Comus sat and watched it all with a sense of growing aching depression. It was so utterly24 trivial to his eyes, so devoid25 of interest, and yet it was so real, so serious, so implacable in its continuity. The brain grew tired with the thought of its unceasing reproduction. It had all gone on, as it was going on now, by the side of the great rushing swirling26 river, this tilling and planting and harvesting, marketing28 and store-keeping, feast-making and fetish-worship and love-making, burying and giving in marriage, child-bearing and child-rearing, all this had been going on, in the shimmering29, blistering30 heat and the warm nights, while he had been a youngster at school, dimly recognising Africa as a division of the earth’s surface that it was advisable to have a certain nodding acquaintance with.
It had been going on in all its trifling31 detail, all its serious intensity32, when his father and his grandfather in their day had been little boys at school, it would go on just as intently as ever long after Comus and his generation had passed away, just as the shadows would lengthen33 and fade under the mulberry trees in that far away English garden, round the old stone fountain where a leaden otter34 for ever preyed35 on a leaden salmon36.
Comus rose impatiently from his seat, and walked wearily across the hut to another window-opening which commanded a broad view of the river. There was something which fascinated and then depressed37 one in its ceaseless hurrying onward sweep, its tons of water rushing on for all time, as long as the face of the earth should remain unchanged. On its further shore could be seen spread out at intervals38 other teeming villages, with their cultivated plots and pasture clearings, their moving dots which meant cattle and goats and dogs and children. And far up its course, lost in the forest growth that fringed its banks, were hidden away yet more villages, human herding-grounds where men dwelt and worked and bartered39, squabbled and worshipped, sickened and perished, while the river went by with its endless swirl27 and rush of gleaming waters. One could well understand primitive40 early races making propitiatory41 sacrifices to the spirit of a great river on whose shores they dwelt. Time and the river were the two great forces that seemed to matter here.
It was almost a relief to turn back to that other outlook and watch the village life that was now beginning to wake in earnest. The procession of water-fetchers had formed itself in a long chattering42 line that stretched river-wards. Comus wondered how many tens of thousands of times that procession had been formed since first the village came into existence. They had been doing it while he was playing in the cricket-fields at school, while he was spending Christmas holidays in Paris, while he was going his careless round of theatres, dances, suppers and card-parties, just as they were doing it now; they would be doing it when there was no one alive who remembered Comus Bassington. This thought recurred43 again and again with painful persistence44, a morbid45 growth arising in part from his loneliness.
Staring dumbly out at the toiling46 sweltering human ant-hill Comus marvelled47 how missionary48 enthusiasts49 could labour hopefully at the work of transplanting their religion, with its homegrown accretions50 of fatherly parochial benevolence51, in this heat-blistered, fever-scourged wilderness52, where men lived like groundbait and died like flies. Demons53 one might believe in, if one did not hold one’s imagination in healthy check, but a kindly54 all-managing God, never. Somewhere in the west country of England Comus had an uncle who lived in a rose-smothered rectory and taught a wholesome55 gentle-hearted creed56 that expressed itself in the spirit of “Little lamb, who made thee?” and faithfully reflected the beautiful homely57 Christ-child sentiment of Saxon Europe. What a far away, unreal fairy story it all seemed here in this West African land, where the bodies of men were of as little account as the bubbles that floated on the oily froth of the great flowing river, and where it required a stretch of wild profitless imagination to credit them with undying souls. In the life he had come from Comus had been accustomed to think of individuals as definite masterful personalities58, making their several marks on the circumstances that revolved59 around them; they did well or ill, or in most cases indifferently, and were criticised, praised, blamed, thwarted60 or tolerated, or given way to. In any case, humdrum61 or outstanding, they had their spheres of importance, little or big. They dominated a breakfast table or harassed62 a Government, according to their capabilities63 or opportunities, or perhaps they merely had irritating mannerisms. At any rate it seemed highly probable that they had souls. Here a man simply made a unit in an unnumbered population, an inconsequent dot in a loosely-compiled deathroll. Even his own position as a white man exalted65 conspicuously66 above a horde67 of black natives did not save Comus from the depressing sense of nothingness which his first experience of fever had thrown over him. He was a lost, soulless body in this great uncaring land; if he died another would take his place, his few effects would be inventoried68 and sent down to the coast, someone else would finish off any tea or whisky that he left behind — that would be all.
