THE following Wednesday Barfleur and I returned to London via Calais and Dover. We had been, between whiles, to the races at Longchamps, luncheons1 at Au Père Boivin, the Pré Catalan, and elsewhere. I had finally looked up Marcelle, but the concierge2 explained that she was out of town.
In spite of the utter fascination3 of Paris I was not at all sorry to leave, for I felt that to be happy here one would want a more definite social life and a more fixed4 habitation than this hotel and the small circle of people that we had met could provide. I took a last—almost a yearning—look at the Avenue de l’Opéra and the Gare du Nord and then we were off.
England was softly radiant in her spring dress. The leaves of the trees between Dover and London were just budding, that diaphanous5 tracery which resembles green lace. The endless red chimneys and sagging6 green roofs and eaves of English cottages peeping out from this vesture of spring were as romantic and poetic7 as an old English ballad8. No doubt at all that England—the south of it, anyhow—is in a rut; sixty years behind the times,—but what a rut! Must all be new and polished and shiny? As the towers and spires9 of Canterbury sped past to the right, gray and crumbling10 in a wine-like air, something rose in my throat. I thought of that old English song that begins—
“When shepherds pipe on oaten straws—”
And then London once more and all the mystery of endless involute streets and simple, hidden, unexplored516 regions! I went once more to look at the grim, sad, two-story East End in spring. It was even more pathetic for being touched by the caressing11 hand of Nature. I went to look at Hyde Park and Chelsea and Seven Kings. I thought to visit Sir Scorp—to cringe once more before the inquiring severity of his ascetic13 eye; but I did not have time, as things turned out. Barfleur was insistent14 that I should spend a day or two at Bridgely Level. Owing to a great coal strike the boat I had planned to take was put out of commission and I was compelled to advance my sailing date two days on the boat of another line. And now I was to see Bridgely Level once more, in the spring.
After Italy and Holland, perhaps side by side with Holland or before it, England—the southern portion of it—is the most charmingly individual country in Europe. For the sake of the walk, the evening was so fine, we decided15 to leave the train at Maidenhead and walk the remaining distance, some five or six miles. It was ideal. The sun was going down and breaking through diaphanous clouds in the west, which it tinted16 and gilded17. The English hedges and copses were delicately tinted with new life. English robins18 were on the grass; sheep, cows; over one English hamlet and another smoke was curling and English crows or rooks were gaily19 cawing, cheered at the thought of an English spring.
As gay as children, Barfleur and I trudged20 the yellow English road. Now and then we passed through a stile and cut diagonally across a field where a path was laid for the foot of man. Every so often we met an English laborer21, his trousers gripped just below the knee by the customary English strap22. Green and red; green and red; (such were the houses and fields) with new spring violets, apple trees in blossom, and peeping steeples over sloping hillsides thrown in for good measure. I felt—what517 shall I say I felt?—not the grandeur23 of Italy, but something so delicate and tender, so reminiscent and aromatic—faintly so—of other days and other fames, that my heart was touched as by music. Near Bridgely Level we encountered Wilkins going home from his work, a bundle of twigs24 under his arm, a pruning25 hook at his belt, his trousers strapped26 after the fashion of his class.
“Well, Wilkins!” I exclaimed.
“W’y, ’ow do you do, sir, Mr. Dreiser? Hi’m glad to see you again, Hi am,” touching27 his cap. “Hi ’opes as ’ow you’ve had a pleasant trip.”
“Very, Wilkins, very,” I replied grandiosely29. Who cannot be grandiose28 in the presence of the fixed conditions of old England. I asked after his work and his health and then Barfleur gave him some instructions for the morrow. We went on in a fading light—an English twilight30. And when we reached the country house it was already aglow31 in anticipation32 of this visit. Hearth33 fires were laid. The dining-room, reception-hall, and living-room were alight. Dora appeared at the door, quite as charming and rosy34 in her white apron35 and cap as the day I left, but she gave no more sign that I was strange or had been absent than as if I had not been away.
“Now we must make up our minds what particular wines we want for dinner. I have an excellent champagne36 of course; but how about a light Burgundy or a Rhine wine? I have an excellent Assmanshäuser.”
“I vote for the light Burgundy,” I said.
“Done. I will speak to Dora now.”
And while he went to instruct Dora, I went to look after all my belongings37 in order to bring them finally together for my permanent departure. After a delicious dinner and one of those comfortable, reminiscent talks that seem naturally to follow the end of the day, I went early to bed.
When the day came to sail I was really glad to be going home, although on the way I had quarreled so much with my native land for the things which it lacks and which Europe apparently38 has.
