Edwin hated Sunday schools. Nay8, he venomously resented them, though they had long ceased to incommode him. They were connected in his memory with atrocious tedium9, pietistic insincerity, and humiliating contacts. At the bottom of his mind he still regarded them as a malicious10 device of parents for wilfully11 harassing12 and persecuting14 inoffensive, helpless children. And he had a particular grudge15 against them because he alone of his father’s offspring had been chosen for the nauseating16 infliction17. Why should his sisters have been spared and he doomed18? He became really impatient when Sunday schools were under discussion, and from mere19 irrational20 annoyance21 he would not admit that Sunday schools had any good qualities whatever. He knew nothing of their history, and wished to know nothing.
Nevertheless, when the day of the Centenary dawned—and dawned in splendour—he was compelled, even within himself, to treat Sunday schools with more consideration. And, in fact, for two or three days previously22 the gathering23 force of public opinion had been changing his attitude from stern hatred24 to a sort of half-hearted derision. Now, the derision was mysteriously transformed into an inimical respect. By what? By he knew not what. By something without a name in the air which the mind breathes. He felt it at six o’clock, ere he arose. Lying in bed he felt it. The day was to be a festival. The shop would not open, nor the printing office. The work of preparing for the removal would be suspended. The way of daily life would be quite changed. He was free—that was, nearly free. He said to himself that of course his excited father would expect him to witness the celebrations and to wear his best clothes, and that was a bore. But therein he was not quite honest. For he secretly wanted to witness the celebrations and to wear his best clothes. His curiosity was hungry. He admitted, what many had been asserting for weeks, that the Centenary was going to be a big thing; and his social instinct wished him to share in the pride of it.
“It’s a grand day!” exclaimed his father, cheerful and all glossy25 as he looked out upon Duck Square before breakfast. “It’ll be rare and hot!” And it was a grand day; one of the dazzling spectacular blue-and-gold days of early summer. And Maggie was in finery. And Edwin too! Useless for him to pretend that a big thing was not afoot—and his father in a white waistcoat! Breakfast was positively26 talkative, though the conversation was naught27 but a repeating and repeating of what the arrangements were, and of what everybody had decided28 to do. The three lingered over breakfast, because there was no reason to hurry. And then even Maggie left the sitting-room29 without a care, for though Clara was coming for dinner Mrs Nixon could be trusted. Mrs Nixon, if she had time, would snatch half an hour in the afternoon to see what remained to be seen of the show. Families must eat. And if Mrs Nixon was stopped by duty from assisting at this Centenary, she must hope to be more at liberty for the next.
Two.
At nine o’clock, in a most delicious mood of idleness, Edwin strolled into the shop. His father had taken down one shutter30 from the doorway31, and slanted32 it carelessly against another on the pavement. A blind man or a drunkard might have stumbled against it and knocked it over. The letters had been hastily opened. Edwin could see them lying in disorder33 on the desk in the little office. The dust-sheets thought the day was Sunday. He stood in the narrow aperture34 and looked forth35. Duck Square was a shimmer36 of sunshine. The Dragon and the Duck and the other public-house at the top corner seemed as usual, stolidly37 confident in the thirst of populations. But the Borough38 Dining Rooms, next door but one to the corner of Duck Square and Wedgwood Street, were not as usual. The cart of Doy, the butcher, had halted laden39 in front of the Borough Dining Rooms, and the anxious proprietor40, attended by his two little daughters (aproned and sleeved for hard work in imitation of their stout41, perspiring42 mother), was accepting unusual joints43 from it. Ticklish44 weather for meat—you could see that from the man’s gestures. Even on ordinary days those low-ceiled dining-rooms, stretching far back from the street in a complicated vista45 of interiors, were apt to be crowded; for the quality of the eightpenny dinner could be relied upon. Edwin imagined what a stifling46, deafening47 inferno48 of culinary odours and clatter49 they would be at one o’clock, at two o’clock.
