Within a few weeks, however, the arrival of a parcel had ceased to be an affair of momentous1 import. We could look on bully2 beef and Maconochies with comparative unconcern. The contents of each parcel varied3 only in such incidentals as sugar, chocolate, and packets of whole rice. The framework was the same, a solid enough construction, but one that as a continuous diet proved ineffably4 tedious. To begin with, we tried to make our meals more interesting with improvised5 puddings. We mixed a certain number of different ingredients into a bowl of water, beat them up into a paste, and then baked them in a tepid6 oven. The result was usually stodgy7 and quite{130} tasteless. Personal vanity prevented us from confessing this, and night after night we struggled through these lukewarm, unpalatable dishes. How long this would have gone on I do not know; when the end came it came very suddenly.
One evening there was a lecture in connection with the Pitt League, and it was rumoured8 that Colonel Westcott was going to speak. And Colonel Westcott’s speeches were such that no one would willingly miss. He had always ready some new panacea9, some fresh catchword. As long as he remained passive he was infinitely10 entertaining.
“We must go to this,” said Evans, and with some alarm I noticed that of the five other members of our mess, four were preparing to move seating accommodation.
“That’s all very jolly,” I said, “but who’s going to cook the dinner?”
The answer came back with a startling unanimity11.
“You.”
“But look here,” I began to protest,{131} “you know what I am at these things. I’ve never cooked a dinner before.”
“Time you began then.”
And I was left standing12 before an empty stove. There remained only one other member of our mess, my friend Barron, who spent the greater part of his day asleep. I woke him up.
“Barron,” I said, “we’ve got to cook the dinner.”
He blinked up through sleep-laden eyes.
“But, my dear Alec....”
“It’s no good,” I said sternly. “If we want anything to eat, and I most certainly do, we’ve got to cook it ourselves.”
Slowly Barron rose from his seat.
“Well,” he said, “what have you got?”
“There’s a tin of bully, some beans, half a Maconochie, we can make a stew13 of that.”
The stew was the work of a second. We mixed it all up with water, scattered14 some salt on the top, and left it to boil.
“And now the pudding,” I said.
This proved a more difficult matter. There{132} was no rice left, and we had used the last of the Turban packets.
“Archie,” I said, “we’ll have to invent one.”
For five minutes we argued about the ingredients. Hodges wanted to give it a fish-flavour by adding a tin of salmon15 and shrimp16 paste.
“There’s been no taste to the beastly thing for the last six days,” he protested. “It might just as well taste of that as nothing.”
Finally, however, we decided17 on what we euphemistically dubbed18 a chocolate soufflé. First of all we spread a handkerchief flat on the table, and sprinkled over it a little cornflour. We then took a packet of cocoa.
“How much shall I upset?” I asked.
We read the directions on the outside, but on the subject of chocolate soufflés the manufacturers were sadly reticent19. So as there was no clear guide, we used the entire packet.
The mixture now seemed to demand some{133} moisture, so we poured a little warm water on it, and tried to knead it into a dough20. But it did not work: a brown paste adhered to our fingers; nothing more.
“It won’t bind,” said Barron. “We must put some butter with it.”
“We’ve got no butter.”
“Oh, well, then, try some beef-dripping.”
So the next ingredient was half a tin of dripping, and as regards appearances it certainly had excellent results. A few minutes’ hard kneading produced an admirable dough. But when we sucked our fingers afterwards, the flavour was anything but that of chocolate. It had a thick and greasy21 taste.
“Alec,” said Hodges, “this dripping’s ruined it.”
“Your idea,” I said cheerfully.
For a moment he looked fierce, then returned to the matter in hand.
“Something’s got to be done,” he said; “we’ve got to swamp that dripping somehow.”{134}
“What about some treacle22?” I hazarded. “We drew some this afternoon.”
And within a minute the bulk of our pudding was further increased by an entire tin of treacle, and whatever its taste after that, it was certainly not of dripping.
“That’s about enough, isn’t it?” I said.
“Well, you know,” said Archie thoughtfully, “I don’t really think it would be harmed by some salmon and shrimp. After all, it would help to counterbalance the dripping.”
But already I had begun to wrap the handkerchief round the brown sticky ball. When it was firmly incased and knotted, we lowered it into a small saucepan, put it on the oven, and waited for the wanderers’ return.
They came back as usual with a great clatter23 of feet, expressing their hunger in the most forcible terms.
“Hellish hungry,” shouted Evans, “and the dinner’s bound to be awful if Waugh’s cooked it.”{135}
“You wait,” I said, and plumped the stew down before him. This dish, probably because it had cooked itself, was quite eatable; and there was so much of it that in the earlier days it would have formed a meal of generous proportions. And by the time we had finished it, none of us felt in the mood for any more solid fare. Something delicate and appetising would have been delightful24, a pêche melba perhaps, but suet ... no. And of course this rather militated against the success of the chocolate soufflé.
