It was, perhaps, nearly nine at night; he had eaten nothing since lunch, he had drunk a good deal, and he was exhausted19 by emotion, when the thought of Houston came into his head. He turned, not merely to the man as a friend, but to his house as a place of refuge. The danger that threatened him was still so vague that he knew neither what to fear nor where he might expect it; but this much at least seemed undeniable, that a private house was safer than a public inn. Moved by these counsels, he turned at once to the Caledonian Station, passed (not without alarm) into the bright lights of the approach, redeemed20 his portmanteau from the cloak-room, and was soon whirling in a cab along the Glasgow Road. The change of movement and position, the sight of the lamps twinkling to the rear, and the smell of damp and mould and rotten straw which clung about the vehicle, wrought21 in him strange alternations of lucidity22 and mortal giddiness.
‘I have been drinking,’ he discovered; ‘I must go straight to bed, and sleep.’ And he thanked Heaven for the drowsiness23 that came upon his mind in waves.
From one of these spells he was wakened by the stoppage of the cab; and, getting down, found himself in quite a country road, the last lamp of the suburb shining some way below, and the high walls of a garden rising before him in the dark. The Lodge24 (as the place was named), stood, indeed, very solitary25. To the south it adjoined another house, but standing26 in so large a garden as to be well out of cry; on all other sides, open fields stretched upward to the woods of Corstorphine Hill, or backward to the dells of Ravelston, or downward toward the valley of the Leith. The effect of seclusion27 was aided by the great height of the garden walls, which were, indeed, conventual, and, as John had tested in former days, defied the climbing schoolboy. The lamp of the cab threw a gleam upon the door and the not brilliant handle of the bell.
‘Shall I ring for ye?’ said the cabman, who had descended28 from his perch29, and was slapping his chest, for the night was bitter.
‘I wish you would,’ said John, putting his hand to his brow in one of his accesses of giddiness.
The man pulled at the handle, and the clanking of the bell replied from further in the garden; twice and thrice he did it, with sufficient intervals30; in the great frosty silence of the night the sounds fell sharp and small.
‘Does he expect ye?’ asked the driver, with that manner of familiar interest that well became his port-wine face; and when John had told him no, ‘Well, then,’ said the cabman, ‘if ye’ll tak’ my advice of it, we’ll just gang back. And that’s disinterested31, mind ye, for my stables are in the Glesgie Road.’
‘The servants must hear,’ said John.
‘Hout!’ said the driver. ‘He keeps no servants here, man. They’re a’ in the town house; I drive him often; it’s just a kind of a hermitage, this.’
‘Give me the bell,’ said John; and he plucked at it like a man desperate.
The clamour had not yet subsided32 before they heard steps upon the gravel33, and a voice of singular nervous irritability34 cried to them through the door, ‘Who are you, and what do you want?’
‘Alan,’ said John, ‘it’s me — it’s Fatty — John, you know. I’m just come home, and I’ve come to stay with you.’
There was no reply for a moment, and then the door was opened.
‘Get the portmanteau down,’ said John to the driver.
‘Do nothing of the kind,’ said Alan; and then to John, ‘Come in here a moment. I want to speak to you.’
John entered the garden, and the door was closed behind him. A candle stood on the gravel walk, winking35 a little in the draughts36; it threw inconstant sparkles on the clumped37 holly38, struck the light and darkness to and fro like a veil on Alan’s features, and sent his shadow hovering39 behind him. All beyond was inscrutable; and John’s dizzy brain rocked with the shadow. Yet even so, it struck him that Alan was pale, and his voice, when he spoke40, unnatural41.
‘What brings you here to-night?’ he began. ‘I don’t want, God knows, to seem unfriendly; but I cannot take you in, Nicholson; I cannot do it.’
‘Alan,’ said John, ‘you’ve just got to! You don’t know the mess I’m in; the governor’s turned me out, and I daren’t show my face in an inn, because they’re down on me for murder or something!’
‘For what?’ cried Alan, starting.
‘Murder, I believe,’ says John.
‘Murder!’ repeated Alan, and passed his hand over his eyes. ‘What was that you were saying?’ he asked again.
‘That they were down on me,’ said John. ‘I’m accused of murder, by what I can make out; and I’ve really had a dreadful day of it, Alan, and I can’t sleep on the roadside on a night like this — at least, not with a portmanteau,’ he pleaded.
‘Hush!’ said Alan, with his head on one side; and then, ‘Did you hear nothing?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said John, thrilling, he knew not why, with communicated terror. ‘No, I heard nothing; why?’ And then, as there was no answer, he reverted42 to his pleading: ‘But I say, Alan, you’ve just got to take me in. I’ll go right away to bed if you have anything to do. I seem to have been drinking; I was that knocked over. I wouldn’t turn you away, Alan, if you were down on your luck.’
