced away, as though grappling with tragedy. She could learn to be a little more expressive68 from her cousin whose turn it now was to put a comforting hand on Briony’s shoulder.
“How appalling for you. The man’s a maniac70.”
A maniac. The word had refinement71, and the weight of medical diagnosis72. All these years she had known him and that was what he had been. When she was little he used to carry her on his back and pretend to be a beast. She had been alone with him many times at the swimming hole where he taught her one summer how to tread water and do the breaststroke. Now his condition was named she felt a certain consolation73, though the mystery of the fountain episode deepened. She had already decided not to tell that story, suspecting that the explanation was simple and that it would be better not to expose her ignorance.
“What’s your sister going to do?”
“I just don’t know.” Again, she did not mention that she dreaded74 her next meeting with Cecilia.
“D’you know, on our first afternoon I thought he was a monster when I heard him shouting at the twins by the swimming pool.”
Briony tried to recall similar moments when the symptoms of mania69 might have been observed. She said, “He’s always pretended to be rather nice. He’s deceived us for years.”
The change of subject had worked the trick, for the area around Lola’s eyes which had been inflamed75 was freckly76 and pale once more and she was very much her old self. She took Briony’s hand. “I think the police should know about him.”
The constable77 in the village was a kindly man with a waxed mustache whose wife kept hens and delivered fresh eggs on her bicycle. Communicating the letter and its word, even spelling it out backward for him, was inconceivable. She went to move her hand away but Lola tightened78 her grip and seemed to read the younger girl’s mind.
“We just need to show them the letter.”
“She might not agree to it.”
“I bet she will. Maniacs79 can attack anyone.”
Lola looked suddenly thoughtful and seemed about to tell her cousin something new. But instead she sprang away and took up Briony’s hairbrush and stood in front of the mirror vigorously brushing out her hair. She had barely started when they heard Mrs. Tallis calling them down to dinner. Lola was immediately petulant80, and Briony assumed that these rapid changes of mood were part of her recent upset.
“It’s hopeless. I’m nowhere near ready,” she said, close to tears again. “I haven’t even started on my face.”
“I’ll go down now,” Briony soothed81 her. “I’ll tell them you’ll be a little while yet.” But Lola was already on her way out the room and did not seem to hear.
After Briony tidied her hair she remained in front of the mirror, studying her own face, wondering what she might do when she came to “start” on it, which she knew she must one day soon. Another demand on her time. At least she had no freckles82 to conceal or soften83, and that surely saved labor84. Long ago, at the age of ten, she decided that lipstick85 made her seem clownish. That notion was due for revision. But not yet, when there was so much else to consider. She stood by the desk and absently replaced the top of her fountain pen. Writing a story was a hopeless, puny86 enterprise when such powerful and chaotic forces were turning about her, and when all day long successive events had absorbed or transformed what had gone before. There was an old lady who swallowed a fly. She wondered whether she had made a terrible mistake by confiding in her cousin—Cecilia would hardly be pleased if excitable Lola started flaunting87 her knowledge of Robbie’s note. And how was it possible to go downstairs now and be at table with a maniac? If the police made an arrest, she, Briony, might be made to appear in court, and say the word aloud, in proof.
Reluctantly, she left her room and made her way along the gloomy paneled corridor to the head of the stairs where she paused to listen. The voices were still in the drawing room—she heard her mother’s and Mr. Marshall’s, and then, separately, the twins talking to each other. No Cecilia then, no maniac. Briony felt her heart rate rise as she began her unwilling88 descent. Her life had ceased to be simple. Only three days ago she was finishing off The Trials of Arabella and waiting for her cousins. She had wanted everything to be different, and here it was; and not only was it bad, it was about to get worse. She stopped again on the first landing to consolidate89 a scheme; she would keep well clear of her skittish90 cousin, not even catch her eye—she could not afford to be drawn91 into a conspiracy92, nor did she wish to prompt a disastrous93 outburst. And Cecilia, whom she ought to protect, she dared not go near. Robbie, obviously, she should avoid for safety’s sake. Her mother with her fussing would not be helpful. It would be impossible to think straight in her presence. It was the twins she should go for—they would be her refuge. She would stay close and look after them. These summer dinners always started so late—it was past ten o’clock—and the boys would be tired. And otherwise she should be sociable94 with Mr. Marshall and ask him about sweets—who thought them up, how they got made. It was a coward’s plan but she could think of no other. With dinner about to be served, this was hardly the moment to be summoning P.C. Vockins from the village.
