But Morton was off some place, in a darkness where there weren’t things to enjoy. Mr. Wrenn had lost him forever. Once he heard himself wishing that even Tim, the hatter, or “good old McGarver” were along. A scene so British that it seemed proper to enjoy it alone he did find in a real garden-party, with what appeared to be a real curate, out of a story in The Strand4, passing teacups; but he passed out of that hot glow into a cold plodding5 that led him to Chester and a dull hotel which might as well have been in Bridgeport or Hoboken.
He somewhat timidly enjoyed Chester the early part of the next day, docilely6 following a guide about the walls, gaping7 at the mill on the Dee and asking the guide two intelligent questions about Roman remains8. He snooped through the galleried streets, peering up dark stairways set in heavy masonry9 that spoke10 of historic sieges, and imagined that he was historically besieging11. For a time Mr. Wrenn’s fancies contented12 him.
He smiled as he addressed glossy13 red and green postcards to Lee Theresa and Goaty, Cousin John and Mr. Guilfogle, writing on each a variation of “Having a splendid trip. This is a very interesting old town. Wish you were here.” Pantingly, he found a panorama14 showing the hotel where he was staying — or at least two of its chimneys — and, marking it with a heavy cross and the announcement “This is my hotel where I am staying,” he sent it to Charley Carpenter.
He was at his nearest to greatness at Chester Cathedral. He chuckled15 aloud as he passed the remains of a refectory of monastic days, in the close, where knights16 had tied their romantically pawing chargers, “just like he’d read about in a story about the olden times.” He was really there. He glanced about and assured himself of it. He wasn’t in the office. He was in an English cathedral close!
But shortly thereafter he was in an English temperance hotel, sitting still, almost weeping with the longing17 to see Morton. He walked abroad, feeling like an intruder on the lively night crowd; in a tap-room he drank a glass of English porter and tried to make himself believe that he was acquainted with the others in the room, to which theory they gave but little support. All this while his loneliness shadowed him.
Of that loneliness one could make many books; how it sat down with him; how he crouched18 in his chair, be-spelled by it, till he violently rose and fled, with loneliness for companion in his flight. He was lonely. He sighed that he was “lonely as fits.” Lonely — the word obsessed19 him. Doubtless he was a bit mad, as are all the isolated20 men who sit in distant lands longing for the voices of friendship.
Next morning he hastened to take the train for Oxford22 to get away from his loneliness, which lolled evilly beside him in the compartment23. He tried to convey to a stodgy24 North Countryman his interest in the way the seats faced each other. The man said “Oh aye?” insultingly and returned to his Manchester newspaper.
Feeling that he was so offensive that it was a matter of honor for him to keep his eyes away, Mr. Wrenn dutifully stared out of the door till they reached Oxford.
There is a calm beauty to New College gardens. There is, Mr. Wrenn observed, “something simply slick about all these old quatrangleses,” crossed by summering students in short flappy gowns. But he always returned to his exile’s room, where he now began to hear the new voice of shapeless nameless Fear — fear of all this alien world that didn’t care whether he loved it or not.
He sat thinking of the cattle-boat as a home which he had loved but which he would never see again. He had to use force on himself to keep from hurrying back to Liverpool while there still was time to return on the same boat.
No! He was going to “stick it out somehow, and get onto the hang of all this highbrow business.”
Then he said: “Oh, darn it all. I feel rotten. I wish I was dead!”
“Those, sir, are the windows of the apartment once occupied by Walter Pater,” said the cultured American after whom he was trailing. Mr. Wrenn viewed them attentively25, and with shame remembered that he didn’t know who Walter Pater was. But — oh yes, now he remembered; Walter was the guy that ‘d murdered his whole family. So, aloud, “Well, I guess Oxford’s sorry Walt ever come here, all right.”
“My dear sir, Mr. Pater was the most immaculate genius of the nineteenth century,” lectured Dr. Mittyford, the cultured American, severely27.
Mr. Wrenn had met Mittyford, Ph.D., near the barges28; had, upon polite request, still more politely lent him a match, and seized the chance to confide29 in somebody. Mittyford had a bald head, neat eye-glasses, a fair family income, a chatty good-fellowship at the Faculty30 Club, and a chilly31 contemptuousness in his rhetoric32 class-room at Leland Stanford, Jr., University. He wrote poetry, which he filed away under the letter “P” in his letter-file.
