From 1897 to 1921
THE CRISIS OF VICTOR’S WALK with Maggie was now over. After a little silence, they began talking happily about indifferent matters. Presently they came to a little cottage that offered teas. They had their meal in the garden, sitting together on a bench before a rickety little table, facing the view. Maggie told me that through that meal and the rest of their walk she had an increasing sense that they had known one another for many years. Again and again they anticipated each other’s thoughts, as though each knew beforehand what to expect of the other. Yet consciously they knew very little of each other, and their minds were very different — Victor with his background of public school and Oxford1, Maggie a country girl with simple tastes and a veneer2 of town experience. Yet so long as they did not discuss their own future, they talked easily and happily. In spite of differences of accent and social class, each delighted each by quick intuition of the other’s point of view.
Maggie was soon telling Victor about her own life. Her early years were spent in Shetland. She was born in a minute crofter’s cottage beside one of the larger “voes” or fjords. Her father was a typical Shetlander, who made a precarious3 living by a combination of fishing by line or net from a boat, tending the little hardy4 though soft-fleeced sheep, and tilling the impoverished5 and storm-swept soil, which yielded oats and rye as dwarfed6 as the sheep and the famous ponies7. Ramblingly and with evident nostalgia8, Maggie told Victor how she used to take part in the fishing; how, holding the line, one had to feel for the gentle tremor9 when the fish nibbled10 the bait, distinguishing between the different action of whiting, haddock and the rest; how in the old days cod11 were plentiful12 in the coastal13 waters and within range of small boats, but now they had to be sought far off in the Arctic by long-ranging steam trawlers; how the herring fishery, at one time prosperous, had retreated to the south, leaving behind broken-down jetties and the rotting remains14 of the fishing fleet in almost every village; how her father used to take out his gun and shoot the seals from the cliff, and the dead or merely wounded creatures, tortured by the salt water in their wounds, would be left on the rocks by the next retreating tide, to be retrieved15 at leisure by the men of the crofts; how the cruel business distressed16 her, but gradually she hardened herself to it, knowing well how much the meat and oil and skin were needed; how, when she was about twelve years old, one of her elder brothers was lost in a storm, having gone out beyond the headlands in an unseaworthy boat, against his father’s advice; how she herself, weeks later, happened on his decaying body on the rocks, damaged, bloated, blackened by corruption17, but still recognizably her brother; and how this experience had “somehow opened a window on to the evil of the world,” so that for years afterwards she was prone18 to “waking nightmares” in which she was paralysed by the shocking memory of that strange thing that had been her brother; how her eldest19 brother became a deck-hand on a liner, and would periodically return from the Far East with strange gifts and stranger stories; how these homecomings used to fill her with a fierce determination to see the great world, though she was only a girl; how the eider-ducks piloted their flotillas of tiny babies on the turbulent waves, and in among the rocks; how the stylish20 arctic skuas and the great brown “bonxies” would dive screaming from the sky to threaten the head of any child venturing too near their nests; how the gannets, dagger-beaked, creamy headed, wing-tipped with ink, would drop like stones into the sea for fish, and the cormorants21 would come up from the deep with their writhing22 bulky catch, and struggle valiantly23 to swallow it, till at last it showed merely as a great swelling24 in the bird’s neck; how a dead whale was once stranded25 at the mouth of the voe, and how it stank26; how one of the boys once carried home on his shoulder a whale’s vertebra, a lump of sea-polished solid bone as big as a new grindstone, but triangular27 and with a hole in the middle for the great spinal28 cord; how she and her school friends used to play in a near-by “broch,” a stone-built Pictish fortress29, on a high cliff over the sea; how her mother used to plant their cabbages in queer little circles of stone wall, like miniature brochs, to protect them from the ruthless winds; how at midnight in the summer, the grass was still green and the water blue; but in winter, noon was just an evening between two interminable dead black nights, relieved sometimes by the pale or rosy30 Northern Lights; how the whole family would sometimes go by boat, sailing or rowing, inland to the head of the voe to cut peat on the low moors31, and stack it to dry (like slabs32 of moist ginger33 cake, she said); and how, long afterwards, they would go again to load the dried peat on to the boat and bring it home; how in fine weather one could see far out on the horizon a small, tall, lonely island where several families won a meagre living from the ocean and the scanty34 pasture, and sometimes (it was said) great storms swept their