She continued down the stairs. She should have advised Lola to change in order to conceal the scratch on her arm. Being asked about it might start her crying again. But then, it would probably have been impossible to talk her out of a dress that made it so difficult to walk. Attaining95 adulthood96 was all about the eager acceptance of such impediments. She herself was taking them on. It wasn’t her scratch, but she felt responsible for it, and for everything that was about to happen. When her father was home, the household settled around a fixed97 point. He organized nothing, he didn’t go about the house worrying on other people’s behalf, he rarely told anyone what to do—in fact, he mostly sat in the library. But his presence imposed order and allowed freedom. Burdens were lifted. When he was there, it no longer mattered that her mother retreated to her bedroom; it was enough that he was downstairs with a book on his lap. When he took his place at the dining table, calm, affable, utterly98 certain, a crisis in the kitchen became no more than a humorous sketch99; without him, it was a drama that clutched the heart. He knew most things worth knowing, and when he didn’t know, he had a good idea which authority to consult, and would take her into the library to help him find it. If he had not been, as he described it, a slave to the Ministry100, and to Eventuality Planning, if he had been at home, sending Hardman down for the wines, steering101 the conversation, deciding without appearing to when it was time to “go through,” she would not be crossing the hallway now with such heaviness in her step.
It was these thoughts of him that made her slow as she passed the library door which, unusually, was closed. She stopped to listen. From the kitchen, the chink of metal against porcelain102, from the drawing room her mother talking softly, and closer by, one of the twins saying in a high, clear voice, “It’s got a u in it, actually,” and his brother replying, “I don’t care. Put it in the envelope.” And then, from behind the library door, a scraping noise followed by a thump103 and a murmur104 that could have been a man’s or a woman’s. In memory—and Briony later gave this matter some thought—she had no particular expectations as she placed her hand on the brass105 handle and turned it. But she had seen Robbie’s letter, she had cast herself as her sister’s protector, and she had been instructed by her cousin: what she saw must have been shaped in part by what she already knew, or believed she knew.
At first, when she pushed open the door and stepped in, she saw nothing at all. The only light was from a single green-glass desk lamp which illuminated106 little more than the tooled leather surface on which it stood. When she took another few steps she saw them, dark shapes in the furthest corner. Though they were immobile, her immediate16 understanding was that she had interrupted an attack, a hand-to-hand fight. The scene was so entirely107 a realization108 of her worst fears that she sensed that her overanxious imagination had projected the figures onto the packed spines109 of books. This illusion, or hope of one, was dispelled110 as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. No one moved. Briony stared past Robbie’s shoulder into the terrified eyes of her sister. He had turned to look back at the intruder, but he did not let Cecilia go. He had pushed his body against hers, pushing her dress right up above her knee and had trapped her where the shelves met at right angles. His left hand was behind her neck, gripping her hair, and with his right he held her forearm which was raised in protest, or self-defense.
He looked so huge and wild, and Cecilia with her bare shoulders and thin arms so frail111 that Briony had no idea what she could achieve as she started to go toward them. She wanted to shout, but she could not catch her breath, and her tongue was slow and heavy. Robbie moved in such a way that her view of her sister was completely obscured. Then Cecilia was struggling free, and he was letting her go. Briony stopped and said her sister’s name. When she pushed past Briony there was no sign in Cecilia of gratitude112 or relief. Her face was expressionless, almost composed, and she looked right ahead to the door she was about to leave by. Then she was gone, and Briony was left alone with him. He too would not meet her eye. Instead he faced into the corner, and busied himself straightening his jacket and arranging his tie. Warily113, she moved backward away from him, but he made no move to attack her, and did not even look up. So she turned and ran from the room to find Cecilia. But the hallway was empty, and it was not clear which way she had gone.
收听单词发音 |
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complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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vindicated
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| 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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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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asterisks
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| n.星号，星状物( asterisk的名词复数 )v.加星号于( asterisk的第三人称单数 ) | |
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huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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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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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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crudity
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| n.粗糙，生硬；adj.粗略的 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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cocktails
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| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
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troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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spooling
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| n.络纱，络筒v.把…绕到线轴上（或从线轴上绕下来）( spool的现在分词 )；假脱机（输出或输入） | |
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nib
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| n.钢笔尖；尖头 | |
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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daydreaming
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| v.想入非非，空想( daydream的现在分词 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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41
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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42
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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43
blotchy
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| adj.有斑点的，有污渍的；斑污 | |
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44
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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45
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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46
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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47
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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48
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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49
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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50
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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51
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
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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53
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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54
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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55
motif
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| n.(图案的)基本花纹，(衣服的)花边；主题 | |
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56
hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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57
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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58
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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59
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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60
wondrous
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| 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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61
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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62
pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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63
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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64
venting
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| 消除； 泄去； 排去； 通风 | |
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65
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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66
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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67
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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68
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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69
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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70
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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71
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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74
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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75
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
freckly
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| adj.多雀斑的 | |
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77
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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78
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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79
maniacs
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| n.疯子（maniac的复数形式） | |
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80
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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81
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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82
freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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83
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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84
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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85
lipstick
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| n.口红，唇膏 | |
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86
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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87
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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88
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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89
consolidate
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| v.使加固，使加强；(把...)联为一体，合并 | |
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90
skittish
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| adj.易激动的，轻佻的 | |
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91
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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92
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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93
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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94
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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95
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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96
adulthood
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| n.成年，成人期 | |
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97
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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98
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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99
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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100
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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101
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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102
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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103
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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104
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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105
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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106
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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107
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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108
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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109
spines
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| n.脊柱( spine的名词复数 )；脊椎；（动植物的）刺；书脊 | |
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110
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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112
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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113
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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