He came back with an effort to the world of events, and unfolded his newspaper. That was a daily ordeal6 from which he shrank, yet dared not evade7. During the past week he had faced it in all sorts of places: street corners, public squares, obscure restaurants, the burrowed8 windings9 of Underground stations, and once in the dark interior of a cinema where he had followed a girl with a vague resemblance to Sisily. As the days went on and he read nothing to alarm him, his tension grew less. It really looked as if Scotland Yard and the newspapers had forgotten all about the Cornwall murder, or had relegated10 it to the list of undiscoverable mysteries.
He now glanced at the headlines listlessly enough. The editor could offer nothing better on his front page that night than Ireland and the industrial situation. Charles opened the sheet and looked inside. His listlessness vanished as his eye fell upon his own name. In the guise11 of fat black capitals it headed a half-column article about his uncle’s death. Charles read it through, slowly and deliberately12, to the end. He learnt that there had been what the writer called fresh developments in the case. The police were now looking for another suspect—himself. The detective engaged upon the case had suspicions of the murdered man’s nephew for some time past, but had his reasons for reticence13—reasons which had now so completely disappeared that Scotland Yard had made public a full description of the young man and the additional information that he was supposed to be in London. Charles found himself reading the description of himself with the detached, slightly wondering air with which a man might be supposed to read his own death notice. He weighed the personal details quite critically. Young and tall. Yes. Good-looking. Was he? Dark blue eyes. Were they? He had never thought about them. Of gentlemanly appearance. That read like the advertisement of a Cheapside tailor—what was a gentlemanly appearance, if he had it? He had always associated it with a cheap lounge suit and a bowler14 hat. Very well dressed—then followed the description of his clothes. But he couldn’t be well dressed and of gentlemanly appearance at the same time!
These preoccupations floated lightly, almost playfully, on the surface of his mind, but the great fact had sunk to the depths like lead. His father’s fears had been right, and his departure from Cornwall had drawn15 attention to his actions on that night. He was—what was the phrase?—wanted by the police. So was Sisily. He was searching for Sisily, and the police were searching for both of them.
What had the police discovered about him? His lips framed the reply. Everything. That was to say, all there was to find out. Obviously they had discovered his visit to Flint House on that night, or at least, that he was out in the storm during the time the murder was committed. His commonsense16 told him the reason for Barrant’s reticence. He had kept quiet in the hope that he would go to his father’s house at Richmond, which no doubt had been closely watched. Now that Barrant had come to the conclusion that the man he was after was too clever to walk into that trap, he had confided17 his suspicions to the newspapers in order to guard all avenues of escape by putting the public on the watch for him.
A feeling of helplessness crept over Charles as he contemplated18 the incredible ingenuity19 of the mesh20 of events in which he and Sisily were entangled21. Any moment might terminate his liberty and see him placed under lock and key. Would it help Sisily if he gave himself up and told all he knew? That was a question he had asked himself before, and dismissed it because he realized that his own story might involve her more deeply still. And the loss of time since then, coupled with his own disappearance22, intensified23 the risk which such a course would entail24. There was no hope for her in that direction. Where, then, were they to look for hope?
He was recalled to his surroundings by a hand laid on his arm. He started and looked round. The man next to him, with a glance at the paper in his hand, asked him if he could tell him the winner of the second race at Lingfield. “It ought to be in the stop-press,” he murmured. Charles turned the sheet to the indicated column, and the inquirer glanced at it with a satisfied smile, and the remark that it was only what he had expected, in spite of the weight. “A good horse,” he remarked approvingly. “But perhaps you don’t go in for racing26 yourself?”
Charles resisted an insane impulse to shout with laughter. Didn’t go in for racing! He was going in for racing with a vengeance—a race against time and the police. What was he to do now?
He glanced round him restlessly. The swaying noisy train and the compartment packed with stolid27 faces jarred on his overburdened nerves. Why were those women in the next compartment laughing like hyenas28? What was there in life to laugh over at any time? It was a thing to impose silence on all by its desolation, its unescapable doom29. His eye was caught by an advertisement above the rack opposite him—an advertisement which depicted30 a smiling grotesque31 face, and advised him to buy the comic journal it represented in order to dissipate melancholy32 and gloom.
Fools—fools all!
While he was thus looking around him his eyes encountered a curious glance from the man in the opposite corner seat, who had been in the compartment when he entered the train at Charleswood. The man dropped his gaze at once, but there was something in the quality of the look which put Charles on his guard. Charles did not turn his head again, but, leaning back in his seat, kept the other under view from seemingly closed eyes. He was soon convinced that the man in the corner seat was watching him—shooting furtive33 glances across the carriage from behind the screen of his newspaper.