‘No?’ returned Alan. ‘Neither will you, then. Come and let’s get your portmanteau.’
The cabman was paid, and drove off down the long, lamp — lighted hill, and the two friends stood on the side-walk beside the portmanteau till the last rumble43 of the wheels had died in silence. It seemed to John as though Alan attached importance to this departure of the cab; and John, who was in no state to criticise44, shared profoundly in the feeling.
When the stillness was once more perfect, Alan shouldered the portmanteau, carried it in, and shut and locked the garden door; and then, once more, abstraction seemed to fall upon him, and he stood with his hand on the key, until the cold began to nibble45 at John’s fingers.
‘Why are we standing here?’ asked John.
‘Eh?’ said Alan, blankly.
‘Why, man, you don’t seem yourself,’ said the other.
‘No, I’m not myself,’ said Alan; and he sat down on the portmanteau and put his face in his hands.
John stood beside him swaying a little, and looking about him at the swaying shadows, the flitting sparkles, and the steady stars overhead, until the windless cold began to touch him through his clothes on the bare skin. Even in his bemused intelligence, wonder began to awake.
‘I say, let’s come on to the house,’ he said at last.
‘Yes, let’s come on to the house,’ repeated Alan.
And he rose at once, reshouldered the portmanteau, and taking the candle in his other hand, moved forward to the Lodge. This was a long, low building, smothered46 in creepers; and now, except for some chinks of light between the dining-room shutters47, it was plunged49 in darkness and silence.
In the hall Alan lighted another candle, gave it to John, and opened the door of a bedroom.
‘Here,’ said he; ‘go to bed. Don’t mind me, John. You’ll be sorry for me when you know.’
‘Wait a bit,’ returned John; ‘I’ve got so cold with all that standing about. Let’s go into the dining-room a minute. Just one glass to warm me, Alan.’
On the table in the hall stood a glass, and a bottle with a whisky label on a tray. It was plain the bottle had been just opened, for the cork50 and corkscrew lay beside it.
‘Take that,’ said Alan, passing John the whisky, and then with a certain roughness pushed his friend into the bedroom, and closed the door behind him.
John stood amazed; then he shook the bottle, and, to his further wonder, found it partly empty. Three or four glasses were gone. Alan must have uncorked a bottle of whisky and drank three or four glasses one after the other, without sitting down, for there was no chair, and that in his own cold lobby on this freezing night! It fully51 explained his eccentricities52, John reflected sagely53, as he mixed himself a grog. Poor Alan! He was drunk; and what a dreadful thing was drink, and what a slave to it poor Alan was, to drink in this unsociable, uncomfortable fashion! The man who would drink alone, except for health’s sake — as John was now doing — was a man utterly54 lost. He took the grog out, and felt hazier55, but warmer. It was hard work opening the portmanteau and finding his night things; and before he was undressed, the cold had struck home to him once more. ‘Well,’ said he; ‘just a drop more. There’s no sense in getting ill with all this other trouble.’ And presently dreamless slumber56 buried him.
When John awoke it was day. The low winter sun was already in the heavens, but his watch had stopped, and it was impossible to tell the hour exactly. Ten, he guessed it, and made haste to dress, dismal57 reflections crowding on his mind. But it was less from terror than from regret that he now suffered; and with his regret there were mingled58 cutting pangs59 of penitence60. There had fallen upon him a blow, cruel, indeed, but yet only the punishment of old misdoing; and he had rebelled and plunged into fresh sin. The rod had been used to chasten, and he had bit the chastening fingers. His father was right; John had justified61 him; John was no guest for decent people’s houses, and no fit associate for decent people’s children. And had a broader hint been needed, there was the case of his old friend. John was no drunkard, though he could at times exceed; and the picture of Houston drinking neat spirits at his hall-table struck him with something like disgust. He hung back from meeting his old friend. He could have wished he had not come to him; and yet, even now, where else was he to turn?
These musings occupied him while he dressed, and accompanied him into the lobby of the house. The door stood open on the garden; doubtless, Alan had stepped forth62; and John did as he supposed his friend had done. The ground was hard as iron, the frost still rigorous; as he brushed among the hollies63, icicles jingled64 and glittered in their fall; and wherever he went, a volley of eager sparrows followed him. Here were Christmas weather and Christmas morning duly met, to the delight of children. This was the day of reunited families, the day to which he had so long looked forward, thinking to awake in his own bed in Randolph Crescent, reconciled with all men and repeating the footprints of his youth; and here he was alone, pacing the alleys65 of a wintry garden and filled with penitential thoughts.
