But at the time of which we write the house in the King’s Road (let us still continue to call it No. 233) was kept very quiet; when Michael entertained guests it was at the halls of Nichol or Verrey that he would convene8 them, and the door of his private residence remained closed against his friends. The upper storey, which was sunny, was set apart for his father; the drawing-room was never opened; the dining-room was the scene of Michael’s life. It is in this pleasant apartment, sheltered from the curiosity of King’s Road by wire blinds, and entirely surrounded by the lawyer’s unrivalled library of poetry and criminal trials, that we find him sitting down to his dinner after his holiday with Pitman. A spare old lady, with very bright eyes and a mouth humorously compressed, waited upon the lawyer’s needs; in every line of her countenance9 she betrayed the fact that she was an old retainer; in every word that fell from her lips she flaunted10 the glorious circumstance of a Scottish origin; and the fear with which this powerful combination fills the boldest was obviously no stranger to the bosom11 of our friend. The hot Scotch12 having somewhat warmed up the embers of the Heidsieck, It was touching13 to observe the master’s eagerness to pull himself together under the servant’s eye; and when he remarked, ‘I think, Teena, I’ll take a brandy and soda14,’ he spoke15 like a man doubtful of his elocution, and not half certain of obedience16.
‘No such a thing, Mr Michael,’ was the prompt return. ‘Clar’t and water.’
‘Well, well, Teena, I daresay you know best,’ said the master. ‘Very fatiguing17 day at the office, though.’
‘What?’ said the retainer, ‘ye never were near the office!’
‘O yes, I was though; I was repeatedly along Fleet Street,’ returned Michael.
‘Pretty pliskies ye’ve been at this day!’ cried the old lady, with humorous alacrity18; and then, ‘Take care — don’t break my crystal!’ she cried, as the lawyer came within an ace19 of knocking the glasses off the table.
‘And how is he keeping?’ asked Michael.
‘O, just the same, Mr Michael, just the way he’ll be till the end, worthy20 man!’ was the reply. ‘But ye’ll not be the first that’s asked me that the day.’
‘No?’ said the lawyer. ‘Who else?’
‘Ay, that’s a joke, too,’ said Teena grimly. ‘A friend of yours: Mr Morris.’
‘Morris! What was the little beggar wanting here?’ enquired21 Michael.
‘Wantin’? To see him,’ replied the housekeeper22, completing her meaning by a movement of the thumb toward the upper storey. ‘That’s by his way of it; but I’ve an idee of my own. He tried to bribe23 me, Mr Michael. Bribe — me!’ she repeated, with inimitable scorn. ‘That’s no’ kind of a young gentleman.’
‘Did he so?’ said Michael. ‘I bet he didn’t offer much.’
‘No more he did,’ replied Teena; nor could any subsequent questioning elicit24 from her the sum with which the thrifty25 leather merchant had attempted to corrupt26 her. ‘But I sent him about his business,’ she said gallantly27. ‘He’ll not come here again in a hurry.’
‘He mustn’t see my father, you know; mind that!’ said Michael. ‘I’m not going to have any public exhibition to a little beast like him.’
‘No fear of me lettin’ him,’ replied the trusty one. ‘But the joke is this, Mr Michael — see, ye’re upsettin’ the sauce, that’s a clean tablecloth28 — the best of the joke is that he thinks your father’s dead and you’re keepin’ it dark.’
Michael whistled. ‘Set a thief to catch a thief,’ said he.
‘Exac’ly what I told him!’ cried the delighted dame29.
‘I’ll make him dance for that,’ said Michael.
‘Couldn’t ye get the law of him some way?’ suggested Teena truculently30.
‘No, I don’t think I could, and I’m quite sure I don’t want to,’ replied Michael. ‘But I say, Teena, I really don’t believe this claret’s wholesome31; it’s not a sound, reliable wine. Give us a brandy and soda, there’s a good soul.’ Teena’s face became like adamant32. ‘Well, then,’ said the lawyer fretfully, ‘I won’t eat any more dinner.’
‘Ye can please yourself about that, Mr Michael,’ said Teena, and began composedly to take away.
‘I do wish Teena wasn’t a faithful servant!’ sighed the lawyer, as he issued into Kings’s Road.