Dr. Mittyford grudgingly33 took Mr. Wrenn about, to teach him what not to enjoy. He pointed34 at Shelley’s rooms as at a certificated angel’s feather, but Mr. Wrenn writhingly admitted that he had never heard of Shelley, whose name he confused with Max O’Rell’s, which Dr. Mittyford deemed an error. Then, Pater’s window. The doctor shrugged35. Oh well, what could you expect of the proletariat! Swinging his stick aloofly36, he stalked to the Bodleian and vouchsafed37, “That, sir, is the AEschylus Shelley had in his pocket when he was drowned.”
Though he heard with sincere regret the news that his new idol38 was drowned, Mr. Wrenn found that AEschylus left him cold. It seemed to be printed in a foreign language. But perhaps it was merely a very old book.
Standing39 before a case in which was an exquisite40 book in a queer wrigglesome language, bearing the legend that from this volume Fitzgerald had translated the Rubaiyat, Dr. Mittyford waved his hand and looked for thanks.
“Pretty book,” said Mr. Wrenn.
“And did you note who used it?”
“Uh — yes.” He hastily glanced at the placard. “Mr. Fitzgerald. Say, I think I read some of that Rubaiyat. It was something about a Persian kitten — I don’t remember exactly.”
Dr. Mittyford walked bitterly to the other end of the room.
About eight in the evening Mr. Wrenn’s landlady42 knocked with, “There’s a gentleman below to see you, sir.”
“Me?” blurted43 Mr. Wrenn.
He galloped44 down-stairs, panting to himself that Morton had at last found him. He peered out and was overwhelmed by a motor-car, with Dr. Mittyford waiting in awesome45 fur coat, goggles46, and gauntlets, centered in the car-lamplight that loomed47 in the shivery evening fog.
“Gee48! just like a hero in a novel!” reflected Mr. Wrenn.
“Get on your things,” said the pedagogue49. “I’m going to give you the time of your life.”
Mr. Wrenn obediently went up and put on his cap. He was excited, yet frightened and resentful at being “dragged into all this highbrow business” which he had resolutely50 been putting away the past two hours.
As he stole into the car Dr. Mittyford seemed comparatively human, remarking: “I feel bored this evening. I thought I would give you a nuit blanche. How would you like to go to the Red Unicorn51 at Brempton — one of the few untouched old inns?”
“That would be nice,” said Mr. Wrenn, unenthusiastically.
His chilliness52 impressed Dr. Mittyford, who promptly53 told one of the best of his well-known whimsical yet scholarly stories.
“Ha! ha!” remarked Mr. Wrenn.
He had been saying to himself: “By golly! I ain’t going to even try to be a society guy with him no more. I’m just going to be me, and if he don’t like it he can go to the dickens.”
So he was gentle and sympathetic and talked West Sixteenth Street slang, to the rhetorician’s lofty amusement.
The tap-room of the Red Unicorn was lighted by candles and a fireplace. That is a simple thing to say, but it was not a simple thing for Mr. Wrenn to see. As he observed the trembling shadows on the sanded floor he wriggled54 and excitedly murmured, “Gee! . . . Gee whittakers!”
The shadows slipped in arabesques55 over the dust-gray floor and scampered56 as bravely among the rafters as though they were in such a tale as men told in believing days. Rustics57 in smocks drank ale from tankards; and in a corner was snoring an ear-ringed peddler with his beetle-black head propped58 on an oilcloth pack.
Stamping in, chilly from the ride, Mr. Wrenn laughed aloud. With a comfortable feeling on the side toward the fire he stuck his slight legs straight out before the old-time settle, looked devil-may-care, made delightful59 ridges60 on the sanded floor with his toe, and clapped a pewter pot on his knee with a small emphatic61 “Wop!” After about two and a quarter tankards he broke out, “Say, that peddler guy there, don’t he look like he was a gipsy — you know — sneaking62 through the hedges around the manner-house to steal the earl’s daughter, huh?”
“Yes. . . . You’re a romanticist, then, I take it?”
