"Far from the madding crowd" may express the longings4 of the modern Simeon Stylites, but your Cockney is no Simeon. He doesn't pray to be put upon an island where the crowds are few. The thicker the crowd, the more elbows that delve5 into his ribs6, the hotter the steam of human-kind, the happier he is. Far from the madding crowd be blowed! Man's place, he holds, is among his fellows; and he sniffs7 with contempt at this [Pg 124]widespread desire to escape from other people. To him it is a sign of an unhealthy mind, if not pure blasphemy8.
So, when he thinks of London, he does not think of a city of palaces, or serene9 architectural triumphs; of a huckster's mart or a playground. At the word "London" he sees people: the crowds in the Strand10, in Walworth Road, Lavender Hill, Whitechapel Road, Camden Town High Street.
Your moods may be various, and London will respond. You may work, you may idly dream away the hours, or you may actively11 enjoy yourself in play; but if you wish that supreme12 enjoyment13—the enjoyment of other people—then London affords opportunities in larger measure than any city that I know.
I discovered the magic and allure14 of crowds when I was fourteen years old and worked as office-boy in those filthy15 alleys16 marked in the Postal17 Directory as "E.C." Streets and crowds became my refreshment18 and entertainment then, and my palate is not yet blunted to their savour. I do not want the flowery mead19 or the tree-covered lane or the insect-ridden glade—at least, not for long; and I hate that dreadful hollow behind the[Pg 125] little wood. Give me six o'clock in the evening and a walk from the City to Oxford20 Circus, through the soft Spring or the darkling Autumn, with festive21 feet whispering all around you, and your heart filled with that grey-green romance which is London.
Once out of Newgate Street and across Holborn Viaduct I was happy, for I was, so to speak, in a foreign country; so wholly different were the people of Holborn from the people of Cheapside. The crowds of the City had always to me, a mean, craven air about them. They walked homeward with lagging steps and worn faces. They seemed always preoccupied22 with paltry23 problems. They carried the stamp of their environment: a dusty market-place, in which things made by more adept24 hands and brains are passed from wholesale25 place to wholesale place with sorry bargaining on the odd halfpenny.
But West and West Central were a pleasuance of the finer essences, and involuntarily body and soul assumed there a transient felicity of gait. One walked and thought suavely26. There were noble shops, brilliant theatres, dainty restaurants, highways whose sole business was pleasure, rent with gay lights and oh! so many delightful27 people. At[Pg 126] restaurant and theatre doors one might pause pensively28 and touch finger-tips, as it were, with rose-leaf grace and beauty and fine comradeship; a refreshing29 exercise after encounters with the sordid30 and the uncouth31 in Gracechurch Street. Then, when the hoofs32 clattered33 and the motors hooted34 and the whistles blew, and streets were drenched35 with festal light and festal folk, I was, I felt, abroad. Figure to yourself that you are walking through the streets of Teheran, or Stamboul, or Moscow, surrounded by strange bazaars36 and people who seem to have stepped from some book of magic so far removed are they from your daily interests. So did I feel as I walked down Piccadilly. It was suffocating37 to think that there were so many streets to explore, so many types to meet and to know. I wanted then to make heaps and heaps of friends—not, I must confess, for friendship—but just for the sake of meeting people who did interesting and gracious things, and for the sake of knowing that I had a host of friends. The plashing of the fountains in Trafalgar Square, the lights of the Alhambra and Empire seen through the green trees of Leicester Square, the procession of 'buses along Holborn and Oxford Streets, the alluring38 teashops of Piccadilly and the[Pg 127] scornful opulence39 of the hotels—these things sank into me and became part of me.