Our boasted democracy has resulted in little more than the privilege every living, breathing American has of being rude and brutal39 to every other, but it is not beyond possibility that sometime as a nation we will sober down into something approximating human civility. Our early revolt against sham40 civility has, in so far as I can see, resulted in nothing save the abolition41 of all civility—which is sickening. Life, I am sure, will shame us out of it eventually. We will find we do not get anywhere by it. And I blame it all on the lawlessness of the men at the top. They have set the example which has been most freely copied.
Still, I was glad to be going home.
When the time came the run from London to Folkstone and Dover was pleasant with its fleeting43 glimpses of the old castle at Rochester and the spires of the cathedral at Canterbury, the English orchards44, the slopes dotted with sheep, the nestled chimneys and the occasional quaint45, sagging roofs of moss-tinted tiles. The conductor who had secured me a compartment46 to myself appeared just after we left Folkstone to tell me not to bother about my baggage, saying that I would surely find it all on the dock when I arrived to take the boat. It was exactly as he said, though having come this way I found two transfers necessary. Trust the English to be faithful. It is the one reliable country in which you may travel. At Dover I meditated47 on how thoroughly48 my European days were over and when, if ever, I should come again. Life offers so much to see and the human span is so short that it is a question whether it is advisable ever to go twice to the same place—a serious question.519 If I had my choice, I decided—as I stood and looked at the blue bay of Dover—I would, if I could, spend six months each year in the United States and then choose Paris as my other center and from there fare forth49 as I pleased.
After an hour’s wait at Dover, the big liner dropped anchor in the roadstead and presently the London passengers were put on board and we were under way. The Harbor was lovely in a fading light—chalk-blue waters, tall whitish cliffs, endless squealing50, circling gulls51, and a bugle52 calling from the fort in the city.
Our ship’s captain was a Christian53 Scientist, believing in the nothingness of matter, the immanence of Spirit or a divine idea, yet he was, as events proved, greatly distressed54 because of the perverse55, undismissable presence and hauntings of mortal thought. He had “beliefs” concerning possible wrecks56, fires, explosions—the usual terrors of the deep, and one of the ship’s company (our deck-steward) told me that whenever there was a fog he was always on the bridge, refusing to leave it and that he was nervous and “as cross as hell.” So you can see how his religious belief squared with his chemical intuitions concerning the facts of life. A nice, healthy, brisk, argumentative, contentious58 individual he was, and very anxious to have the pretty women sit by him at dinner.
The third day we were out news came by wireless59 that the Titanic60 had sunk after collision with an iceberg61 in mid-ocean. The news had been given in confidence to a passenger. And this passenger had “in confidence” told others. It was a terrible piece of news, grim in its suggestion, and when it finally leaked out it sent a chill over all on board. I heard it first at nine o’clock at night. A party of us were seated in the smoking-room,520 a most comfortable retreat from the terrors of the night and the sea. A damp wind had arisen, bringing with it the dreaded62 fog. Sometimes I think the card room is sought because it suggests the sea less than any place else on the ship. The great fog-horn began mooing like some vast Brobdingnagian sea-cow wandering on endless watery63 pastures. The passengers were gathered here now in groups where, played upon by scores of lights, served with drinks and reacted upon, one by the moods of the others, a temperamental combustion64 took place which served to dispel65 their gloom. Yet it was not possible entirely66 to keep one’s mind off the slowing down of the ship, the grim moo of the horn, and the sound of long, swishing breakers outside speaking of the immensity of the sea, its darkness, depth, and terrors. Every now and then, I noticed, some one would rise and go outside to contemplate67, no doubt, the gloominess of it all. There is nothing more unpromising to this little lamp, the body, than the dark, foggy waters of a midnight sea.
One of the passengers, a German, came up to our table with a troubled, mysterious air. “I got sumpin’ to tell you, gentlemen,” he said in a stage whisper, bending over us. “You better come outside where the ladies can’t hear.” (There were several in the room.) “I just been talkin’ to the wireless man upstairs.”
We arose and followed him out on deck.
The German faced us, pale and trembling. “Gentlemen,” he said, “the captain’s given orders to keep it a secret until we reach New York. But I got it straight from the wireless man: The Titanic went down last night with nearly all on board. Only eight hundred saved and two thousand drowned. She struck an iceberg off Newfoundland. You, gentlemen, must promise me not to tell the ladies—otherwise I shuttn’t have told you.521 I promised the man upstairs. It might get him in trouble.”