It was nearly time to be starting towards the next halting place where he would dine or at any rate eat something. But the lassitude which the fever had bequeathed him made the tedium69 of travelling through interminable forest-tracks a weariness to be deferred70 as long as possible. The bearers were nothing loth to let another half-hour or so slip by, and Comus dragged a battered71 paper-covered novel from the pocket of his coat. It was a story dealing72 with the elaborately tangled73 love affairs of a surpassingly uninteresting couple, and even in his almost bookless state Comus had not been able to plough his way through more than two-thirds of its dull length; bound up with the cover, however, were some pages of advertisement, and these the exile scanned with a hungry intentness that the romance itself could never have commanded. The name of a shop, of a street, the address of a restaurant, came to him as a bitter reminder74 of the world he had lost, a world that ate and drank and flirted75, gambled and made merry, a world that debated and intrigued76 and wire-pulled, fought or compromised political battles — and recked nothing of its outcasts wandering through forest paths and steamy swamps or lying in the grip of fever. Comus read and reread those few lines of advertisement, just as he treasured a much-crumpled programme of a first-night performance at the Straw Exchange Theatre; they seemed to make a little more real the past that was already so shadowy and so utterly remote. For a moment he could almost capture the sensation of being once again in those haunts that he loved; then he looked round and pushed the book wearily from him. The steaming heat, the forest, the rushing river hemmed77 him in on all sides.
The two boys who had been splitting wood ceased from their labours and straightened their backs; suddenly the smaller of the two gave the other a resounding78 whack79 with a split lath that he still held in his hand, and flew up the hillside with a scream of laughter and simulated terror, the bigger lad following in hot pursuit. Up and down the steep bush-grown slope they raced and twisted and dodged80, coming sometimes to close quarters in a hurricane of squeals81 and smacks82, rolling over and over like fighting kittens, and breaking away again to start fresh provocation83 and fresh pursuit. Now and again they would lie for a time panting in what seemed the last stage of exhaustion84, and then they would be off in another wild scamper85, their dusky bodies flitting through the bushes, disappearing and reappearing with equal suddenness. Presently two girls of their own age, who had returned from the water-fetching, sprang out on them from ambush86, and the four joined in one joyous87 gambol88 that lit up the hillside with shrill89 echoes and glimpses of flying limbs. Comus sat and watched, at first with an amused interest, then with a returning flood of depression and heart-ache. Those wild young human kittens represented the joy of life, he was the outsider, the lonely alien, watching something in which he could not join, a happiness in which he had no part or lot. He would pass presently out of the village and his bearers’ feet would leave their indentations in the dust; that would be his most permanent memorial in this little oasis90 of teeming life. And that other life, in which he once moved with such confident sense of his own necessary participation91 in it, how completely he had passed out of it. Amid all its laughing throngs92, its card parties and race-meetings and country-house gatherings93, he was just a mere64 name, remembered or forgotten, Comus Bassington, the boy who went away. He had loved himself very well and never troubled greatly whether anyone else really loved him, and now he realised what he had made of his life. And at the same time he knew that if his chance were to come again he would throw it away just as surely, just as perversely94. Fate played with him with loaded dice95; he would lose always.
One person in the whole world had cared for him, for longer than he could remember, cared for him perhaps more than he knew, cared for him perhaps now. But a wall of ice had mounted up between him and her, and across it there blew that cold-breath that chills or kills affection.
The words of a well-known old song, the wistful cry of a lost cause, rang with insistent96 mockery through his brain:
“Better loved you canna be,
Will ye ne’er come back again?”
If it was love that was to bring him back he must be an exile for ever. His epitaph in the mouths of those that remembered him would be, Comus Bassington, the boy who never came back.
And in his unutterable loneliness he bowed his head on his arms, that he might not see the joyous scrambling97 frolic on yonder hillside.