“Yes, I guess I am. Kind of. Like to read romances and stuff.” He stared at Mittyford beseechingly63. “But, say — say, I wonder why — Somehow, I haven’t enjoyed Oxford and the rest of the places like I ought to. See, I’d always thought I’d be simply nutty about the quatrangles and stuff, but I’m afraid they’re too highbrow for me. I hate to own up, but sometimes I wonder if I can get away with this traveling stunt64.”
Mittyford, the magnificent, had mixed ale and whisky punch. He was mellowly65 instructive:
“Do you know, I’ve been wondering just what you would get out of all this. You really have a very fine imagination of a sort, you know, but of course you’re lacking in certain factual bases. As I see it, your metier would be to travel with a pleasant wife, the two of you hand in hand, so to speak, looking at the more obvious public buildings and plesaunces — avenues and plesuances. There must be a certain portion of the tripper class which really has the ability ‘for to admire and for to see.’”
Dr. Mittyford finished his second toddy and with a wave of his hand presented to Mr. Wrenn the world and all the plesaunces thereof, for to see, though not, of course, to admire Mittyfordianly.
“But — what are you to do now about Oxford? Well, I’m afraid you’re taken into captivity66 a bit late to be trained for that sort of thing. Do about Oxford? Why, go back, master the world you understand. By the way, have you seen my book on Saxon Derivatives67? Not that I’m prejudiced in its favor, but it might give you a glimmering68 of what this difficile thing ‘culture’ really is.”
The rustics were droning a church anthem69. The glow of the ale was in Mr. Wrenn. He leaned back, entirely70 happy, and it seemed confusedly to him that what little he had heard of his learned and affectionate friend’s advice gratefully confirmed his own theory that what one wanted was friends — a “nice wife”— folks. “Yes, sir, by golly! It was awfully71 nice of the Doc.” He pictured a tender girl in golden brown back in the New York he so much desired to see who would await him evenings with a smile that was kept for him. Homey — that was what he was going to be! He happily and thoughtfully ran his finger about the rim72 of his glass ten times.
“Time to go, I’ m afraid,” Dr. Mittyford was saying. Through the exquisite haze73 that now filled the room Mr. Wrenn saw him dimly, as a triangle of shirt-front and two gleaming ellipses74 for eyes. . . . His dear friend, the Doc! . . . As he walked through the room chairs got humorously in his way, but he good-naturedly picked a path among them, and fell asleep in the motor-car. All the ride back he made soft mouse-like sounds of snoring.
When he awoke in the morning with a headache and surveyed his unchangeably dingy75 room he realized slowly, after smothering76 his head in the pillow to shut off the light from his scorching77 eyeballs, that Dr. Mittyford had called him a fool for trying to wander. He protested, but not for long, for he hated to venture out there among the dreadfully learned colleges and try to understand stuff written in letters that look like crow-tracks.
He packed his suit-case slowly, feeling that he was very wicked in leaving Oxford’s opportunities.
Mr. Wrenn rode down on a Tottenham Court Road bus, viewing the quaintness of London. Life was a rosy78 ringing valiant79 pursuit, for he was about to ship on a Mediterranean80 steamer laden81 chiefly with adventurous82 friends. The bus passed a victoria containing a man with a real monocle. A newsboy smiled up at him. The Strand roared with lively traffic.
But the gray stonework and curtained windows of the Anglo–Southern Steamship83 Company’s office did not invite any Mr. Wrenns to come in and ship, nor did the hall porter, a beefy person with a huge collar and sparse84 painfully sleek85 hair, whose eyes were like cold boiled mackerel as Mr. Wrenn yearned86:
“Please — uh — please will you be so kind and tell me where I can ship as a steward87 for the Med —”
“None needed.”
“Or Spain? I just want to get any kind of a job at first. Peeling potatoes or — It don’t make any difference —”
“None needed, I said, my man.” The porter examined the hall clock extensively.
Bill Wrenn suddenly popped into being and demanded: “Look here, you; I want to see somebody in authority. I want to know what I can ship as.”
The porter turned round and started. All his faith in mankind was destroyed by the shock of finding the fellow still there. “Nothing, I told you. No one needed.”
“Look here; can I see somebody in authority or not?”
The porter was privately88 esteemed89 a wit at his motherin-law’s. Waddling90 away, he answered, “Or not.”