And that reminded him: why was he alone? and where was Alan? The thought of the festal morning and the due salutations reawakened his desire for his friend, and he began to call for him by name. As the sound of his voice died away, he was aware of the greatness of the silence that environed him. But for the twittering of the sparrows and the crunching66 of his own feet upon the frozen snow, the whole windless world of air hung over him entranced, and the stillness weighed upon his mind with a horror of solitude67.
Still calling at intervals, but now with a moderated voice, he made the hasty circuit of the garden, and finding neither man nor trace of man in all its evergreen68 coverts69, turned at last to the house. About the house the silence seemed to deepen strangely. The door, indeed, stood open as before; but the windows were still shuttered, the chimneys breathed no stain into the bright air, there sounded abroad none of that low stir (perhaps audible rather to the ear of the spirit than to the ear of the flesh) by which a house announces and betrays its human lodgers70. And yet Alan must be there — Alan locked in drunken slumbers71, forgetful of the return of day, of the holy season, and of the friend whom he had so coldly received and was now so churlishly neglecting. John’s disgust redoubled at the thought, but hunger was beginning to grow stronger than repulsion, and as a step to breakfast, if nothing else, he must find and arouse this sleeper72.
He made the circuit of the bedroom quarters. All, until he came to Alan’s chamber73, were locked from without, and bore the marks of a prolonged disuse. But Alan’s was a room in commission, filled with clothes, knickknacks, letters, books, and the conveniences of a solitary man. The fire had been lighted; but it had long ago burned out, and the ashes were stone cold. The bed had been made, but it had not been slept in.
Worse and worse, then; Alan must have fallen where he sat, and now sprawled74 brutishly, no doubt, upon the dining-room floor.
The dining-room was a very long apartment, and was reached through a passage; so that John, upon his entrance, brought but little light with him, and must move toward the windows with spread arms, groping and knocking on the furniture. Suddenly he tripped and fell his length over a prostrate75 body. It was what he had looked for, yet it shocked him; and he marvelled76 that so rough an impact should not have kicked a groan77 out of the drunkard. Men had killed themselves ere now in such excesses, a dreary78 and degraded end that made John shudder79. What if Alan were dead? There would be a Christmas-day!
By this, John had his hand upon the shutters, and flinging them back, beheld80 once again the blessed face of the day. Even by that light the room had a discomfortable air. The chairs were scattered81, and one had been overthrown82; the table-cloth, laid as if for dinner, was twitched83 upon one side, and some of the dishes had fallen to the floor. Behind the table lay the drunkard, still unaroused, only one foot visible to John.
But now that light was in the room, the worst seemed over; it was a disgusting business, but not more than disgusting; and it was with no great apprehension84 that John proceeded to make the circuit of the table: his last comparatively tranquil85 moment for that day. No sooner had he turned the corner, no sooner had his eyes alighted on the body, than he gave a smothered, breathless cry, and fled out of the room and out of the house.
It was not Alan who lay there, but a man well up in years, of stern countenance86 and iron-grey locks; and it was no drunkard, for the body lay in a black pool of blood, and the open eyes stared upon the ceiling.
To and fro walked John before the door. The extreme sharpness of the air acted on his nerves like an astringent87, and braced88 them swiftly. Presently, he not relaxing in his disordered walk, the images began to come clearer and stay longer in his fancy; and next the power of thought came back to him, and the horror and danger of his situation rooted him to the ground.
He grasped his forehead, and staring on one spot of gravel, pieced together what he knew and what he suspected. Alan had murdered some one: possibly ‘that man’ against whom the butler chained the door in Regent Terrace; possibly another; some one at least: a human soul, whom it was death to slay89 and whose blood lay spilled upon the floor. This was the reason of the whisky drinking in the passage, of his unwillingness90 to welcome John, of his strange behaviour and bewildered words; this was why he had started at and harped91 upon the name of murder; this was why he had stood and hearkened, or sat and covered his eyes, in the black night. And now he was gone, now he had basely fled; and to all his perplexities and dangers John stood heir.
‘Let me think — let me think,’ he said, aloud, impatiently, even pleadingly, as if to some merciless interrupter. In the turmoil92 of his wits, a thousand hints and hopes and threats and terrors dinning93 continuously in his ears, he was like one plunged in the hubbub94 of a crowd. How was he to remember — he, who had not a thought to spare — that he was himself the author, as well as the theatre, of so much confusion? But in hours of trial the junto95 of man’s nature is dissolved, and anarchy96 succeeds.