And to begin with, it was a little burnt. There was a large hole in the encircling handkerchief, and the bottom of the pudding was black. Considering the bulk of the pudding, this had really very little effect; but it prejudiced the others, and the artist has to be so tactful with his public.
And then the pudding itself. Well, if we had not had the stew first, I am sure we should have all enjoyed it; but coming as it did on the top of a heavy dinner, even Barron and myself were hard driven to finish it.{136} And it was only self-respect that made us. The others took a spoonful or two and desisted. Barron and I struggled manfully to the end, and were then conscious of four steely pairs of eyes. Evans, who acted as a sort of mess president, was the first to speak.
“What did you two use to make this pudding?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I said, in an offhand25 way; “a little cocoa, a little treacle, a little cornflour.” Somehow I felt I could not confess to the dripping.
“But how much did you use?”
Barron must be a braver man than I am, or it may have been he was still feeling a little sore because the salmon paste had not been included; at any rate he went straight to the point.
“A tin of each.”
There was a general consternation26. That a whole tin of treacle, half a tin of dripping, a complete packet of cocoa, had all gone to a pudding {137}that only a third of the mess had been able to eat at all ... it was unbelievable, a gross case of misplaced trust, perfidy27 could go no further.
Barron and myself were not popular that evening. But our peccadilloes28 bore fruit later. That chocolate soufflé served the purpose of a climax29. From that day onward30 it was implicitly31 understood that no cook should invent recipes for puddings.
§ 2
With the regular arrival of parcels, and the consequent immunity32 from hunger, our life settled down into that ordered calm which would have been the constant level of our routine as long as the war lasted. And it was here that captivity33 weighed most heavily.
Before, our routine had always been to a certain extent progressive. We had been a new camp, we had had to form societies and committees. We had a library to build up, and there was always the parcel list to add its daily incentive34 to enthusiasm. But there came a time, when all these wishes{138} either for books or food were satisfied, and when the individual had to depend for amusement solely35 on his own resources. Here was the real trial of captivity.
Since my return several people have said to me, “It must have been beastly living among the Huns.” But that was an infliction36 that it required little fortitude37 to bear. The Huns never worried us, unless we worried them. We could have exactly as much intercourse38 with them as we wanted, and there was no need to have anything to do with them at all. But there was no escape from the continual presence of five hundred British officers, and the continual conversation of the ten other members of the room. For not one moment was it possible to be alone. And as the evenings grew darker, the doors of the blocks were closed earlier; and by October we found ourselves shut in at six o’clock, with the prospect39 of a long evening in the room.
Those evenings were simply appalling40. We all got on each other’s nerves horribly;{139} as individuals we liked each other well enough; but it was no joke to be in the constant company of the same people, to hear the same anecdotes41, the same opinions; and, owing to the limited area of common interests, talk always centred on the war. And there is no subject more wearisomely distasteful. By the end of six months’ imprisonment42 nearly every one had got utterly43 fed up with his room and the inmates44 of it. Smith would meet Brown outside the Kantine, and a conversation of this sort would take place.
“My Lord, Brown, but my room is the absolute limit, it drives me nearly wild.”
“But, my dear man, you’ve got some topping fellows in there, there’s Jones and Hawkins and May.”
“I dare say, but you try living with them for a bit. You wouldn’t talk like that then.”
“Oh, well,” Brown would say, “you haven’t got much to grumble45 at; if you were in my room, now....”{140}
“But your room, Brown; why, there are some tophole men there....”
And so the world went round. For indeed, however patient one is, it is impossible to live in the same room as ten other men, to eat there and sleep there, to spend half the day in their company, and not get nervy. Before long we had reached that state when we quarrelled over the most trifling46 things—about the dinner, whether we should have bully beef or a veal47 loaf. The slightest inconvenience awoke resentment48. All the domestic details that cause friction49 in the married home were with us intensified50 a hundredfold, because there was with us none of the real and selfless affection which alone can bridge over these difficulties. Things had reached a sorry state by the time we had left; there was hardly a single officer who had a good word to say about his room. What we should have been like after another year I dread51 to imagine.
As it was, it was bad enough. For myself I never stayed in the room one moment more{141} than I could help. And often in the evenings after the doors had been shut, I used to walk up and down the cold stone corridor with Barron; we would do anything to get away from the room. It was the only way to preserve our balance.