Was he a detective? Not if Barrant was a usual representative of the tribe. Yet there was something infernally quizzical in the scrutiny34 which reached him through those gold-rimmed glasses. Stay, though! Did detectives wear glasses? Wasn’t there an eyesight test or something like that for officers of the law? He had never seen a policeman wearing glasses. If he was not a detective, why was he watching him? There was no reward offered for his arrest. Perhaps he belonged to the wretched type of beings who pride themselves on their public spirit—men who wrote letters to the newspapers and interfered35 in other people’s business. The beast might have guessed his identity and wanted to show his public spirit by handing him over to the police. The newspaper in his hand! Of course. He had read his description there, and identified him.
Charles found himself conjecturing36 how the man would set about carrying out his task of public watchdog, if that was in his mind. He pictured the possibility of him appealing to the others in the compartment. He might get up and say: “There is a murderer in this compartment. I recognize him from the description in this paper, and I call upon you all as public-spirited citizens to see that he does not escape justice.” The torpid37 passengers would start up, staring and looking foolish after the fashion of English people when asked to do something unusual. Would they help? There was a stout38 man opposite with the symptoms of a public spirit lurking39 in the creases40 of his fat self-satisfied face. Charles promised himself that he would give them a fight for it. He counted his chances. He was aware from his previous journey to Charleswood that the train he was in now ran through to Charing41 Cross without another stop. Perhaps the man in the corner seat would wait until they arrived there, and then give him in charge. That was a disconcerting possibility, but he could see no way of guarding against it unless he chose to drop from the train, now travelling at nearly forty miles an hour, taking the risk of being maimed or killed. He considered the advisability of that. It was a chance he might have taken casually42 enough on his own account, but he had also to think of Sisily. She would be quite friendless if he were killed. Besides, there was also the chance that he might be mistaken in interpreting the man’s intentions by his own fears. At all events he seemed to have no thought of springing up and denouncing him. Charles decided43 to wait and trust to luck to escape in the crowd at Charing Cross if the man made any move there.
In ten minutes the train was running into Charing Cross station at slowing speed. Charles’s mouth closed tightly, and his face flushed.
The man in the corner seat flattened44 his newspaper into a pocket, opened the carriage door, and sprang out on to the platform. Charles followed him quickly, and stood still watching him make his way towards the barrier. He saw him press through, give up his ticket, and disappear without so much as a backward glance.
There was something so ridiculous in this anticlimax45 to his poignant46 fears that the young man was for the moment actually exasperated47. But his face and linen48 were wet with perspiration49. Then a great feeling of relief swept over him like a cooling wave. He followed in the wake of the other passengers and emerged from the station into the street.
It was early enough for the shops to be still open, but the streets were thronged50 with pleasure-seekers going to restaurants and places of amusement. As he stood there a painted girl touched him on the arm with an enticing51 smile for such wares52 as she had to sell, and her solicitation53 awakened54 him sharply to the folly55 of standing56 in the lighted Strand57 at that hour in full view of every passing policeman. He walked slowly away, debating where to turn his steps. An outfitter’s shop displaying overcoats gave him a bright idea. He walked inside and selected a long dark coat which reached to his heels, putting it on over the light and fashionable coat he was wearing. The shopman seemed surprised at his choice, but made no comment as he took his money and handed him his change. Charles caught a glimpse of himself as he went out, and was satisfied with his changed appearance. In that shapeless garment he was no longer likely to catch the eye of any unduly58 curious observer as a “well-dressed” man.
He now walked swiftly. Turning out of Chandos Street from the Strand, he avoided the brightly lit proximity59 of Leicester Square, and plunged60 into the crooked62 dark streets on the other side of Charing Cross Road. He reached New Oxford63 Street, crossed it, and continued along obscure streets, his head bent64 forward, in the unconscious habit of a man thinking deeply as he went.
In the first feeling of dismay at the discovery that the police were looking for him he had been overwhelmed by a sense of catastrophe65. With the passing of that phase he was able to consider the situation with a cooler brain, and it now seemed to him that his position was not so precarious66 as he deemed it in the light of that shock. He knew London, and might be able to evade arrest indefinitely if he took precautions and avoided risks. But Sisily was in different case. He recalled her telling him that she had only been in London once, as a child with her father. Her inexperience of London was her greatest danger, because it was likely to attract attention. The only one to whom she could look for help was himself.
His determination to find her was doggedly67 renewed as he thought of that. He accepted the lengthened68 odds69 against him with the desperate dark courage of a spirit which had always regarded life as a gamble against unseen forces holding marked cards. The police were searching for him? Very well. He would pit his wits against theirs, and continue his own search for Sisily with a caution he had hitherto disdained70 to use.