Mr. Wrenn drooped91 out of the corridor. He had planned to see the Tate Gallery, but now he hadn’t the courage to face the difficulties of enjoying pictures. He zig-zagged home, mourning: “What’s the use. And I’ll be hung if I’ll try any other offices, either. The icy mitt26, that’s what they hand you here. Some day I’ll go down to the docks and try to ship there. Prob’ly. Gee! I feel rotten!”
Out of all this fog of unfriendliness appeared the waitress at the St. Brasten Cocoa House; first, as a human being to whom he could talk, second, as a woman. She was ignorant and vulgar; she misused92 English cruelly; she wore greasy93 cotton garments, planted her large feet on the floor with firm clumsiness, and always laughed at the wrong cue in his diffident jests. But she did laugh; she did listen while he stammered94 his ideas of meat-pies and St. Paul’s and aeroplanes and Shelley and fog and tan shoes. In fact, she supposed him to be a gentleman and scholar, not an American.
He went to the cocoa-house daily.
She let him know that he was a man and she a woman, young and kindly95, clear-skinned and joyous-eyed. She touched him with warm elbow and plump hip21, leaning against his chair as he gave his order. To that he looked forward from meal to meal, though he never ceased harrowing over what he considered a shameful96 intrigue97.
That opinion of his actions did not keep him from tingling98 one lunch-time when he suddenly understood that she was expecting to be tempted99. He tempted her without the slightest delay, muttering, “Let’s take a walk this evening?”
She accepted. He was shivery and short of breath while he was trying to smile at her during the rest of the meal, and so he remained all afternoon at the Tower of London, though he very well knew that all this history —“kings and gwillotines and stuff”— demanded real Wrenn thrills.
They were to meet on a street-corner at eight. At seven-thirty he was waiting for her. At eight-thirty he indignantly walked away, but he hastily returned, and stood there another half-hour. She did not come.
When he finally fled home he was glad to have escaped the great mystery of life, then distressingly100 angry at the waitress, and desolate101 in the desert stillness of his room.
He sat in his cold hygienic uncomfortable room on Tavistock Place trying to keep his attention on the “tick, tick, tick, tick” of his two-dollar watch, but really cowering102 before the vast shadowy presences that slunk in from the hostile city.
He didn’t in the least know what he was afraid of. The actual Englishman whom he passed on the streets did not seem to threaten his life, yet his friendly watch and familiar suit-case seemed the only things he could trust in all the menacing world as he sat there, so vividly103 conscious of his fear and loneliness that he dared not move his cramped104 legs.
The tension could not last. For a time he was able to laugh at himself, and he made pleasant pictures — Charley Carpenter telling him a story at Drubel’s; Morton companionably smoking on the top deck; Lee Theresa flattering him during an evening walk. Most of all he pictured the brown-eyed sweetheart he was going to meet somewhere, sometime. He thought with sophomoric105 shame of his futile106 affair with the waitress, then forgot her as he seemed almost to touch the comforting hand of the brown-eyed girl.
“Friends, that’s what I want. You bet!” That was the work he was going to do — make acquaintances. A girl who would understand him, with whom he could trot107 about, seeing department-store windows and moving-picture shows.
It was then, probably, hunched108 up in the dowdy109 chair of faded upholstery, that he created the two phrases which became his formula for happiness. He desired “somebody to go home to evenings”; still more, “some one to work with and work for.”
It seemed to him that he had mapped out his whole life. He sat back, satisfied, and caught the sound of emptiness in his room, emphasized by the stilly tick of his watch.
“Oh — Morton —” he cried.
He leaped up and raised the window. It was raining, but through the slow splash came the night rattle110 of hostile London. Staring down, he studied the desolate circle of light a street-lamp cast on the wet pavement. A cat gray as dish-water, its fur worn off in spots, lean and horrible, sneaked111 through the circle of light like the spirit of unhappiness, like London’s sneer112 at solitary113 Americans in Russell Square rooms.
Mr. Wrenn gulped114. Through the light skipped a man and a girl, so little aware of him that they stopped, laughingly, wrestling for an umbrella, then disappeared, and the street was like a forgotten tomb. A hansom swung by, the hoofbeats sharp and cheerless. The rain dripped. Nothing else. Mr. Wrenn slammed down the window.