My way to the City lay through Leicester Square, and the morning crowd in that quarter bears for me still the same charm. On a bright Spring day it might be Paris. There is a sense of space and sparkle about it. The little milliners' girls, in piquant40 frocks, evoke41 memories of Louise, and the crowding curls on their cheeks waft42 a perfume of youth-time lyrics43, chiming softly against the more strident and repulsively44 military garb45 of the girl porters and doorkeepers. The cleaners, bustling46 about the steps of the music-halls, throw adumbrations of entertainment on the morning streets. People are leisurely47 busy in an agreeable way—not the huckstering E.C. way.
In Piccadilly Circus there is the same sense of light and song among the crowds emerging from the Tube. The shops are decked in all the colours of the Maytime, and not one little workgirl but pauses to throw a mute appeal to the posturing48 silks and laces and pray that the lily-wristed, wanton damsel of Fortune will turn a hand in her direction.
But in the City, as I have said, there is little of this delight to be found, either at morning, noon[Pg 128] or night. The typical crowd of this district may be seen at London Bridge, where, from eight to half-past ten in the morning and from half-past five to half-past seven in the evening, the dispirited toilers swarm49 to or from work. Indeed, it is not a crowd: it is a cortège, marching to the obsequies of hope and fear. It is a funeral march of marionettes. Here are no gay colours; no smiles; no persiflage50. All is sombre. Even the typists and the little workgirls make no effort towards bright raiment; all is dingy51 and soiled, not with the clean dirt that hangs about the barges52 and wharves53 on the river, but with the mustiness of old ledgers54 and letter-files. Listless in the morning and taciturn in the evening are these people; and to watch them for an hour from the windows of the Bridge House Hotel is to suffer an attack of spiritual dyspepsia. For, among them, are men who have crossed that bridge twice daily for thirty years, walking always on the same side, always at the same pace, and arriving at the other end at precisely55 the same minute. There are men who began that daily journey with bright boyish faces, clean collars, and their first bowler56 hats, brave with the importance of working in the City. Their hearts were fired with dreams and [Pg 129]ambition. They had heard tales of office-boys who, by industry, had been taken eventually into partnership57. They received their first rise. Later, they achieved the romantic riches of thirty shillings a week. They made the acquaintance of a girl in their suburban58 High Street. They married. And now, at forty-five, all ambition gone, they are working in the same murky59 corner of the same office, and maintaining wife and child on three pounds a week. Their trousers are frayed60 and bag at the knees. Their coats are without nap or grace. Two collars a week suffice. Gone are the shining dreams. They have "settled down," without being conscious of the fact, and will make that miserable61 journey, with other sombre and silent phantoms62, until the end. Verily, the London Bridge crowd of respectables is the most tragic63 of all London crowds, and the bridge itself a via dolorosa.
I do not know why work in the City should produce a more deadening effect on the souls of the workers than work in other quarters, but the fact that it does is recognized by all students of Labour conditions. I have worked in all quarters, and have noticed a curious change of outlook when I moved from the City to Fleet Street, or[Pg 130] from Fleet Street to Piccadilly. You shall notice it, too, in the faces of the lunch-time crowds. East of St. Paul's, the note is apathy64. Coming westward65, just to Fleet Street, you perceive a change. Here boys and girls, men and women, seem to take an interest in things; one understands that they like their work. They do not regard it as a mere66 routine, to be dragged through somehow until the clock releases them.
A similar study in crowd psychology67 awaits you at the Tube stations in the early hours of the evening, when the rush is on. With elbows wedged into your ribs, and strange hot breaths pouring down your neck, you need all the serenity68 you have stored against such contingencies69; and the attitude of the other people about you can mitigate70 your distress71 or enhance it. The City and South London crowd is not the kind of crowd that can bear its own troubles cheerfully, or help others to bear theirs. I would never wish to go on a day's holiday with any of its people. Their composite frame of mind is one of weak anger, expressive72 of "Why isn't Something Done? What's the use of going on like this?"
More comely73 is the St. James's Park or Westminster crowd. From five to half-past six these[Pg 131] stations receive a steady stream of sweet and merry little girls from the mushroom Government Departments that have spawned74 all about this quarter. It is girls, girls, girls, all the way, with the feeble and the aged75 of the male species toiling76 behind.