Courage and caution! Those were the two qualities he must use in adroit71 combination. The plight72 of both Sisily and himself was desperate enough now without giving the enemy a chance by recklessness. He was like a man rowing a small boat in the immensity of a dark sea which threatened every moment to engulf73 him. Sisily was somewhere in that darkness, and she must be rescued. If his own cockleshell went down there could be no succour for her. That was a thought to make him keep afloat—to keep on rowing.
And suppose that he did find her, as he believed he would, sooner or later—given time. What was to happen then?
That thought pursued him in his walk that night, and was his constant companion in the lonely days and nights of his wanderings which followed. He had banished75 it before, but that course was no longer possible. The impalpable yet terribly real menace of authority overshadowing them both now made it imperative76 that all the facts should be faced. All the facts—but what were they? It was the question he asked himself again and again as he strove to twist out of the black fantasy of that horrible night some tangible77 shred78 of truth which might help them both. His own incredible share in it was forever being re-enacted in his mind, and haunted his dreams. In the night, at early dawn, at odd moments of his eternal quest, the curtain of his mind would rise on that unforgettable scene—the cliffs, the rocks, the darkling outline of Flint House, with a feeble beam of light slanting79 down from the upstairs window at the back which looked out on the sea. Then the gush80 of light from the open door, and her shape stealing forth81 into the darkness, followed by another—Thalassa’s. And then, the final phase—the desolate82 house, the wind rushing noisily along dark passages, the dead form of Robert Turold in the room upstairs. What did these things mean, and what was to be the end?
His hope was that Sisily could reveal something which would furnish the key to the enigma83 of that night’s events. From her lips he might learn enough to guide him to the hidden truth, and save them both. Sustained by the feeling that she existed somewhere near him, he continued his search day after day until in the abstracted intensity84 of his fancy London assumed the appearance of a wilderness85 of unending streets filled with pallid86 faces which flitted past his vision like ghosts. But the face he was seeking was never among them.
He searched with the wariness87 of one whose own liberty depended upon his watchfulness88. A second glance, an indignant look, a turn of the head, a policeman’s casual eye—any of these things would place him immediately on his guard and turn his footsteps in a different direction. He chose his sleeping places with care at the last minute, and left them at early morning when only a yawning night porter or a sleepy maid servant was astir. He never returned to the same place, nor did he go to the same restaurant twice. Most carefully did he read the newspapers, but nothing appeared in their columns to alarm him; merely an occasional perfunctory paragraph about the Cornwall murder. The favourite adjective in the journalistic etymological89 garden was culled90 for the heading, and it was described as an amazing case. Charles felt that the definition was correct enough. Early developments were faithfully promised—by the newspaper. Charles understood very well what was meant by that. It was hoped he would provide the development by falling into the hands of the police. He smiled a little at that, but the unintended warning increased his vigilance.
On the whole he felt tolerably safe in the crowded London streets. It was not as though there was any real hue91 and cry after him. The lonely Cornwall tragedy had not come into sufficient public notice for that, and now it seemed almost forgotten.
He had his hazards and chances, though in a different way. One was an encounter with a young man of good family whose acquaintance, commenced in France during the war, had continued in London afterwards. The two young men had seen a great deal of each other—dining and going to music-halls together. It was in Leicester Square that Charles saw him getting out of a taxi-cab to enter a hall where a professional billiard match was in progress. He paused midway at the sight of Charles, exclaiming: “Why, Tur—” The second syllable92 of the name was nipped off in mid-air, and the outstretched arm was dropped, as the patron of billiards93 took in the cut of his former friend’s coat. He gazed at the ill-fitting garment with a kind of astonished animosity, and then his puzzled look shot upwards94 to the face surmounting95 it, no doubt with the feeling that he may have been deceived by a chance resemblance. Charles went past him without a sign of recognition, but he felt that the other was still staring after him.
Another day a street musician regarded him curiously96 from behind a barrel organ which he was turning with the lifeless celerity of one without interest in the sounds created by the process. His card of appeal—“Wanted in 1914; not wanted now”—helped Charles to recall him as a soldier of his old regiment97. They exchanged glances across the card. The man gave no sign that he knew his former officer, but Charles had no doubt that he did. He placed a coin on top of the organ and went swiftly on.
A week of increasing strain slipped by, and another commenced. Then Fortune, with a contemptuous good-humoured spin of her wheel, did for Charles Turold what he could hardly have hoped to achieve in a year’s effort without her aid.
It was late at night, and he was in a despondent98 mood after one of his recurring99 disappointments—this time a graceful100 slender shape which he had earlier in the evening pursued in a flock of home-going shop-girls until she turned and revealed a pert Cockney face which bore no resemblance to Sisily’s. Several hours later he paid another of his visits to Euston Square, which he believed to be the starting-point of Sisily’s own wanderings. He felt closer to her in that locality because of that. From Euston Square he walked on aimlessly, engrossed101 in impossible plans for finding Sisily by hook or crook61, until the illuminated102 dial of a street clock, pointing to half-past ten, reminded him of the passage of time.