houses over the cliff into the seas; how she was sometimes taken by her father on sheep-dipping or fleecing expeditions, with a party of men, boys and dogs from the neighbouring crofts, generally by boat to some remote promontory35, to spend the day in the orchestration of bleatings, barkings, human shoutings, the cries of gulls36, and of course the wind; how the “national sport” of the Shetlanders (Shelties, she sometimes called them) was racing37 their Norse-looking sailing craft at regattas in one little port after another; how the family boasted about their own old elegant and often successful boat, and their father’s seamanship; how she used to walk over the hill to the village school beside a neighbouring voe, often in wild weather, dry in her little black oil-skins; how on Sundays the whole family, father, mother, two aunts, three boys and two girls, would follow the same track over the hill to the little Methodist chapel38, all dressed in their precious Sunday clothes, she with her wild red hair tightly plaited and her sturdy little legs clad in the inevitable39 home-knitted black woollen stockings; how on one occasion a blue-eyed young lay preacher, who was also the local blacksmith (idolized by the young girls for his mighty40 prowess at the anvil41, and for his radiant kindliness), gave them a terrific sermon all about hell-fire and shipwreck42; how the fire, he said, rose up from the depth of the ocean and devoured44 the proud ships with their ungodly crews, and sucked them down into the nether45 pit for eternal damnation; how, after the service, when the young man stood at the chapel door to shake hands with each member of the congregation, she dared hardly take his hand, though she saw, incredulously, that he was once more beaming with good will; how, when her father once took her to the far-off town of Lerwick, on the way she saw for the first time trees, little stunted47 trees round a house in a sheltered valley, but to her they were symbolical48 of all the world’s forests and jungles; how Lerwick seemed to her in those days a great bewildering glamourful city, but in fact it was a small fishing port with narrow cobbled streets and an all-pervading smell from the salting of innumerable herrings; how she marvelled49 at the trawlers, the smart fisheries gunboat, and the little old mail steamer; how she longed to go in the steamer all the way to far-off Scotland, but such a trip was beyond the family’s means; how, even in those early days she began to be aware that she was living only on the outermost50 fringe of a great exciting dangerous modern world, in comparison with which her home life and all its values were old-fashioned, niggardly51 and superstitious52; how, as a girl in her teens, she used to steal sweet meetings with a boy from Glasgow, a very young engineer, who used to come to the village on a motor-bike in connection with the setting up of a pumping engine; how he scorned Shetland, and told her about the gay city life; how he once took her for a wild pillion-ride on his motor-cycle, and her father heard of it, and was furious; how, in the long dark winter evenings, her mother and aunts, and often the two girls also, would sit spinning the near-white or richly brown (“murrat”) home-grown wool, or knitting, or mending clothes, fishing-nets or lines, while her father with a clay pipe in his mouth would be doing repairs to some tool, or mending a wicker lobster-pot; how sometimes he would tell them stories of the old days, or read aloud from “improving” books or Sir Walter Scott’s novels; for they had a couple of shelves stocked with well-used classics and religious works, as in so many of the Shetland crofts; how sometimes she would listen to her father with a deep sense of peace, loving the little cramped53, dark, overcrowded home and the feeling of continuity with a mysterious romantic past; but sometimes she was restless, aloof54, exasperated55 with her grown-up relatives because of their open contempt and secret fear of the new ways which were constantly eating into the old; how she and her elder sister sometimes went to the tiny croft of their Great–Aunt Abigail, to be given bannocks and a glass of precious ginger-wine, but the old woman herself would generally find some excuse for indulging in neat whisky or rum; how the dark little croft was crammed56 with furniture and treasures collected throughout a lifetime; how the kindly57 but alarming old witch (for such she looked, with her tousled grey hair and bushy brows that met over her nose, and her face of wrinkled leather) would sit by the fire with bright and frightening eyes telling stories of tragic58 loves and quarrels, of murders out at sea, of Pictish and Norse tradition, of kelpies and howling invisible fiends that rode on the storm, and could lift a man from his feet and throw him from a cliff; how sometimes in a low voice her great-aunt would tell of her own reputedly occult powers of second sight and control of people’s behaviour; how, for instance, she foretold59 the greatest storm of a century, and the wreck43 of a full-rigged ship on the rocks below the broch; how she triumphed over a wicked laird, who was the harsh landlord of all that district, by compelling him to throw himself from a high cliff.