The rain had ceased; the wind still blew, but only with a pleasant freshness; the town, in the clear darkness of the night, glittered with street-lamps and shone with glancing rain-pools. ‘Come, this is better,’ thought the lawyer to himself, and he walked on eastward33, lending a pleased ear to the wheels and the million footfalls of the city.
Near the end of the King’s Road he remembered his brandy and soda, and entered a flaunting34 public-house. A good many persons were present, a waterman from a cab-stand, half a dozen of the chronically35 unemployed36, a gentleman (in one corner) trying to sell aesthetic37 photographs out of a leather case to another and very youthful gentleman with a yellow goatee, and a pair of lovers debating some fine shade (in the other). But the centre-piece and great attraction was a little old man, in a black, ready-made surtout, which was obviously a recent purchase. On the marble table in front of him, beside a sandwich and a glass of beer, there lay a battered38 forage39 cap. His hand fluttered abroad with oratorical40 gestures; his voice, naturally shrill41, was plainly tuned42 to the pitch of the lecture room; and by arts, comparable to those of the Ancient Mariner43, he was now holding spellbound the barmaid, the waterman, and four of the unemployed.
‘I have examined all the theatres in London,’ he was saying; ‘and pacing the principal entrances, I have ascertained44 them to be ridiculously disproportionate to the requirements of their audiences. The doors opened the wrong way — I forget at this moment which it is, but have a note of it at home; they were frequently locked during the performance, and when the auditorium45 was literally46 thronged47 with English people. You have probably not had my opportunities of comparing distant lands; but I can assure you this has been long ago recognized as a mark of aristocratic government. Do you suppose, in a country really self-governed, such abuses could exist? Your own intelligence, however uncultivated, tells you they could not. Take Austria, a country even possibly more enslaved than England. I have myself conversed48 with one of the survivors49 of the Ring Theatre, and though his colloquial50 German was not very good, I succeeded in gathering51 a pretty clear idea of his opinion of the case. But, what will perhaps interest you still more, here is a cutting on the subject from a Vienna newspaper, which I will now read to you, translating as I go. You can see for yourselves; it is printed in the German character.’ And he held the cutting out for verification, much as a conjuror52 passes a trick orange along the front bench.
‘Hullo, old gentleman! Is this you?’ said Michael, laying his hand upon the orator’s shoulder.
The figure turned with a convulsion of alarm, and showed the countenance of Mr Joseph Finsbury. ‘You, Michael!’ he cried. ‘There’s no one with you, is there?’
‘No,’ replied Michael, ordering a brandy and soda, ‘there’s nobody with me; whom do you expect?’
‘I thought of Morris or John,’ said the old gentleman, evidently greatly relieved.
‘What the devil would I be doing with Morris or John?’ cried the nephew.
‘There is something in that,’ returned Joseph. ‘And I believe I can trust you. I believe you will stand by me.’
‘I hardly know what you mean,’ said the lawyer, ‘but if you are in need of money I am flush.’
‘It’s not that, my dear boy,’ said the uncle, shaking him by the hand. ‘I’ll tell you all about it afterwards.’
‘All right,’ responded the nephew. ‘I stand treat, Uncle Joseph; what will you have?’
‘In that case,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘I’ll take another sandwich. I daresay I surprise you,’ he went on, ‘with my presence in a public-house; but the fact is, I act on a sound but little-known principle of my own —’
‘O, it’s better known than you suppose,’ said Michael sipping53 his brandy and soda. ‘I always act on it myself when I want a drink.’
The old gentleman, who was anxious to propitiate54 Michael, laughed a cheerless laugh. ‘You have such a flow of spirits,’ said he, ‘I am sure I often find it quite amusing. But regarding this principle of which I was about to speak. It is that of accommodating one’s-self to the manners of any land (however humble) in which our lot may be cast. Now, in France, for instance, every one goes to a cafe for his meals; in America, to what is called a “two-bit house”; in England the people resort to such an institution as the present for refreshment55. With sandwiches, tea, and an occasional glass of bitter beer, a man can live luxuriously56 in London for fourteen pounds twelve shillings per annum.’