On the Bakerloo you find a crowd that is—well, "rorty" is the only word. The people here are mostly southbound for the Elephant and Castle; and you know the Elephant and Castle and its warm, impetuous life. There are bold youths who have not fallen, like their fathers, to the cajolery of a collar-and-cuff job in the City, but have taken up the work that offers the best pecuniary77 reward. Grimy youths they are, but full of vitality78, and they pour down the staircase in a Niagara of humanity.
An excellent centre for observing the varying moods of the evening crowd is Villiers Street, that gentle slope from which you may reach Charing79 Cross Station, the Hampstead Tube, the District Railway, or the Embankment trams. It is a finely mixed company, for, as any Londoner will tell you, the residents of the hundred suburbs differ from one another in manner, accent and appearance, even as the natives of different [Pg 132]continents. Those who are using the Hampstead Tube are sharply marked from those who are taking the Embankment car to Clapham Junction80; while those who are journeying on the South-Eastern to Croydon have probably never heard of Upton Park, whither the District will carry others. There are well-dressed people and ill-dressed people; some who are going home to soup, fish, a soufflé and coffee, with wine and liqueurs; and some who are going home to "tea," at about eight o'clock—bread-and-margarine and bloater paste, with a pint81 of tea, or, occasionally, a bit of tripe82 and onions. There are people in a mad hurry, and others who move in aloof83 idleness. And above them all stand the stalwart Colonials, waiting until 6.30, when the bars shall open, airily inspecting the troops of girls and comparing notes.
"Say now, jes' watch here. Here comes a real Fanny."
"Ah, gwan. I ain' got no time for Fannies. I finished wid 'em. Gimme beer, every time."
I have often wanted to make a song of Villiers Street, but I have never been able to catch just the essence of its atmosphere. I am sure, though, that the modern orchestra offers opportunities for[Pg 133] one of our new composers to embrace it in an overture84. No effort has been made, so far as I know, to interpret in music the noisy soul of the London crowds. Elgar's "Cockaigne" overture and Percy Grainger's "Handel in the Strand" were both retrospective in spirit, and the real thing yet remains85 to be done. It has been done on the Continent by Suppé ("Morning, Noon and Night in Vienna"), by Sibelius in his "Finlandia," by Massenet in his "Southern Town," and by Dvorák in "Carneval Roman." I await with eagerness a "Morning, Noon and Night at Charing Cross," scored by a born Cockney.
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1 visualizes | |
在脑中使(某人或某物)形象化,设想,想像( visualize的名词复数 ) | |
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2 shrine | |
n.圣地,神龛,庙;v.将...置于神龛内,把...奉为神圣 | |
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3 provincial | |
adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
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4 longings | |
渴望,盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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5 delve | |
v.深入探究,钻研 | |
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6 ribs | |
n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 );(船或屋顶等的)肋拱;肋骨状的东西;(织物的)凸条花纹 | |
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7 sniffs | |
v.以鼻吸气,嗅,闻( sniff的第三人称单数 );抽鼻子(尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气);抱怨,不以为然地说 | |
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8 blasphemy | |
n.亵渎,渎神 | |
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9 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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10 strand | |
vt.使(船)搁浅,使(某人)困于(某地) | |
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11 actively | |
adv.积极地,勤奋地 | |
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12 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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13 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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14 allure | |
n.诱惑力,魅力;vt.诱惑,引诱,吸引 | |
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15 filthy | |
adj.卑劣的;恶劣的,肮脏的 | |
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16 alleys | |
胡同,小巷( alley的名词复数 ); 小径 | |
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17 postal | |
adj.邮政的,邮局的 | |
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18 refreshment | |
n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
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19 mead | |
n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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20 Oxford | |
n.牛津(英国城市) | |
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21 festive | |
adj.欢宴的,节日的 | |
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22 preoccupied | |
adj.全神贯注的,入神的;被抢先占有的;心事重重的v.占据(某人)思想,使对…全神贯注,使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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23 paltry | |
adj.无价值的,微不足道的 | |
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24 adept | |
adj.老练的,精通的 | |
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25 wholesale | |
n.批发;adv.以批发方式;vt.批发,成批出售 | |
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26 suavely | |
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27 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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28 pensively | |
adv.沉思地,焦虑地 | |
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29 refreshing | |