Maggie told Victor that she herself, being a very level-headed child, was sceptical about all these stories, and yet fascinated by them.
One thing she did not tell Victor till long afterwards. When Great–Aunt Abigail was at the point of death she summoned her favourite great-niece, Maggie, to a strictly60 private interview, and prophesied61 that she, too, would develop strange powers. Meanwhile, she said, Maggie herself, under the influence of the “great unbelieving world” would grow to neglect “the old wisdom,” till at last in suffering she would discover that she, too, was a witch, with powers that she might use for good or evil. The old lady said, “You will find, Maggie dear, that you can be strong both in the old wisdom and in the new wisdom, about which I know nothing but that the two clashing wisdoms are at bottom one true wisdom.” Her tired old eyes, that were still lit with frightening fire, looked fixedly62 at the young girl; and presently she said, “They will call you ugly, but you are beautiful. Most people are too blind to see your beauty, and if any of these ever calls you beautiful, he will be lying. But the very few, who can see, will see that you are lovely with a very ancient and forgotten kind of loveliness, or perhaps a new kind, still to win men’s praise. I don’t know which.” She gazed at the fascinated child; then said, “You must try to do much better than I have done, wasting all my powers, and all my life.” She fell silent for some time, while Maggie gazed at her in awe63. Then Great–Aunt Abigail said, “Goodbye, dear Maggie. Remember always what I have said. And now, go!”
With mingled64 fright, repugnance65, affection and exaltation, Maggie stooped and put her lips to the ancient leathery brow. But Great–Aunt Abigail said, faintly but sharply, “On the lips, little fool; even if it makes you vomit66.” Maggie brought herself to comply, murmured, “Dear Great–Aunt Abigail!” and fled.
This exciting suggestion that she herself was a witch worked deeply into young Maggie’s mind; the more so since on one or two occasions she had had dreams that seemed to turn out obscurely prophetic.
Maggie did not tell Victor about this death-bed scene; partly because, though almost unconsciously she still cherished it, she had long ago ceased to take her great-aunt’s prophecy seriously, and had ceased to have any of those ambiguous experiences that had seemed to confirm it. Moreover, she feared that, if she told Victor, he would think her credulous46. Instead, she rambled67 on about her ordinary memories, while Victor occasionally interjected some question or friendly comment.
The sun was now sinking behind the trees, and the chill of evening made them sit closely together, like well-tried brother and sister.
Maggie recounted how, when she left school, her parents reluctantly sent her into “service” in Lerwick, to add to the family earnings68; how she wept on the day of departure, but how, as she settled into the new life she became more and more dependent on the excitement of this minute metropolis69, and more determined70 to seek her fortune in some great glamorous71 city in Scotland; how her parents sternly opposed this intention, but in the end, without their consent, she bought a passage with her savings72 and at last boarded the mail steamer with a friend, Katie, who was returning from a holiday at home to a post as chamber-maid in a hotel in Aberdeen; how the two slept on deck under a tarpaulin73, but were drenched74 by a wave; how the friend secured her a place as scullery-maid; how she marvelled at the city of grey granite75, feeling that at last she was in the great world; how nevertheless she often found herself longing76 for the voes and the crofts and the Shetland speech, and her still dear family; how she was torn between love and contempt for the old life, between fascination77 and vague disgust with the city; how in due season she became a waitress in the same hotel and, in spite of her ugliness, was a success, not merely through efficiency but because of her knack78 of pleasing people of very different sorts; how she spent her free time mostly on solitary79 walks in the country or the town itself, watching its life; how her ugliness was a protection against unwanted attentions, but also a barrier between her and the boys; how she occasionally went with Katie to see the thrilling new moving pictures of life in New York or Monte Carlo; how Katie had a succession of love affairs, but she herself was merely everybody’s dear sister; how, still seeking fullness of life, she presently moved on to posts in Glasgow, and then to the North of England and her present job; how her ambition was to reach London.