‘Yes, I know,’ returned Michael, ‘but that’s not including clothes, washing, or boots. The whole thing, with cigars and occasional sprees, costs me over seven hundred a year.’
But this was Michael’s last interruption. He listened in good-humoured silence to the remainder of his uncle’s lecture, which speedily branched to political reform, thence to the theory of the weather-glass, with an illustrative account of a bora in the Adriatic; thence again to the best manner of teaching arithmetic to the deaf-and-dumb; and with that, the sandwich being then no more, explicuit valde feliciter. A moment later the pair issued forth57 on the King’s Road.
‘Michael, I said his uncle, ‘the reason that I am here is because I cannot endure those nephews of mine. I find them intolerable.’
‘I daresay you do,’ assented58 Michael, ‘I never could stand them for a moment.’
‘They wouldn’t let me speak,’ continued the old gentleman bitterly; ‘I never was allowed to get a word in edgewise; I was shut up at once with some impertinent remark. They kept me on short allowance of pencils, when I wished to make notes of the most absorbing interest; the daily newspaper was guarded from me like a young baby from a gorilla59. Now, you know me, Michael. I live for my calculations; I live for my manifold and ever-changing views of life; pens and paper and the productions of the popular press are to me as important as food and drink; and my life was growing quite intolerable when, in the confusion of that fortunate railway accident at Browndean, I made my escape. They must think me dead, and are trying to deceive the world for the chance of the tontine.’
‘By the way, how do you stand for money?’ asked Michael kindly60.
‘Pecuniarily speaking, I am rich,’ returned the old man with cheerfulness. ‘I am living at present at the rate of one hundred a year, with unlimited61 pens and paper; the British Museum at which to get books; and all the newspapers I choose to read. But it’s extraordinary how little a man of intellectual interest requires to bother with books in a progressive age. The newspapers supply all the conclusions.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Michael, ‘come and stay with me.’
‘Michael,’ said the old gentleman, ‘it’s very kind of you, but you scarcely understand what a peculiar62 position I occupy. There are some little financial complications; as a guardian63, my efforts were not altogether blessed; and not to put too fine a point upon the matter, I am absolutely in the power of that vile64 fellow, Morris.’
‘You should be disguised,’ cried Michael eagerly; ‘I will lend you a pair of window-glass spectacles and some red side-whiskers.’
‘I had already canvassed65 that idea,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘but feared to awaken66 remark in my unpretentious lodgings67. The aristocracy, I am well aware —’
‘But see here,’ interrupted Michael, ‘how do you come to have any money at all? Don’t make a stranger of me, Uncle Joseph; I know all about the trust, and the hash you made of it, and the assignment you were forced to make to Morris.’
Joseph narrated68 his dealings with the bank.
‘O, but I say, this won’t do,’ cried the lawyer. ‘You’ve put your foot in it. You had no right to do what you did.’
‘The whole thing is mine, Michael,’ protested the old gentleman. ‘I founded and nursed that business on principles entirely of my own.’
‘That’s all very fine,’ said the lawyer; ‘but you made an assignment, you were forced to make it, too; even then your position was extremely shaky; but now, my dear sir, it means the dock.’
‘It isn’t possible,’ cried Joseph; ‘the law cannot be so unjust as that?’
‘And the cream of the thing,’ interrupted Michael, with a sudden shout of laughter, ‘the cream of the thing is this, that of course you’ve downed the leather business! I must say, Uncle Joseph, you have strange ideas of law, but I like your taste in humour.’
‘I see nothing to laugh at,’ observed Mr Finsbury tartly69.
‘And talking of that, has Morris any power to sign for the firm?’ asked Michael.
‘No one but myself,’ replied Joseph.
‘Poor devil of a Morris! O, poor devil of a Morris!’ cried the lawyer in delight. ‘And his keeping up the farce70 that you’re at home! O, Morris, the Lord has delivered you into my hands! Let me see, Uncle Joseph, what do you suppose the leather business worth?’
‘It was worth a hundred thousand,’ said Joseph bitterly, ‘when it was in my hands. But then there came a Scotsman — it is supposed he had a certain talent — it was entirely directed to bookkeeping — no accountant in London could understand a word of any of his books; and then there was Morris, who is perfectly71 incompetent72. And now it is worth very little. Morris tried to sell it last year; and Pogram and Jarris offered only four thousand.’