And here in its psychological aspect lies, I think, the true meaning of captivity; for in the bare recital52 of incidents there must be always a savour of the soulless. The conditions of life are only really important in as far as they form a framework for personality. It is the individual that counts, and the real meaning of eight months’ imprisonment does not lie in their political or sociological aspect, but in the effect that they have on character. For each person they had a different message, each person was touched in a different way. Probably through the mind of each individual flitted the same recurring53 moods, modified and altered by the demands of each particular temperament54, but still the moods were the same fingers playing upon different strings55.{142}
And for me, at any rate, the mood that recurred56 most frequently was one of a grey depression, mixed with a profound sense of the futility57 of human effort. Confinement58 inspires morbidity59 very quickly, and some of us used to take an almost savage60 delight in wrenching61 down the few frail62 bulwarks63 of an ultimate belief. From certain quotations64 we derived66 an exultant67 satisfaction.
“Pleasure of life what is’t? the good hours of an ague.”
We used to croon the words over to ourselves and endeavour to arrive at some stoic68 standpoint from which we could completely objectify ourselves and our ambitions.
The wearisome sameness of the days, the monotony of the faces, the unchanged landscape, the intolerable talk about the war, all these tended to produce an effect of complete and utter depression. This was far and away our worst enemy: whole days were drenched69 in an incurable70 melancholia. The continual presence of sentries71 and barbed wire flung before us a perpetual symbol of{143} the intelligence fettered72 by the values of the phenomenal world. Life resolved itself into a picture of eternal serfdom: sometimes the body was enslaved, sometimes the mind, but there was always some bar to Freedom. It was all so much “heaving at a moveless latch73.” Purposeless and irrevocable.
It is easy enough to laugh at it all now. But then it was a very real trial. Those doubts and uncertainties74, which at some time or another assail75 all men, and with a great many form a silent background or framework for the events of their mournful odyssey76, were with us continually present; and however gloomy a view one may take of the universe, one wishes to be able to escape from it at times. And the only remedy was work.
Indeed confinement must have been a very real ordeal77 to those whose temperaments78 were not self-sufficient, and who depended on the outside world for their amusements and distractions79. It has been said times without number that the dreamer loses half{144} the pleasure of life, and that he lies bound up by his own fantasies and wayward creations: that he has no eyes for what Pater has called “the continual stir and motion of a comely80 human life.” Well, Pater wrote that of Attic81 culture, of the light-hearted world that is reflected in the pages of the Lysis, and perhaps modern life presents none too comely an aspect. Certainly in place of “stir and motion” we have bustle82 and excitement, a clumsy fumbling83 after sensation. Perhaps the dreamer has not lost so very much, and he does at any rate carry his own world with him: he is self-sufficient; within the sure citadel84 of his own soul he can always find those pleasures which alone have any claim to permanence. Flaubert is always the same, behind barbed wire as in the shadow of a Wessex garden: the change of environment makes no difference there.
But on those who preferred action to contemplation, prison life bore very heavily, and there was something rather pathetic in the various attempts that were made to{145} fight against the growth of listlessness and apathy85. To begin with, of course, every one entered his name on the roll of the Future Career Society; no one took less than three classes; there was a general rush to attain86 knowledge which lasted about three weeks.
After that, life resolved itself for a great many into a laborious87 effort to kill time, and here the Germans showed their commercial instincts. The Kantine authorities catered88 for this hunger for novelty, and from sure knowledge of the depression of markets gauged89 the exact moment when each particular craze would begin to ebb90.
The first hobby was wood-carving, an affair so hazardous91 that the first day numbered about ten per cent. casualties. It demanded enormous delicacy92. Boxes of all descriptions were on sale, on which were traced patterns of labyrinthic intricacy; one could cut photo frames, cigar boxes, paper cutters, and to accomplish this labour there were provided small knives of a razor-like sharpness, which under the influence of the{146} least overweight of pressure flew off the box at an alarming angle, to bury themselves in the palm of the other hand. It required enormous patience, and to me appeared one of the most monotonous93 occupations. It took hours of work to complete the smallest job.
This, of course, was not at all what the Kantine Wallahs desired. They wanted a hobby which would require a lot of material and very little time. Wood-carving took much too long, and the profits arrived much too slowly, and so they accelerated the slump94 in wood-carving by the innovation of satin-tasso, which was in every way a far more noble craft.
To begin with, it gave the personality of the artist a fuller freedom. In wood-carving individual preference was hopelessly bound down by the laws of pattern. As in the cast of certain modern painters who having once conceived a “stunt,” proceed to pour the most unlikely moods into one artistic95 mould, the individual was a slave to shapes. Against{147} this, liberty was driven to revolt, and satin-tasso provided the necessary outlet96.