While Maggie was happily telling Victor about her life, the afternoon had advanced into evening. The trees in front of them were silhouetted80 against a golden sky. The two sat closer together, and Victor had allowed himself to slip his arm under hers, and to hold her hand. She responded with gentle pressure, but said, “We may as well be friendly, even if I’m not going to take you on.”
Victor told me that he had been wondering how it was that a girl who had missed her due of admiration81 from young men could be so detached and even guarded against his own cautious advances. Intuitively he felt that sex was somehow repugnant to her; and yet, according to her own account, she had regretted her exclusion82 from normal love-experiences.
“Tell me!” he said. “Even though most young men were too blind to see your beauty, surely some must have wanted you? You don’t behave at all like — like a plain girl who is always longing to be loved.” She did not answer. He felt her go rigid83. Her face was turned away from him.
Presently she turned toward him, and seemed to study his face in the fading light. Then she said, “Inquisitive, aren’t you? Why should I have to tell you all about myself? But you’re sort of understanding, like my brother Tom, who was drowned.”
Then she suddenly disengaged herself and rose, saying that it was getting late, and they mustn’t miss the bus. He did not press her to say more. When he had paid for the meal, they walked down the garden, and he held the gate open for her. As she passed through, the evening light lent mystery to her face. “You are lovely to look at,” he said, “but that is not all. There is something strange about you. I think you must be a witch. Do you see the future, or stick pins in waxen images of your enemies, or put potions in people’s beer? Or do you just cast spells on them by giving them waking-dreams of your face?” She was startled, thinking of Great–Aunt Abigail’s now almost forgotten declaration. But she said, rather sharply, “I don’t believe in such things. I’m modern. I should like to go in a submarine or fly an aeroplane, or be a great surgeon. I believe in science. I’m bored with the old dope about witches and magic and second sight.” He said, “Then what about my dreams of you?”
She answered, “Oh, that’s your affair. Probably you are just kidding yourself.”
“Well, Miss Modern,” he said, “you must have had lots of lovers. Tell me about them!”
She answered only, “Nosing again!” And when he attempted to take her arm, she gently freed herself. But as they walked unlinked down the dark road, under trees, she said, “Oh, well. Perhaps I shall tell you some day.”
She did; at a much later date, when she had come to know him much better. And Victor, sitting; with me in the hotel lounge, told me vaguely84 that she had indeed, as he suspected, “encountered the seamy side of sex,” and been “severely wounded by her experiences.” Not till long afterwards did I learn from Maggie herself the details of this unhappy side of it her life. But I had better give some account of them now, since without some knowledge of them the reader would be unable to understand the course of her early relations with Victor.
During her time in Aberdeen she suffered increasingly from the sense of inability to attract men, and from her privation of all the normal dalliance and “walking out” which meant so much to her friend Katie. Moreover, her longing to be “modern,” and to have all kinds of “modern” and “emancipated” experiences, disposed her to a freedom and even licentiousness85 that was still rare in those days before the First World War. So when she found that some men would, with a little encouragement, make advances to her, she was very ready to accept them. But the men who took notice of her were all of the kind that Katie condemned86 as riff-raff or “wrong ‘uns.” Maggie, however, was ready to believe that they were the sensitive ones who could see the beauty to which most men were blind. She chose to ignore her great-aunt’s warning that some of the blind would lyingly praise her. Thus it was that she stumbled into a very unfortunate affair in the dockside underworld of Aberdeen. She struck up an acquaintance with some undesirable87 creature to whom no decent girl would stoop. His advances were of the crudest, but he was able to pose to her as an unfortunate and fundamentally gentle cave-man whom society had maltreated. Maggie frankly88 responded, and was ready to see in him virtues89 which no one else could see. She allowed him all sorts of liberties with her person. Gradually and very reluctantly, she discovered that he was not more sensitive than other men, but more coarse-grained and brutal90, that his crude praise of her looks was quite insincere, that he had come to her not out of admiration and love but simply in the expectation that such an ugly girl would be ready to give him what others refused, namely bodily intercourse91. Such a discovery was, of course, bitterly galling92. But such was her hunger for experience and “emancipation” that she swallowed her shame and allowed herself to be led right up to the point of going to bed with her “lover.” At the last minute violent repugnance seized her, and she broke from his arms, and began to dress. The man, of course, was furious, and attempted rape93; but Maggie was not one to give in easily, when loathing94 had conquered craving95. She put up a spirited fight, and cooled her assailant’s ardour by inflicting96 painful damage. Thus, battered97 but victorious98, she technically99 preserved her virginity.