‘I shall turn my attention to leather,’ said Michael with decision.
‘You?’ asked Joseph. ‘I advise you not. There is nothing in the whole field of commerce more surprising than the fluctuations73 of the leather market. Its sensitiveness may be described as morbid74.’
‘And now, Uncle Joseph, what have you done with all that money?” asked the lawyer.
‘Paid it into a bank and drew twenty pounds,’ answered Mr Finsbury promptly75. ‘Why?’
‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘Tomorrow I shall send down a clerk with a cheque for a hundred, and he’ll draw out the original sum and return it to the Anglo-Patagonian, with some sort of explanation which I will try to invent for you. That will clear your feet, and as Morris can’t touch a penny of it without forgery76, it will do no harm to my little scheme.’
‘But what am I to do?’ asked Joseph; ‘I cannot live upon nothing.’
‘Don’t you hear?’ returned Michael. ‘I send you a cheque for a hundred; which leaves you eighty to go along upon; and when that’s done, apply to me again.’
‘I would rather not be beholden to your bounty77 all the same,’ said Joseph, biting at his white moustache. ‘I would rather live on my own money, since I have it.’
Michael grasped his arm. ‘Will nothing make you believe,’ he cried, ‘that I am trying to save you from Dartmoor?’
His earnestness staggered the old man. ‘I must turn my attention to law,’ he said; ‘it will be a new field; for though, of course, I understand its general principles, I have never really applied78 my mind to the details, and this view of yours, for example, comes on me entirely by surprise. But you may be right, and of course at my time of life — for I am no longer young — any really long term of imprisonment79 would be highly prejudicial. But, my dear nephew, I have no claim on you; you have no call to support me.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Michael; ‘I’ll probably get it out of the leather business.’
And having taken down the old gentleman’s address, Michael left him at the corner of a street.
‘What a wonderful old muddler!’ he reflected, ‘and what a singular thing is life! I seem to be condemned81 to be the instrument of Providence82. Let me see; what have I done today? Disposed of a dead body, saved Pitman, saved my Uncle Joseph, brightened up Forsyth, and drunk a devil of a lot of most indifferent liquor. Let’s top off with a visit to my cousins, and be the instrument of Providence in earnest. Tomorrow I can turn my attention to leather; tonight I’ll just make it lively for ‘em in a friendly spirit.’
About a quarter of an hour later, as the clocks were striking eleven, the instrument of Providence descended83 from a hansom, and, bidding the driver wait, rapped at the door of No. 16 John Street.
It was promptly opened by Morris.
‘O, it’s you, Michael,’ he said, carefully blocking up the narrow opening: ‘it’s very late.’
Michael without a word reached forth, grasped Morris warmly by the hand, and gave it so extreme a squeeze that the sullen84 householder fell back. Profiting by this movement, the lawyer obtained a footing in the lobby and marched into the dining-room, with Morris at his heels.
‘Where’s my Uncle Joseph?’ demanded Michael, sitting down in the most comfortable chair.
‘He’s not been very well lately,’ replied Morris; ‘he’s staying at Browndean; John is nursing him; and I am alone, as you see.’
Michael smiled to himself. ‘I want to see him on particular business,’ he said.
‘You can’t expect to see my uncle when you won’t let me see your father,’ returned Morris.
‘Fiddlestick,’ said Michael. ‘My father is my father; but Joseph is just as much my uncle as he’s yours; and you have no right to sequestrate his person.’
‘I do no such thing,’ said Morris doggedly85. ‘He is not well, he is dangerously ill and nobody can see him.’
‘I’ll tell you what, then,’ said Michael. ‘I’ll make a clean breast of it. I have come down like the opossum, Morris; I have come to compromise.’
Poor Morris turned as pale as death, and then a flush of wrath86 against the injustice87 of man’s destiny dyed his very temples. ‘What do you mean?’ he cried, ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’ And when Michael had assured him of his seriousness, ‘Well, then,’ he cried, with another deep flush, ‘I won’t; so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it.’
‘Oho!’ said Michael queerly. ‘You say your uncle is dangerously ill, and you won’t compromise? There’s something very fishy88 about that.’