We promised faithfully. And with one accord we went to the rail and looked out into the blackness ahead. The swish of the sea could be heard and the insistent moo of the fog-horn.
“And this is only Tuesday,” suggested one. His face showed a true concern. “We’ve got a week yet on the sea, the way they will run now. And we have to go through that region—maybe over the very spot—”
He took off his cap and scratched his hair in a foolish, thoughtful way. I think we all began to talk at once, but no one listened. The terror of the sea had come swiftly and directly home to all. I am satisfied that there was not a man of all the company who heard without feeling a strange sensation. To think of a ship as immense as the Titanic, new and bright, sinking in endless fathoms68 of water. And the two thousand passengers routed like rats from their berths69 only to float helplessly in miles of water, praying and crying!
I went to my berth70 thinking of the pains and terrors of those doomed71 two thousand, a great rage in my heart against the fortuity of life—the dullness or greed of man that prevents him from coping with it. For an hour or more I listened to the vibration72 of the ship that trembled at times like a spent animal as a great wave struck at it with smashing force.
It was a trying night.
I found by careful observation of those with me that I was not the only one subject to disquieting73 thoughts. Mr. W., a Chicago beef man, pleased me most, for he was so frank in admitting his inmost emotions. He was a vigorous young buck74, frank and straightforward75. He came down to breakfast the next morning looking a little dull. The sun was out and it was a fine day.522 “You know,” he confided76 genially77, “I dreamed of them poor devils all night. Say—out in the cold there! And then those big waves kept hitting the ship and waking me up. Did you hear that smash in the night? I thought we had struck something. I got up once and looked out but that didn’t cheer me any. I could only see the top of a roller now and then going by.”
Another evening, sitting in the deepest recesses78 of the card room he explained that he believed in good and bad spirits and the good spirits could help you “if they wanted to.”
Monsieur G., a Belgian, doing business in New York, was nervous in a subdued79, quiet way. He never ceased commenting on the wretchedness of the catastrophe80, nor did he fail daily to consult the chart of miles made and course traveled. He predicted that we would turn south before we neared the Grand Banks because he did not believe the captain would “take a chance.” I am sure he told his wife and that she told every other woman, for the next day one of them confided to me that she knew, and that she had been “stiff with fear” all the night before.
An Englishman, who was with us making for Calgary gave no sign, one way or the other. The German who first brought us the news was like a man with a mania81; he talked of it all the time. An American judge on board talked solemnly with all who would listen—a hard crab82 of a man, whose emotions found their vent42 in the business of extracting information. The women talked to each other but pretended not to know.
It took three days of more or less pleasant sailing to relax the tension which pervaded83 the whole vessel84. The captain did not appear again at table for four days. On Wednesday, following the Monday of the wreck57, there was a fire drill—that ominous85 clanging of the fire-bell523 on the forward deck which brought many troubled spectators out of their staterooms and developed the fact that every piece of hose employed was rotten; for every piece put under pressure burst—a cheering exhibition!
But as the days passed we began to take heart again. The philosophers of the company were unanimously agreed that as the Titanic had suffered this great disaster through carelessness on the part of her officers, no doubt our own chances of safely reaching shore were thereby86 enhanced. We fell to gambling87 again, to flirting88, to playing shuffle-board. By Saturday, when we were passing in the vicinity of where the Titanic went down, only much farther to the south, our fears had been practically dispelled89.
It was not until we reached Sandy Hook the following Tuesday—a hard, bright, clear, blowy day, that we really got the full story. The customary pilot was taken on there, out of a thrashing sea, his overcoat pockets bulging90 with papers, all flaring91 with headlines describing the disaster. We crowded into the smoking-room for the last time and devoured92 the news. Some broke down and cried. Others clenched93 their fists and swore over the vivid and painful pen pictures by eye witnesses and survivors94. For a while we all forgot we were nearly home. We came finally to quarantine. And I was amused to see how in these last hours the rather vigorous ardors of ship-friendship that had been engendered95 by the days spent together began to cool—how all those on board began to think of themselves no longer as members of a coördinated ship company bound together for weal or woe96 on the bosom97 of the great deep, but rather as individuals of widely separated communities and interests to which they were now returning and which of necessity would sever12 their relationship perpetually. I saw, for instance, the American judge who had unbent524 sufficiently98 after we had been three days out to play cards with so humble99 a person as the commission merchant, and others, begin to congeal100 again into his native judicial101 dignity. Several of the young women who had been generally friendly now became quite remote—other worlds were calling them.