It was plain he must stay no longer where he was, for here was a new Judicial Error in the very making. It was not so plain where he must go, for the old Judicial Error, vague as a cloud, appeared to fill the habitable world; whatever it might be, it watched for him, full-grown, in Edinburgh; it must have had its birth in San Francisco; it stood guard, no doubt, like a dragon, at the bank where he should cash his credit; and though there were doubtless many other places, who should say in which of them it was not ambushed97? No, he could not tell where he was to go; he must not lose time on these insolubilities. Let him go back to the beginning. It was plain he must stay no longer where he was. It was plain, too, that he must not flee as he was, for he could not carry his portmanteau, and to flee and leave it was to plunge48 deeper in the mire11. He must go, leave the house unguarded, find a cab, and return — return after an absence? Had he courage for that?
And just then he spied a stain about a hand’s-breadth on his trouser-leg, and reached his finger down to touch it. The finger was stained red: it was blood; he stared upon it with disgust, and awe6, and terror, and in the sharpness of the new sensation, fell instantly to act.
He cleansed98 his finger in the snow, returned into the house, drew near with hushed footsteps to the dining-room door, and shut and locked it. Then he breathed a little freer, for here at least was an oaken barrier between himself and what he feared. Next, he hastened to his room, tore off the spotted99 trousers which seemed in his eyes a link to bind100 him to the gallows, flung them in a corner, donned another pair, breathlessly crammed101 his night things into his portmanteau, locked it, swung it with an effort from the ground, and with a rush of relief, came forth again under the open heavens.
The portmanteau, being of occidental build, was no feather — weight; it had distressed102 the powerful Alan; and as for John, he was crushed under its bulk, and the sweat broke upon him thickly. Twice he must set it down to rest before he reached the gate; and when he had come so far, he must do as Alan did, and take his seat upon one corner. Here then, he sat a while and panted; but now his thoughts were sensibly lightened; now, with the trunk standing just inside the door, some part of his dissociation from the house of crime had been effected, and the cabman need not pass the garden wall. It was wonderful how that relieved him; for the house, in his eyes, was a place to strike the most cursory103 beholder104 with suspicion, as though the very windows had cried murder.
But there was to be no remission of the strokes of fate. As he thus sat, taking breath in the shadow of the wall and hopped105 about by sparrows, it chanced that his eye roved to the fastening of the door; and what he saw plucked him to his feet. The thing locked with a spring; once the door was closed, the bolt shut of itself; and without a key, there was no means of entering from without.
He saw himself obliged to one of two distasteful and perilous106 alternatives; either to shut the door altogether and set his portmanteau out upon the wayside, a wonder to all beholders; or to leave the door ajar, so that any thievish tramp or holiday schoolboy might stray in and stumble on the grisly secret. To the last, as the least desperate, his mind inclined; but he must first insure himself that he was unobserved. He peered out, and down the long road; it lay dead empty. He went to the corner of the by-road that comes by way of Dean; there also not a passenger was stirring. Plainly it was, now or never, the high tide of his affairs; and he drew the door as close as he durst, slipped a pebble107 in the chink, and made off downhill to find a cab.
Half-way down a gate opened, and a troop of Christmas children sallied forth in the most cheerful humour, followed more soberly by a smiling mother.
‘And this is Christmas-day!’ thought John; and could have laughed aloud in tragic108 bitterness of heart.
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1
lulls
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| n.间歇期（lull的复数形式）vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的第三人称单数形式） | |
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2
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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3
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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4
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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5
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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6
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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7
biding
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| v.等待，停留( bide的现在分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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8
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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9
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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10
gashes
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| n.深长的切口（或伤口）( gash的名词复数 )v.划伤，割破( gash的第三人称单数 ) | |
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11
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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12
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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13
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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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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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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21
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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22
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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25
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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30
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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31
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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32
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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35
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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36
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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37
clumped
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| adj.[医]成群的v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的过去式和过去分词 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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38
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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39
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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40
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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41
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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42
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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43
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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44
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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45
nibble
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| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
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46
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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51
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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52
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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hazier
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| 有薄雾的( hazy的比较级 )； 模糊的； 不清楚的； 糊涂的 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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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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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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hollies
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| n.冬青（常绿灌木，叶尖而硬，有光泽，冬季结红色浆果）( holly的名词复数 )；（用作圣诞节饰物的）冬青树枝 | |
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jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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coverts
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| n.隐蔽的，不公开的，秘密的( covert的名词复数 )；复羽 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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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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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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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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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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astringent
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| adj.止血的，收缩的，涩的；n.收缩剂，止血剂 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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91
harped
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| vi.弹竖琴（harp的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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93
dinning
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| vt.喧闹（din的现在分词形式） | |
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hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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95
junto
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| n.秘密结社；私党 | |
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anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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ambushed
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| v.埋伏( ambush的过去式和过去分词 )；埋伏着 | |
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cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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100
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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101
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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102
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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103
cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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104
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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105
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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106
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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107
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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108
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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