‘What do you mean?’ cried Morris hoarsely89.
‘I only say it’s fishy,’ returned Michael, ‘that is, pertaining90 to the finny tribe.’
‘Do you mean to insinuate91 anything?’ cried Morris stormily, trying the high hand.
‘Insinuate?’ repeated Michael. ‘O, don’t let’s begin to use awkward expressions! Let us drown our differences in a bottle, like two affable kinsmen92. The Two Affable Kinsmen, sometimes attributed to Shakespeare,’ he added.
Morris’s mind was labouring like a mill. ‘Does he suspect? or is this chance and stuff? Should I soap, or should I bully93? Soap,’ he concluded. ‘It gains time.’ ‘Well,’ said he aloud, and with rather a painful affectation of heartiness94, ‘it’s long since we have had an evening together, Michael; and though my habits (as you know) are very temperate95, I may as well make an exception. Excuse me one moment till I fetch a bottle of whisky from the cellar.’
‘No whisky for me,’ said Michael; ‘a little of the old still champagne96 or nothing.’
For a moment Morris stood irresolute97, for the wine was very valuable: the next he had quitted the room without a word. His quick mind had perceived his advantage; in thus dunning him for the cream of the cellar, Michael was playing into his hand. ‘One bottle?’ he thought. ‘By George, I’ll give him two! this is no moment for economy; and once the beast is drunk, it’s strange if I don’t wring98 his secret out of him.’
With two bottles, accordingly, he returned. Glasses were produced, and Morris filled them with hospitable99 grace.
‘I drink to you, cousin!’ he cried gaily. ‘Don’t spare the wine-cup in my house.’
Michael drank his glass deliberately100, standing101 at the table; filled it again, and returned to his chair, carrying the bottle along with him.
‘The spoils of war!’ he said apologetically. ‘The weakest goes to the wall. Science, Morris, science.’ Morris could think of no reply, and for an appreciable102 interval103 silence reigned104. But two glasses of the still champagne produced a rapid change in Michael.
‘There’s a want of vivacity105 about you, Morris,’ he observed. ‘You may be deep; but I’ll be hanged if you’re vivacious106!’
‘What makes you think me deep?’ asked Morris with an air of pleased simplicity107.
‘Because you won’t compromise,’ said the lawyer. ‘You’re deep dog, Morris, very deep dog, not t’ compromise — remarkable108 deep dog. And a very good glass of wine; it’s the only respectable feature in the Finsbury family, this wine; rarer thing than a title — much rarer. Now a man with glass wine like this in cellar, I wonder why won’t compromise?’
‘Well, you wouldn’t compromise before, you know,’ said the smiling Morris. ‘Turn about is fair play.’
‘I wonder why I wouldn’ compromise? I wonder why you wouldn’?’ enquired Michael. ‘I wonder why we each think the other wouldn’? ‘S quite a remarrable — remarkable problem,’ he added, triumphing over oral obstacles, not without obvious pride. ‘Wonder what we each think — don’t you?’
‘What do you suppose to have been my reason?’ asked Morris adroitly109.
Michael looked at him and winked110. ‘That’s cool,’ said he. ‘Next thing, you’ll ask me to help you out of the muddle80. I know I’m emissary of Providence, but not that kind! You get out of it yourself, like Aesop and the other fellow. Must be dreadful muddle for young orphan111 o’ forty; leather business and all!’
‘I am sure I don’t know what you mean,’ said Morris.
‘Not sure I know myself,’ said Michael. ‘This is exc’lent vintage, sir — exc’lent vintage. Nothing against the tipple112. Only thing: here’s a valuable uncle disappeared. Now, what I want to know: where’s valuable uncle?’
‘I have told you: he is at Browndean,’ answered Morris, furtively113 wiping his brow, for these repeated hints began to tell upon him cruelly.
‘Very easy say Brown — Browndee — no’ so easy after all!’ cried Michael. ‘Easy say; anything’s easy say, when you can say it. What I don’ like’s total disappearance114 of an uncle. Not businesslike.’ And he wagged his head.
‘It is all perfectly simple,’ returned Morris, with laborious115 calm. ‘There is no mystery. He stays at Browndean, where he got a shake in the accident.’