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1
haze
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n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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stagnant
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adj.不流动的,停滞的,不景气的 | |
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lagoon
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n.泻湖,咸水湖 | |
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onward
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adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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5
savagely
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adv. 野蛮地,残酷地 | |
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peril
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n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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acrid
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adj.辛辣的,尖刻的,刻薄的 | |
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8
monstrous
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adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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9
distilled
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adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 );从…提取精华 | |
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10
preposterously
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adv.反常地;荒谬地;荒谬可笑地;不合理地 | |
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indifference
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n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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12
slant
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v.倾斜,倾向性地编写或报道;n.斜面,倾向 | |
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13
arena
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n.竞技场,运动场所;竞争场所,舞台 | |
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14
chattered
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(人)喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 ); 唠叨; (牙齿)打战; (机器)震颤 | |
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15
drowsily
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adv.睡地,懒洋洋地,昏昏欲睡地 | |
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16
thrall
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n.奴隶;奴隶制 | |
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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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18
teeming
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adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 );到处都是;(指水、雨等)暴降;倾注 | |
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19
awakening
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n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
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20
squatting
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v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 );非法擅自占用(土地或房屋);为获得其所有权;而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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21
maize
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n.玉米 | |
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22
leisurely
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adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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23
foraging
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v.搜寻(食物),尤指动物觅(食)( forage的现在分词 );(尤指用手)搜寻(东西) | |
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24
utterly
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adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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25
devoid
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adj.全无的,缺乏的 | |
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swirling
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v.旋转,打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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swirl
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v.(使)打漩,(使)涡卷;n.漩涡,螺旋形 | |
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28
marketing
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n.行销,在市场的买卖,买东西 | |
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29
shimmering
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v.闪闪发光,发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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30
blistering
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adj.酷热的;猛烈的;使起疱的;可恶的v.起水疱;起气泡;使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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31
trifling
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adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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intensity
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n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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lengthen
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vt.使伸长,延长 | |
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otter
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n.水獭 | |
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35
preyed
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v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 );掠食;折磨;(人)靠欺诈为生 | |
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36
salmon
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n.鲑,大马哈鱼,橙红色的 | |
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37
depressed
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adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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38
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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39
bartered
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v.作物物交换,以货换货( barter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
primitive
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adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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41
propitiatory
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adj.劝解的;抚慰的;谋求好感的;哄人息怒的 | |
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42
chattering
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n. (机器振动发出的)咔嗒声,(鸟等)鸣,啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的,啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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43
recurred
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再发生,复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 ); 治愈 | |
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44
persistence
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n.坚持,持续,存留 | |
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45
morbid
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adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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46
toiling
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长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 ); 艰难缓慢地移动,跋涉 | |
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47
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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48
missionary
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adj.教会的,传教(士)的;n.传教士 | |
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49
enthusiasts
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n.热心人,热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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50
accretions
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n.堆积( accretion的名词复数 );连生;添加生长;吸积 | |
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51
benevolence
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n.慈悲,捐助 | |
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52
wilderness
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n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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53
demons
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n.恶人( demon的名词复数 );恶魔;精力过人的人;邪念 | |
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54
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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55
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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56
creed
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n.信条;信念,纲领 | |
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57
homely
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adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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58
personalities
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n. 诽谤,(对某人容貌、性格等所进行的)人身攻击; 人身攻击;人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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59
revolved
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v.(使)旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 );细想 | |
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60
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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61
humdrum
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adj.单调的,乏味的 | |
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62
harassed
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adj. 疲倦的,厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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63
capabilities
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n.能力( capability的名词复数 );可能;容量;[复数]潜在能力 | |
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64
mere
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adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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exalted
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adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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conspicuously
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ad.明显地,惹人注目地 | |
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horde
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n.群众,一大群 | |
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68
inventoried
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vt.编制…的目录(inventory的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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tedium
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n.单调;烦闷 | |
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deferred
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adj.延期的,缓召的v.拖延,延缓,推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 );服从某人的意愿,遵从 | |
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71
battered
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adj.磨损的;v.连续猛击;磨损 | |
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dealing
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n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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73
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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reminder
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n.提醒物,纪念品;暗示,提示 | |
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flirted
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v.调情,打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
intrigued
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adj.好奇的,被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式);激起…的兴趣或好奇心;“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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hemmed
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缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 ); 包围 | |
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resounding
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adj. 响亮的 | |
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79
whack
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v.敲击,重打,瓜分;n.重击,重打,尝试,一份 | |
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dodged
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v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 );回避 | |
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81
squeals
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n.长而尖锐的叫声( squeal的名词复数 )v.长声尖叫,用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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82
smacks
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掌掴(声)( smack的名词复数 ); 海洛因; (打的)一拳; 打巴掌 | |
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83
provocation
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n.激怒,刺激,挑拨,挑衅的事物,激怒的原因 | |
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84
exhaustion
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n.耗尽枯竭,疲惫,筋疲力尽,竭尽,详尽无遗的论述 | |
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85
scamper
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v.奔跑,快跑 | |
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86
ambush
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n.埋伏(地点);伏兵;v.埋伏;伏击 | |
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joyous
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adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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gambol
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v.欢呼,雀跃 | |
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shrill
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adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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oasis
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n.(沙漠中的)绿洲,宜人的地方 | |
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participation
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n.参与,参加,分享 | |
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92
throngs
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n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群,挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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93
gatherings
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聚集( gathering的名词复数 ); 收集; 采集; 搜集 | |
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94
perversely
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adv. 倔强地 | |
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95
dice
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n.骰子;vt.把(食物)切成小方块,冒险 | |
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96
insistent
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adj.迫切的,坚持的 | |
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97
scrambling
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v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 );攀登;争夺;(军事飞机)紧急起飞 | |
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