Three hokey-pokey ice-cream hand-carts, one after another, turned the corner of Trafalgar Road and passed in front of him along Wedgwood Street. Three! The men pushing them, one an Italian, seemed to wear nothing but shirt and trousers, with a straw hat above and vague slippers50 below. The steam-car lumbered51 up out of the valley of the road and climbed Duck Bank, throwing its enormous shadow to the left. It was half full of bright frocks and suits. An irregular current of finery was setting in to the gates of the Wesleyan School yard at the top of the Bank. And ceremoniously bedecked individuals of all ages hurried in this direction and in that, some with white handkerchiefs over flowered hats, a few beneath parasols. All the town’s store of Sunday clothes was in use. The humblest was crudely gay. Pawnbrokers52 had full tills and empty shops, for twenty-four hours.
Then a procession appeared, out of Moorthorne Road, from behind the Wesleyan Chapel-keeper’s house. And as it appeared it burst into music. First a purple banner, upheld on crimson53 poles with gilded54 lance-points; then a brass55 band in full note; and then children, children, children—little, middling, and big. As the procession curved down into Trafalgar Road, it grew in stature56, until, towards the end of it, the children were as tall as the adults who walked fussily57 as hens, proudly as peacocks, on its flank. And last came a railway lorry on which dozens of tiny infants had been penned; and the horses of the lorry were ribboned and their manes and tails tightly plaited; on that grand day they could not be allowed to protect themselves against flies; they were sacrificial animals.
A power not himself drew Edwin to the edge of the pavement. He could read on the immense banner: “Moorthorne Saint John’s Sunday School.” These, then, were church folk. And indeed the next moment he descried58 a curate among the peacocks. The procession made another curve into Wedgwood Street, on its way to the supreme59 rendezvous60 in Saint Luke’s Square. The band blared; the crimson cheeks of the trumpeters sucked in and out; the drummer leaned backwards61 to balance his burden, and banged. Every soul of the variegated62 company, big and little, was in a perspiration63. The staggering bearers of the purple banner, who held the great poles in leathern sockets64 slung65 from the shoulders, and their acolytes66 before and behind who kept the banner upright by straining at crimson halyards, sweated most of all. Every foot was grey with dust, and the dark trousers of boys and men showed dust. The steamy whiff of humanity struck Edwin’s nostrils67. Up hill and down dale the procession had already walked over two miles. Yet it was alert, joyous68, and expectant: a chattering70 procession. From the lorry rose a continuous faint shriek71 of infantile voices. Edwin was saddened as by pathos72. I believe that as he gazed at the procession waggling away along Wedgwood Street he saw Sunday schools in a new light.
And that was the opening of the day. There were to be dozens of such processions. Some would start only in the town itself; but others were coming from the villages like Red Cow, five sultry miles off.
Three.
A young woman under a sunshade came slowly along Wedgwood Street. She was wearing a certain discreet73 amount of finery, but her clothes did not fit well, and a thin mantle74 was arranged so as to lessen75 as much as possible the obviousness of the fact that she was about to become a mother. The expression of her face was discontented and captious76. Edwin did not see her until she was close upon him, and then he immediately became self-conscious and awkward.
“Hello, Clara!” he greeted her, with his instinctive77 warm, transient smile, holding out his hand sheepishly. It was a most extraordinary and amazing thing that he could never regard the ceremony of shaking hands with a relative as other than an affectation of punctilio. Happily he was not wearing his hat; had it been on his head he would never have taken it off, and yet would have cursed himself for not doing so.
“We are grand!” exclaimed Clara, limply taking his hand and dropping it as an article of no interest. In her voice there was still some echo of former sprightliness78. The old Clara in her had not till that moment beheld79 the smart and novel curves of Edwin’s Shillitoe suit, and the satiric80 cry came unbidden from her heart.
Edwin gave an uneasy laugh, which was merely the outlet81 for his disgust. Not that he was specially6 disgusted with Clara, for indeed marriage had assuaged82 a little the tediousness of some of her mannerisms, even if it had taken away from her charm. He was disgusted more comprehensively by the tradition, universal in his class and in most classes, according to which relatives could not be formally polite to one another. He obeyed the tradition as slavishly as anyone, but often said to himself that he would violate the sacred rule if only he could count on a suitable response; he knew that he could not count on a suitable response; and he had no mind to be in the excruciating position of one who, having started “God save the Queen” at a meeting, finds himself alone in the song. Why could not he and Clara behave together as, for instance, he and Janet Orgreave would behave together, with dignity, with worldliness, with mutual83 deference84? But no! It was impossible, and would ever be so. They had been too brutally85 intimate, and the result was irremediable.