‘Ah!’ said Michael, ‘got devil of a shake!’
‘Why do you say that?’ cried Morris sharply.
‘Best possible authority. Told me so yourself,’ said the lawyer. ‘But if you tell me contrary now, of course I’m bound to believe either the one story or the other. Point is I’ve upset this bottle, still champagne’s exc’lent thing carpet — point is, is valuable uncle dead — an’— bury?’
Morris sprang from his seat. ‘What’s that you say?’ he gasped116.
‘I say it’s exc’lent thing carpet,’ replied Michael, rising. ‘Exc’lent thing promote healthy action of the skin. Well, it’s all one, anyway. Give my love to Uncle Champagne.’
‘You’re not going away?’ said Morris.
‘Awf’ly sorry, ole man. Got to sit up sick friend,’ said the wavering Michael.
‘You shall not go till you have explained your hints,’ returned Morris fiercely. ‘What do you mean? What brought you here?’
‘No offence, I trust,’ said the lawyer, turning round as he opened the door; ‘only doing my duty as shemishery of Providence.’
Groping his way to the front-door, he opened it with some difficulty, and descended the steps to the hansom. The tired driver looked up as he approached, and asked where he was to go next.
Michael observed that Morris had followed him to the steps; a brilliant inspiration came to him. ‘Anything t’ give pain,’ he reflected. . . . ‘Drive Shcotlan’ Yard,’ he added aloud, holding to the wheel to steady himself; ‘there’s something devilish fishy, cabby, about those cousins. Mush’ be cleared up! Drive Shcotlan’ Yard.’
‘You don’t mean that, sir,’ said the man, with the ready sympathy of the lower orders for an intoxicated117 gentleman. ‘I had better take you home, sir; you can go to Scotland Yard tomorrow.’
‘Is it as friend or as perfessional man you advise me not to go Shcotlan’ Yard t’night?’ enquired Michael. ‘All righ’, never min’ Shcotlan’ Yard, drive Gaiety bar.’
‘The Gaiety bar is closed,’ said the man.
‘Then home,’ said Michael, with the same cheerfulness.
‘Where to, sir?’
‘I don’t remember, I’m sure,’ said Michael, entering the vehicle, ‘drive Shcotlan’ Yard and ask.’
‘But you’ll have a card,’ said the man, through the little aperture118 in the top, ‘give me your card-case.’
‘What imagi — imagination in a cabby!’ cried the lawyer, producing his card-case, and handing it to the driver.
The man read it by the light of the lamp. ‘Mr Michael Finsbury, 233 King’s Road, Chelsea. Is that it, sir?’
‘Right you are,’ cried Michael, ‘drive there if you can see way.’
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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convene
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| v.集合，召集，召唤，聚集，集合 | |
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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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flaunted
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的过去式和过去分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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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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obedience
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fatiguing
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alacrity
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ace
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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enquired
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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elicit
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thrifty
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corrupt
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gallantly
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tablecloth
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dame
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truculently
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31
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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32
adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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33
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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34
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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35
chronically
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| ad.长期地 | |
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36
unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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37
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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38
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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39
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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40
oratorical
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| adj.演说的，雄辩的 | |
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41
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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42
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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43
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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44
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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46
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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47
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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49
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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50
colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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51
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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52
conjuror
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| n.魔术师，变戏法者 | |
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53
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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54
propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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55
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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56
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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57
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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58
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
gorilla
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| n.大猩猩，暴徒，打手 | |
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60
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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61
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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62
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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63
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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65
canvassed
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的过去式和过去分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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66
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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67
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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68
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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70
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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72
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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73
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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74
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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76
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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77
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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78
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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79
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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80
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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81
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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82
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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83
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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84
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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85
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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86
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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87
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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88
fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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89
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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90
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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91
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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92
kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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93
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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94
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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95
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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96
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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97
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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98
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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99
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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100
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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101
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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102
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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103
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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104
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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105
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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106
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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107
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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108
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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109
adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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110
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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111
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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112
tipple
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| n.常喝的酒；v.不断喝，饮烈酒 | |
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113
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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114
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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115
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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116
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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117
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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118
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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