Even here, of course, there were, it is true, laws and patterns, but there was full scope for the peculiarities97 of taste. The satin-tasso box had on it simply the bare outline of a picture. This one cut round with a sharp knife, and then proceeded to colour in with special paints; and in the employment of these paints any extravagance was permitted. Medi?val costumes offered superb opportunities for splendour and pagan gold. Across a pearl-flecked sky emerald clouds could fade into a wash of scarlet98. It was truly a noble craft, and the whole business only took a few hours, which was most advantageous99 both for the suppliers and the supplied.
There is nothing that pleases the craftsman100 more than the sight of a finished article, and there is nothing that gives more pleasure to the tradesman than the swift return of gigantic profits, and both these wishes were granted. The Kantine did a roaring trade{148} in satin-tasso, and the portmanteaus of the artisan grew heavy with trophies101 and souvenirs.
But all the same it was rather a pathetic sight to see a man of about twenty-eight, in the prime of life, sitting down every afternoon and evening, fiddling102 about with a piece of wood and a box of paints. He derived no pleasure from it: it merely served the purpose of a narcotic103. As long as his hands were employed his brain would go to sleep, and he need no longer see the tedious procession of days that lay before him. He was symbolic104 in a way of the Public School Education that deliberately105 starves a boy’s intellect for the sake of his body. The type of clean-limbed Britisher, that Public Schools produce, is all very well in its way, and is infinitely preferable to the type produced by any other system, either in England or France. Of that there can be no doubt whatsoever106. But the schoolmasters who adopt this line of argument, forget that they are dealing107 with a material refined upon{149} by the breeding of centuries. The question is not, “Is the material good?” because it is. The question is, “Does Education make the best of this material?” and I am very certain that it does not. Every man should have sufficient part in the intellectual interests of life, to be able to keep his intelligence active for eight months in surroundings that provide no physical outlets108. For after all, it is the mind, or, to use Pater’s phrase, “the imaginative reason” that counts.
“Thank God that while the nerves decay
And muscles desiccate away,
The brain’s the hardiest109 part of men
And thrives till threescore years and ten.”
And it is surely a severe condemnation110 of any system that its average products can derive65 no sustenance111 from the contemplative side of life, that the moment they are out of the theatres, they have absolutely no resources left. It would have given me the most acute satisfaction to have been able to escort there some of the many schoolmasters who so fiercely defended themselves behind{150} the legend, “By our works ye shall judge us,” which was exactly what I tried to do.
The narrow limits of our captivity provided us with only one other craze, the last and the most decadent112, for which reason, probably, it was the only one to which I succumbed—Manicure. It was really a tempting113 lure114. One evening I went to the Kantine to buy a pencil, and saw a row of beautiful plush boxes, in which reposed115 long-handled files, and scissors, and knives; and beside these were bottles of delicate scents116 and polishes and powders, strangely reminiscent of Amiens. The lure was too great, and forty marks went west.
From that day onwards our room was a sort of general manicuring saloon. Several of us bought sets, and from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m. we received visitors. As our guests received treatment gratis117, and the initial outlay118 towards the opening of the saloon was sufficiently119 generous, it might have been thought that our guests came out of the transaction rather well. But they paid richly{151} for their adornment120 in pain. We were all amateurs, and the manipulation of a pair of curved scissors requires feminine skill; no one has ever yet called me neat-fingered, and those scissors were very sharp. During the operations of our first fortnight, of all those who came to us with gay step, there were few who went away without at least one finger swathed in bandages.
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1
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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6
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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stodgy
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| adj.易饱的；笨重的；滞涩的；古板的 | |
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rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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unanimity
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| n.全体一致，一致同意 | |
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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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stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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shrimp
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| n.虾，小虾；矮小的人 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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treacle
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| n.糖蜜 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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perfidy
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peccadilloes
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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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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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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54
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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55
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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56
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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57
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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58
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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morbidity
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| n.病态；不健全；发病；发病率 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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drenched
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| 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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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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odyssey
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| n.长途冒险旅行；一连串的冒险 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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79
distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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catered
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| 提供饮食及服务( cater的过去式和过去分词 )； 满足需要，适合 | |
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gauged
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| adj.校准的；标准的；量规的；量计的v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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slump
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| n.暴跌，意气消沉，（土地）下沉；vi.猛然掉落，坍塌，大幅度下跌 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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98
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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100
craftsman
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| n.技工，精于一门工艺的匠人 | |
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101
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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102
fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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103
narcotic
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| n.麻醉药，镇静剂；adj.麻醉的，催眠的 | |
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104
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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105
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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106
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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107
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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108
outlets
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| n.出口( outlet的名词复数 )；经销店；插座；廉价经销店 | |
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109
hardiest
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| 能吃苦耐劳的，坚强的( hardy的最高级 )； （植物等）耐寒的 | |
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110
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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111
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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112
decadent
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| adj.颓废的，衰落的，堕落的 | |
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113
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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114
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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115
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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117
gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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118
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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119
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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120
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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