He smoothed the sides of his suit-case and reckoned the number of miles it had traveled with him. He spun115 his watch about on the table, and listened to its rapid mocking speech, “Friends, friends; friends, friends.”
Sobbing116, he began to undress, laying down each garment as though he were going to the scaffold. When the room was dark the great shadowy forms of fear thronged117 unchecked about his narrow dingy bed.
Once during the night he woke. Some sound was threatening him. It was London, coming to get him and torture him. The light in his room was dusty, mottled, gray, lifeless. He saw his door, half ajar, and for some moments lay motionless, watching stark118 and bodiless heads thrust themselves through the opening and withdraw with sinister119 alertness till he sprang up and opened the door wide.
But he did not even stop to glance down the hall for the crowd of phantoms120 that had gathered there. Some hidden manful scorn of weakness made him sneer aloud, “Don’t be a baby even if you are lonely.”
His voice was deeper than usual, and he went to bed to sleep, throwing himself down with a coarse wholesome121 scorn of his nervousness.
He awoke after dawn, and for a moment curled in happy wriggles41 of satisfaction over a good sleep. Then he remembered that he was in the cold and friendless prison of England, and lay there panting with desire to get away, to get back to America, where he would be safe.
He wanted to leap out of bed, dash for the Liverpool train, and take passage for America on the first boat. But perhaps the officials in charge of the emigrants122 and the steerage (and of course a fellow would go steerage to save money) would want to know his religion and the color of his hair — as bad as trying to ship. They might hold him up for a couple of days. There were quarantines and customs and things, of which he had heard. Perhaps for two or even three days more he would have to stay in this nauseating123 prison-land.
This was the morning of August 3, 1910, two weeks after his arrival in London, and twenty-two days after victoriously124 reaching England, the land of romance.
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1
quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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functionaries
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| n.公职人员，官员( functionary的名词复数 ) | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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docilely
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| adv.容易教地，易驾驶地，驯服地 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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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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besieging
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的现在分词 ) | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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isolated
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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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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stodgy
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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mitt
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| n.棒球手套，拳击手套，无指手套；vt.铐住，握手 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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grudgingly
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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aloofly
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| 冷淡的； 疏远的； 远离的 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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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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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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wriggles
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| n.蠕动，扭动( wriggle的名词复数 )v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的第三人称单数 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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awesome
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| adj.令人惊叹的，难得吓人的，很好的 | |
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46
goggles
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| n.护目镜 | |
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47
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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48
gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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49
pedagogue
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| n.教师 | |
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50
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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51
unicorn
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| n.(传说中的)独角兽 | |
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52
chilliness
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| n.寒冷，寒意，严寒 | |
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53
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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54
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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55
arabesques
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰( arabesque的名词复数 )；错综图饰；阿拉伯图案；阿拉贝斯克芭蕾舞姿（独脚站立，手前伸，另一脚一手向后伸） | |
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56
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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58
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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60
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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61
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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62
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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63
beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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64
stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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65
mellowly
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| 柔软且甜地，成熟地 | |
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66
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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67
derivatives
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| n.衍生性金融商品；派生物，引出物( derivative的名词复数 )；导数 | |
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68
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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69
anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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70
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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71
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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72
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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73
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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74
ellipses
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| n.椭园，省略号；椭圆( ellipse的名词复数 )；（语法结构上的）省略( ellipsis的名词复数 ) | |
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75
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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76
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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77
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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78
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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79
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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81
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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82
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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83
steamship
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| n.汽船，轮船 | |
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84
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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85
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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86
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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88
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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90
waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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91
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
misused
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| v.使用…不当( misuse的过去式和过去分词 )；把…派作不正当的用途；虐待；滥用 | |
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93
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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94
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
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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96
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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97
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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98
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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99
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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100
distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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101
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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102
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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103
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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104
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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105
sophomoric
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| adj.一知半解的；大学或四年制中学的二年级的 | |
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106
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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107
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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108
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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109
dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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110
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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111
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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112
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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113
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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114
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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115
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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116
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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117
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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119
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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120
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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121
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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122
emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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123
nauseating
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| adj.令人恶心的，使人厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的现在分词 ) | |
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124
victoriously
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| adv.获胜地，胜利地 | |
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