adj.使精神振作的,使人清爽的,使人喜欢的 | |
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30 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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31 uncouth | |
adj.无教养的,粗鲁的 | |
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32 hoofs | |
n.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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33 clattered | |
发出咔哒声(clatter的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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34 hooted | |
(使)作汽笛声响,作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35 drenched | |
adj.湿透的;充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 );在某人(某物)上大量使用(某液体) | |
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36 bazaars | |
(东方国家的)市场( bazaar的名词复数 ); 义卖; 义卖市场; (出售花哨商品等的)小商品市场 | |
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37 suffocating | |
a.使人窒息的 | |
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38 alluring | |
adj.吸引人的,迷人的 | |
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39 opulence | |
n.财富,富裕 | |
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40 piquant | |
adj.辛辣的,开胃的,令人兴奋的 | |
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41 evoke | |
vt.唤起,引起,使人想起 | |
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42 waft | |
v.飘浮,飘荡;n.一股;一阵微风;飘荡 | |
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43 lyrics | |
n.歌词 | |
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44 repulsively | |
adv.冷淡地 | |
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45 garb | |
n.服装,装束 | |
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46 bustling | |
adj.喧闹的 | |
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47 leisurely | |
adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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48 posturing | |
做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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49 swarm | |
n.(昆虫)等一大群;vi.成群飞舞;蜂拥而入 | |
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50 persiflage | |
n.戏弄;挖苦 | |
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51 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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52 barges | |
驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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53 wharves | |
n.码头,停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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54 ledgers | |
n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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55 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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56 bowler | |
n.打保龄球的人,(板球的)投(球)手 | |
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57 partnership | |
n.合作关系,伙伴关系 | |
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58 suburban | |
adj.城郊的,在郊区的 | |
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59 murky | |
adj.黑暗的,朦胧的;adv.阴暗地,混浊地;n.阴暗;昏暗 | |
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60 frayed | |
adj.磨损的v.(使布、绳等)磨损,磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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62 phantoms | |
n.鬼怪,幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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63 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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64 apathy | |
n.漠不关心,无动于衷;冷淡 | |
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65 westward | |
n.西方,西部;adj.西方的,向西的;adv.向西 | |
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66 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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67 psychology | |
n.心理,心理学,心理状态 | |
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68 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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69 contingencies | |
n.偶然发生的事故,意外事故( contingency的名词复数 );以备万一 | |
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70 mitigate | |
vt.(使)减轻,(使)缓和 | |
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71 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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72 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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73 comely | |
adj.漂亮的,合宜的 | |
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74 spawned | |
(鱼、蛙等)大量产(卵)( spawn的过去式和过去分词 ); 大量生产 | |
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75 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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76 toiling | |
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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77 pecuniary | |
adj.金钱的;金钱上的 | |
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78 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
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79 charing | |
n.炭化v.把…烧成炭,把…烧焦( char的现在分词 );烧成炭,烧焦;做杂役女佣 | |
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80 junction | |
n.连接,接合;交叉点,接合处,枢纽站 | |
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81 pint | |
n.品脱 | |
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82 tripe | |
n.废话,肚子, 内脏 | |
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83 aloof | |
adj.远离的;冷淡的,漠不关心的 | |
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84 overture | |
n.前奏曲、序曲,提议,提案,初步交涉 | |
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85 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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