And all of this goodly company were so concerned now as to whether they could make a very conservative estimate of the things they were bringing into America and yet not be disturbed by the customs inspectors102, that they were a little amusing. What is honesty, anyhow? Foreign purchases to the value of one hundred dollars were allowed; yet I venture to say that of all this charming company, most of whom prided themselves on some form of virtue103, few made a strictly104 honest declaration. They were all as honest as they had to be—as dishonest as they dared be—no more. Poor pretending humanity! We all lie so. We all believe such untrue things about ourselves and about others. Life is literally105 compact of make-believe, illusion, temperamental bias106, false witness, affinity107. The so-called standards of right, truth, justice, law, are no more than the wire netting of a sieve108 through which the water of life rushes almost uninterrupted. It seems to be regulated, but is it? Look close. See for yourself. Christ said, “Eyes and they see not; ears and they hear not.” Is this not literally true? Begin with number one. How about you and the so-called universal standards?
It had been so cold and raw down the bay that I could scarcely believe, as we neared Manhattan Island that it was going to be so warm and springlike on land as it proved. When we first sighted Long Island and later Long Beach it was over a thrashing sea; the heads of the waves were being cut off by the wind and sent flying into white spindrift or parti-colored rainbows.525 Even above Sandy Hook the wind made rainbows out of wave-tops and the bay had a tumbled surface. It was good to see again the stately towers of the lower city as we drew near—that mountain of steel and stone cut with its narrow canyons109. They were just finishing the upper framework of the Woolworth Building—that first cathedral of the American religion of business—and now it reared its stately head high above everything else.
There was a great company at the dockside to receive us. Owing to the sinking of the Titanic relatives were especially anxious and all incoming ships were greeted with enlarged companies of grateful friends. There were reporters on hand to ask questions as to the voyage—had we encountered any bodies, had we struck any ice?
When I finally stepped on the dock, gathered up my baggage, called a few final farewells and took a taxi to upper Broadway, I really felt that I was once more at home. New York was so suggestively rich to me, this spring evening. It was so refreshing110 to look out and see the commonplace life of Eighth Avenue, up which I sped, and the long cross streets and later upper Broadway with its rush of cars, taxis, pedestrians111. On Eighth Avenue negroes were idling at curbs112 and corners, the Eighth Avenue type of shopkeeper lolling in his doorway113, boys and girls, men and women of a none-too-comforting type, making the best of a humdrum114 and shabby existence. In one’s own land, born and raised among the conditions you are observing, responsive to the subtlest modifications115 of speech, gesture, expression, life takes on a fresh and intimate aspect which only your own land can give after a trip abroad. I never quite realized until later this same evening, strolling out along Broadway to pay a call, how much one really loses abroad for want of blood affinity and years and years of residence.526 All the finer details, such as through the magnifying glass of familiarity one gains at home, one loses abroad. Only the main outlines—the very roughest details—stand revealed as in a distant view of mountains. That is why generalizations116, on so short an acquaintance as a traveler must have, are so dangerous. Here, each sight and sound was significant.
“And he says to me,” said one little girl, strolling with her picturesque117 companion on upper Broadway, “if you don’t do that, I’m through.”
“And what did you say?”
“Good night!!!”
I was sure, then, that I was really home!
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1
luncheons
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| n.午餐，午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
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concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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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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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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diaphanous
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| adj.(布)精致的，半透明的 | |
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sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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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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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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pruning
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| n.修枝，剪枝，修剪v.修剪（树木等）( prune的现在分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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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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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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grandiosely
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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54
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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56
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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contentious
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| adj.好辩的，善争吵的 | |
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59
wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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60
titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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iceberg
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| n.冰山，流冰，冷冰冰的人 | |
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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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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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combustion
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| n.燃烧；氧化；骚动 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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66
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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67
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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berths
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| n.（船、列车等的）卧铺( berth的名词复数 )；（船舶的）停泊位或锚位；差事；船台vt.v.停泊( berth的第三人称单数 )；占铺位 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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congeal
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| v.凝结，凝固 | |
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101
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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inspectors
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| n.检查员( inspector的名词复数 )；（英国公共汽车或火车上的）查票员；（警察）巡官；检阅官 | |
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103
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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105
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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106
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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107
affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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108
sieve
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| n.筛，滤器，漏勺 | |
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109
canyons
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| n.峡谷( canyon的名词复数 ) | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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112
curbs
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的第三人称单数 ) | |
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113
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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114
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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115
modifications
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| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
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116
generalizations
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| 一般化( generalization的名词复数 )； 普通化； 归纳； 概论 | |
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117
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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