“She’s got no room to talk about personal appearance, anyway!” he thought sardonically86.
There was another extraordinary and amazing thing. He was ashamed of her condition! He could not help the feeling. In vain he said to himself that her condition was natural and proper. In vain he remembered the remark of the sage87 that a young woman in her condition was the most beautiful sight in the world. He was ashamed of it. And he did not think it beautiful; he thought it ugly. It worried him. What,—his sister? Other men’s sisters, yes; but his! He forgot that he himself had been born. He could scarcely bear to look at Clara. Her face was thin, and changed in colour; her eyes were unnaturally88 lustrous89 and large, bold and fatigued90; she looked ill, really ill; and she was incredibly unornamental. And this was she whom he could remember as a graceful91 child! And it was all perfectly92 correct and even laudable! So much so that young Clara undoubtedly93 looked down, now, as from a superior height, upon both himself and Maggie!
“Where’s father?” she asked. “Just shut my sunshade.”
“Oh! Somewhere about. I expect he’ll be along in a minute. Albert coming?” He followed her into the shop.
“Albert!” she protested, shocked. “Albert can’t possibly come till one o’clock. Didn’t you know he’s one of the principal stewards94 in Saint Luke’s Square? He says we aren’t to wait dinner for him if he isn’t prompt.”
“Oh!” Edwin replied, and put the sunshade on the counter.
Clara sat down heavily on a chair, and began to fan herself with a handkerchief. In spite of the heat of exercise her face was of a pallid95 yellow.
“I suppose you’re going to stay here all morning?” Edwin inquired.
“Well,” said Clara, “you don’t see me walking up and down the streets all morning, do you? Albert said I was to be sure and go upstairs at once and not move. He said there’d be plenty to see for a long time yet from the sitting-room window, and then afterwards I could lie down.”
Albert said! Albert said! Clara’s intonation96 of this frequent phrase always jarred on Edwin. It implied that Albert was the supreme fount of wisdom and authority in Bursley. Whereas to Edwin, Albert was in fact a mere tedious, self-important manufacturer in a small way, with whom he had no ideas in common. “A decent fellow at bottom,” the fastidious Edwin was bound to admit to himself by reason of slight glimpses which he had had of Albert’s uncouth97 good-nature; but pietistic, overbearing, and without humour.
“Where’s Maggie?” Clara demanded.
“I think she’s putting her things on,” said Edwin.
“But didn’t she understand I was coming early?” Clara’s voice was querulous, and she frowned.
“I don’t know,” said Edwin.
He felt that if they remained together for hours, he and Clara would never rise above this plane of conversation—personal, factual, perfectly devoid98 of wide interest. They would never reach an exchange of general ideas; they never had done. He did not think that Clara had any general ideas.
“I hear you’re getting frightfully thick with the Orgreaves,” Clara observed, with a malicious accent and smile, as if to imply that he was getting frightfully above himself, and—simultaneously—that the Orgreaves were after all no better than other people.
“Who told you that?” He walked towards the doorway uneasily. The worst was that he could not successfully pretend that these sisterly attacks were lost on him.
“Never mind who told me,” said Clara.
Her voice took on a sudden charming roguish quality, and he could hear again the girl of fourteen. His heart at once softened99 to her. The impartial100 and unmoved spectator that sat somewhere in Edwin, as in everybody who possesses artistic101 sensibility, watching his secret life as from a conning102 tower, thought how strange this was. He stared out into the street. And then a face appeared at the aperture left by the removed shutter. It was Janet Orgreave’s, and it hesitated. Edwin gave a nervous start.
Four.
Janet was all in white again, and her sunshade was white, with regular circular holes in it to let through spots of sunlight which flecked her face. Edwin had not recovered from the blow of her apparition103 just at that moment, when he saw Hilda Lessways beyond her. Hilda was slate-coloured, and had a black sunshade. His heart began to thump104; it might have been a dramatic and dangerous crisis that had suddenly come about. And to Edwin the situation did in fact present itself as critical: his sister behind, and these two so different girls in front. Yet there was nothing critical in it whatsoever105. He shook hands as in a dream, wondering what he should do, trying to summon out of himself the man of the world.