Some time after she had recovered from the shock of this affair Maggie became involved with another unattractive specimen100 of the opposite sex. But this time disillusionment supervened at an earlier stage of the relationship, and she dismissed her man before she was seriously implicated101. In spite of these two unfortunate incidents her passion to be experienced and “modern” forced her to try again and again. Each time, disgust supervened at an earlier stage than before, until at last she shrank from the slightest contact with any man.
In Glasgow, where she was barmaid in a low-class hotel, she had an adventure of a different pattern. She met a Negro. He had a frightful102 cough, was probably tubercular, and was desperately103 lonely. He longed to get back to West Africa, but he had no money. The girls treated him like dirt because he was black, broken-down, and simple. He had the remains of a well-knit and powerful body, and dog’s eyes. Out of compassion104, Maggie befriended him, mothered him. He responded with adoration105 and great gentleness, never presuming to touch his goddess. To her surprise she found that when he did accidentally touch her she was not repelled106. He had a sweet nature, she felt, that could never harbour the brutish lust107 that was the sole motive108 of her other lovers. He treated everyone, even his persecutors, with fundamental respect. He was ready to accord to everyone the benefit of the doubt. Maggie gradually conceived a great affection for him. And so, like a queen condescending109 to a trusted subject whom she had chosen as a consort110, she gently led him into making love to her. At first he could scarcely bring himself to commit so small a sacrilege as stroking her hand. But stage by stage he reached the point of undressing his goddess, with all the reverence111 of a priest unveiling the holy of holies. She felt neither repugnance nor fear, but only a warm glow of affection and expectation. But then, to her surprise, his trembling hands were withdrawn112 from her, and he muttered in a thick husky voice, “I must not, I must not. There is a devil in me, and he would hurt you.” This declaration only increased Maggie’s confidence in him, and her readiness to give herself to him. She quickly overcame his scruples113, and with an almost religious reverence and gentleness he took her.
The two lived together in very humble114 quarters, kept by Maggie’s earnings and the intermittent115 wages that he won from such casual labouring as he could secure. For a while she was content. But little by little she became restless and lonely. She craved116 equal comradeship and common enterprise. Her Negro, though infinitely117 patient and gentle, and in a way personally understanding, was too remote from the “great world” which had cast its spell on her. “I wanted,” she told me, “a man of my own kind, who would wake me, and — ride me rough-shod to the stars; who would free something creative in me that had always been chained up.” Such high-falutin language was quite beyond her at the time; but later, under Victor’s half-assimilated influence, this was how she described her feelings at the close of her adventure with her Negro. She was beginning to feel that she was losing contact with the great world, and becoming more and more tangled118 in responsibility toward her lover. Further, she was frightened that she might have a child. Such preventives as she knew were far from reliable. Little by little, her manner toward him changed. She cooled. Sometimes she would unintentionally let little spiteful remarks slip from her tongue; and the effort to comfort the wounded man after these lapses119 became increasingly burdensome.
One night she was particularly horrid120 to him, hinting that he was not really good enough for her, and that she had only accepted him out of charity, and that his love-making was too humble. She even forgot herself so far as to say that it would be too awful if she had the burden of a little nigger baby. This foolish remark woke something in him that had been long suppressed. He went savage121. It was as though the spirit of the black race took possession of him to avenge122 itself upon the whole race of white tyrants123. His eyes flashed, his teeth gleamed in his dark face. He said, “Right! I’ll make love to you in another way. It’s your own fault if you don’t like it.” Recounting this incident to me, she said, “Then he went at me like a tiger, tearing off my clothes, biting and tearing at my flesh, and doing unspeakable things.” She screamed and fought; but presently he sprang away from her, and collapsed124 in a heap on the floor, blubbering and begging her pardon. She, in spite of her fright and the rough handling, was feeling very guilty herself; and soon she was kneeling over him and comforting him, with blood on her neck and breasts. In ten minutes they were friends again, and making tea.