He paused and looked round. He was in an area of darkened suburban103 streets converging104 on a distant broader avenue, where occasional taxi-cabs slid past into the blackness of the night with the heartless velocity105 of years disappearing into the gulf74 of Time.
He turned his steps in the direction of this thoroughfare in order to find out the locality, but stopped half-way at the sight of a coffee-stall on the opposite side of the street. He was hungry and thirsty, and he had learnt to like the safety of these places in his wanderings. The food might be coarse, but there were no lengthy106 waits between courses; no curious glances from the other patrons. A couple of half-drunken young men were feeding at this stall, and a girl of the streets was standing near them. In the light of a swinging lamp the scene shone clearly in the surrounding darkness—the brass107 urn25, the thick crockery, the head of the stall-keeper bent intently over a newspaper, the munching108 jaws109 of the customers, the girl in the background with splashes of crimson110 paint like blood on her white drawn face.
Charles was about to cross the street, but at that moment a policeman’s helmet emerged slowly from the surrounding darkness as if irresistibly111 attracted by the concentric glow of the light. At the sight of him Charles shrank back into the friendly shadow of his own side of the road. The policeman emerged into the fulness of the light, serene112 in his official immobility. His slow yet seeing vision dwelt on the painted girl with a gaze as penetrating113 as that of Omnipotence114 in its profound knowledge of evil. He strolled towards her with a kind of indifferent benignity115 with which Providence116 has also been credited. He raised a hand, omnipotent117 with the authority of the law. “Better get away from here,” Charles heard him warn her, and she disappeared from view in obedience118 to this command.
So did Charles, but in quite another direction. There was something about these chance manifestations119 of authority, so lightly exercised, so unhesitatingly obeyed, which never failed to thrill and impress him, as they would have thrilled and impressed any other man in his present position. They seemed to intensify120 the hopelessness of his own situation. He had a slight feeling of creepiness about the spine121 as he thought of the narrowness of that escape—though, of course, the policeman might not have identified him. But some day or other it was bound to come—that accidental confrontation122 which might mean his arrest.
He walked swiftly until he reached the avenue. It was a part of London that he did not know, and appeared quite deserted123. He wondered which way he should turn to get back to that area of London where he usually sought a bed.
As he stood there glancing about him irresolutely124, his eye caught a glimpse of somebody walking swiftly along—a slight girlish figure dimly visible in the dark vista125 of the empty street. There was something familiar in the girl’s outline—something which caused his heart to give a great maddening jump. As he looked she turned into one of the converging streets.
He raced up the broad road, indifferent at that moment whether the eyes of all the policemen in London were upon him. When he reached the street which had swallowed her he could see nothing of the form which had excited him. Then, far ahead, he again saw it passing under a distant lamp-post and merge3 once more into the darkness. He ran quickly in pursuit.
The girl heard him coming and looked back anxiously. This time he saw her face. In a bound he was at her side.
“Sisily, Sisily!” he cried. “Oh, Sisily, I have found you!”
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1
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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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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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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burrowed
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的过去式和过去分词 )；翻寻 | |
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windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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commonsense
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| adj.有常识的；明白事理的；注重实际的 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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contemplated
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ingenuity
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mesh
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| n.网孔，网丝，陷阱；vt.以网捕捉，啮合，匹配；vi.适合； [计算机]网络 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disappearance
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intensified
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entail
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urn
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racing
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stolid
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hyenas
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doom
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depicted
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grotesque
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melancholy
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furtive
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scrutiny
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interfered
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conjecturing
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torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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charing
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| 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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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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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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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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anticlimax
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| n.令人扫兴的结局；突降法 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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exasperated
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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52
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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53
solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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54
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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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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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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58
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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59
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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60
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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61
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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engulf
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| vt.吞没，吞食 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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83
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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85
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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86
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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87
wariness
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| n. 注意,小心 | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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etymological
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| adj.语源的，根据语源学的 | |
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culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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92
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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93
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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95
surmounting
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| 战胜( surmount的现在分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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97
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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99
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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100
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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101
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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102
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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103
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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104
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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105
velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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106
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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107
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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108
munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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109
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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110
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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111
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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112
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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113
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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114
omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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115
benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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116
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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117
omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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118
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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119
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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120
intensify
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| vt.加强；变强；加剧 | |
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121
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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122
confrontation
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| n.对抗，对峙，冲突 | |
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123
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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124
irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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125
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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