“Do come in,” he urged them, hoping they would refuse.
“Oh no. We mustn’t come in,” said Janet, smiling gratefully. Hilda did not smile; she had not even smiled in shaking hands; and she had shaken hands without conviction.
Edwin heard a hurried step in the shop, and then the voice of Maggie, maternal106 and protective, in a low exclamation107 of surprise: “You, dear!” And then the sound of a smacking108 kiss, and Clara’s voice, thin, weak, and confiding109: “Yes, I’ve come.” “Come upstairs, do!” said Maggie imploringly110. “Come and be comfortable.” Then steps, ceasing to be heard as the sisters left the shop at the back. The solicitude111 of Maggie for Clara during the last few months had seemed wonderful to Edwin, as also Clara’s occasional childlike acceptance of it.
“But you must come in!” he said more boldly to the visitors, asking himself whether either Janet or Hilda had caught sight of his sisters in the gloom of the shop.
They entered, Hilda stiffly. Each with the same gesture closed her parasol before passing through the slit112 between the shutters113 into the deep shade. But whereas Janet smiled with pleasant anticipation114 as though she was going into heaven, Hilda wrinkled her forehead when her parasol would not subside115 at the first touch.
Janet talked of the Centenary; said they had decided only that morning to come down into the town and see whatever was to be seen; said with an angelic air of apologising to the Centenary that up at Lane End House they had certainly been under-estimating its importance and its interest as a spectacle; said that it was most astonishing to see all the shops closed. And Edwin interjected vague replies, pulling the chair out of the little ebonised cubicle116 so that they could both sit down. And Hilda remained silent. And Edwin’s thoughts were diving darkly beneath Janet’s chatter69 as in a deep sea beneath light waves. He heard and answered Janet with a minor117 part of his being that functioned automatically.
“She’s a caution!” reflected the main Edwin, obsessed118 in secret by Hilda Lessways. Who could have guessed, by looking at her, that only three evenings before she had followed him in the night to question him, to squeeze his hand, and to be rude to him? Did Janet know? Did anyone? No! He felt sure that he and she had the knowledge of that interview to themselves. She sat down glum119, almost glowering120. She was no more worldly than Maggie and Clara were worldly. Than they, she had no more skill to be sociable121. And in appearance she was scarcely more stylish122. But she was not as they, and it was useless vindictively123 to disparage124 her by pretending that she was. She could be passionate125 concerning Victor Hugo. She was capable of disturbing herself about the abstract question of belief. He had not heard her utter a single word in the way of common girlish conversation.
The doubt again entered his mind whether indeed her visit to the porch of the new house had been due to a genuine interest in abstract questions and not to a fancy for himself. “Yes,” he reflected, “that must have been it.”
In two days his pride in the affair had lost its first acuteness, though it had continued to brighten every moment of his life, and though he had not ceased to regret that he had no intimate friend to whom he could recount it in solemn and delicious intimacy126. Now, philosophically127, he stamped on his pride as on a fire. And he affected128 to be relieved at the decision that the girl had been moved by naught but a sort of fanaticism129. But he was not relieved by the decision. The decision itself was not genuine. He still clung to the notion that she had followed him for himself. He preferred that she should have taken a fancy to him, even though he discovered no charm in her, no beauty, no solace130, nothing but matter for repulsion. He wanted her to think of him, in spite of his distaste for her; to think of him hopelessly. “You are an ass13!” murmured the impartial watcher in the conning tower. And he was. But he did not care. It was agreeable thus to be an ass... His pride flared131 up again, and instead of stamping he blew on it.
“By Jove!” he thought, eyeing her slyly, “I’ll make you show your hand—you see if I don’t! You think you can play with me, but you can’t!” He was as violent against her as if she had done him an injury instead of having squeezed his hand in the dark. Was it not injurious to have snapped at him, when he refused her invitation to stand by her against the wall in the porch, “You needn’t be afraid”? Janet would never have said such a thing. If only she resembled Janet! ...