However, on the following day, the Negro, who seems to have been, at heart a remarkably125 generous and sensible person, decided126 that they must part. He could no longer trust himself with her. It was obvious to Maggie, too, that she could not trust herself not to torment127 him. So it was agreed that they must part. And they parted in style. They spent all their cash on food and drink for the celebration, prepared a feast in their cheap room, ate as much as they could manage, toasted one another, and then the black race and the white race, and the amity128 of the two, toasted everything and everybody, got happily sozzled and sentimental129, petted and embraced one another, and finally, to the surprise of both, fell to serious love-making, and retired130 to bed together. Maggie, generous and courageous131, was determined that the previous night’s mishap132 should be, so far as possible, wiped out by something better. The Negro was equally anxious to make amends133 for his past obsequiousness134 and for his recent brutality135. The sense of her danger and of their imminent136 parting exalted137 Maggie to respond to him with a new fervour; and her warmth in turn had a tonic138 effect on him, so that for once he was able to be gentle without being abject139, and ardent140 without being brutal. They slept in peace together; and next morning they parted.
For Maggie, the upshot was that, having at last copiously141 tasted the forbidden fruit, and having found it both sweet and bitter, she no longer craved it for its own sake. She would henceforth be violently repelled by all sexual contacts that were not patently the vehicle of true love between equals. For with her Negro she had at least experienced enough to be able to imagine what sex could be when it was indeed the expression of full personal love.
Such were the experiences that Maggie refrained from recounting to Victor as they walked along the dark road, side by side, but unlinked. He made one more attempt to gain her confidence. He said, “There’s something painful in your memory, and something you’re a bit ashamed of. If you were to trust me, and share the pain, and the shame too, I might be able to wipe them out for you.” She answered, “No! Not yet, anyhow. You’re not my father inquisitor.” The odd phrase amused him; and he wondered, but did not enquire142, whether it was deliberate or due to ignorance. He pressed her no further, but turned the conversation to more general subjects. In the bus, they sat snugly143 together, but he refrained from holding her hand; and for this she was grateful, yet vaguely disappointed. When the time came to part, he did take her hand. It was a large and capable hand, and the skin was rather coarse. Ineradicable dirt was ingrained in the thumb and forefinger144. He raised the hand to his lips, and said, “Think it all over. I’m leaving tomorrow, but I shall come back soon.”
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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cod
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| n.鳕鱼；v.愚弄；哄骗 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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coastal
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| adj.海岸的，沿海的，沿岸的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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retrieved
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| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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prone
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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cormorants
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| 鸬鹚，贪婪的人( cormorant的名词复数 ) | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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24
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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25
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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26
stank
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| n. (英)坝，堰，池塘 动词stink的过去式 | |
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triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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spinal
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| adj.针的，尖刺的，尖刺状突起的；adj.脊骨的，脊髓的 | |
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29
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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30
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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31
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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32
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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33
ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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34
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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35
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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36
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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37
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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38
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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39
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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40
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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41
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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42
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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43
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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44
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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45
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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46
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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47
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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48
symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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49
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
outermost
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| adj.最外面的，远离中心的 | |
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51
niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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52
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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53
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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54
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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55
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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56
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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57
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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58
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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59
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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61
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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63
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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64
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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65
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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66
vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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67
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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68
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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69
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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70
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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71
glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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72
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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73
tarpaulin
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| n.涂油防水布，防水衣，防水帽 | |
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74
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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75
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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76
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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77
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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78
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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79
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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80
silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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81
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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82
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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83
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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84
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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85
licentiousness
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| n.放肆，无法无天 | |
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86
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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87
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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88
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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89
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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90
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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91
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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92
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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93
rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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94
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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95
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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96
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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97
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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98
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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99
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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100
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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101
implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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102
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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103
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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104
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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105
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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106
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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107
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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108
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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109
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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110
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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111
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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112
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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113
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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114
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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115
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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116
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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117
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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118
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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119
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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120
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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121
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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122
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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123
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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124
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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125
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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126
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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127
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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128
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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129
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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130
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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131
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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132
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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133
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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134
obsequiousness
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| 媚骨 | |
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135
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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136
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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137
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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138
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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139
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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140
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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141
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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142
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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143
snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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144
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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