During all this private soliloquising, Edwin’s mien132 of mild nervousness never hardened to betray his ferocity, and he said nothing that might not have been said by an innocuous idiot.
The paper boy, arrayed richly, slipped apologetically into the shop. He had certain packets to take out for delivery, and he was late. Edwin nodded to him distantly. The conversation languished133.
Then the head of Mr Orgreave appeared in the aperture. The architect seemed amused. Edwin could not understand how he had ever stood in awe134 of Mr Orgreave, who, with all his distinction and expensiveness, was the most companionable person in the world.
“Oh! Father!” cried Janet. “What a deceitful thing you are! Do you know, Mr Edwin, he pooh-poohed us coming down: he said he was far too busy for such childish things as Centenaries! And look at him!”
Mr Orgreave, whose suit, hat, and necktie were a harmony of elegant greys, smiled with paternal135 ease, and swung his cane136. “Come along now! Don’t let’s miss anything. Come along. Now, Edwin, you’re coming, aren’t you?”
“Did you ever see such a child?” murmured Janet, adoring him.
Edwin turned to the paper boy. “Just find my father before you go,” he commanded. “Tell him I’ve gone, and ask him if you are to put the shutter up.” The paper boy respectfully promised obedience137. And Edwin was glad that the forbidding Hilda was there to witness his authority.
Janet went out first. Hilda hesitated; and Edwin, having taken his hat from its hook in the cubicle, stood attending her at the aperture. He was sorry that he could not run upstairs for a walking-stick. At last she seemed to decide to leave, yet left with apparent reluctance138. Edwin followed, giving a final glance at the boy, who was tying a parcel hurriedly. Mr Orgreave and his daughter were ten yards off, arm-in-arm. Edwin fell into step with Hilda Lessways. Janet looked round, and smiled and beckoned139. “I wonder,” said Edwin to himself, “what the devil’s going to happen now? I’ll take my oath she stayed behind on purpose! Well—” This swaggering audacity140 was within. Without, even a skilled observer could have seen nothing but a faint, sheepish smile. And his heart was thumping141 again.
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1
obsess
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| vt.使着迷，使心神不定，（恶魔）困扰 | |
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2
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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3
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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4
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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5
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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6
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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7
appraisement
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| n.评价，估价；估值 | |
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8
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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10
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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12
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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13
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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14
persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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15
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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16
nauseating
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| adj.令人恶心的，使人厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的现在分词 ) | |
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17
infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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18
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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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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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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30
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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42
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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43
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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44
ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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45
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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46
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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47
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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48
inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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49
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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50
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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51
lumbered
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| 砍伐（lumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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52
pawnbrokers
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| n.当铺老板( pawnbroker的名词复数 ) | |
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53
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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54
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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55
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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56
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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57
fussily
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| adv.无事空扰地，大惊小怪地，小题大做地 | |
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58
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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59
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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60
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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61
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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62
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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63
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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64
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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65
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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66
acolytes
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| n.助手( acolyte的名词复数 )；随从；新手；（天主教）侍祭 | |
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67
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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68
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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69
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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70
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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71
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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72
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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73
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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74
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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75
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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76
captious
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| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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77
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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78
sprightliness
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| n.愉快，快活 | |
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79
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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80
satiric
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| adj.讽刺的，挖苦的 | |
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81
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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82
assuaged
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| v.减轻( assuage的过去式和过去分词 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
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83
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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84
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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85
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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86
sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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87
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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88
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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90
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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94
stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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98
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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99
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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100
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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101
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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102
conning
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| v.诈骗，哄骗( con的现在分词 )；指挥操舵( conn的现在分词 ) | |
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103
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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104
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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105
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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106
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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107
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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108
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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109
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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110
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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111
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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112
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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113
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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114
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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115
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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116
cubicle
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| n.大房间中隔出的小室 | |
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117
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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118
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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119
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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120
glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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121
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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122
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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123
vindictively
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| adv.恶毒地；报复地 | |
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124
disparage
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| v.贬抑，轻蔑 | |
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125
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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126
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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127
philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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128
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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129
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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130
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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131
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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132
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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133
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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134
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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135
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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136
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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137
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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138
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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139
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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141
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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