Lucy smiled and shook off her depression. It was hard ever to be gloomy for long in Larry’s company. The young aviator5 had something invincibly6 gay and hopeful in his nature, and a philosophic7 acceptance of things, until they could be bettered, that often quieted Lucy’s rebellious8 moments. “I’m not downhearted, Larry,” she protested. “At least not very. But I did want to go home,—not after a while, you know, but right away, when the armistice9 was signed. I know it’s wonderful to be at peace, and to have Father safe and stationed here, but,—I don’t care very much about living in Germany.”
“Don’t you?” asked Larry, laughing. “As Beattie would say, you’re jolly right.”
“And there’s no use thinking we’ll all be together,” Lucy persisted. “Even though Father has his quarters here and Mother will finish her work and come, where will Bob be?”
“Scouting10 over the Bolshevik lines in the frozen north,” said Larry, a tinge11 of envy in his voice. “I’d change with him if I could.”
“Would you? Oh, Larry, I should think you’d had enough.”
“So we have, but so long as there’s fighting to be done I’d rather be there than cooling my heels along the Rhine. And our men aren’t having an easy time,—that poor little force at Archangel.”
“Oh, I know there’s lots of work to do!” Lucy exclaimed, suddenly roused from her childish depression, and involuntarily she opened the woolen12 cape13 she wore and glanced at her nurse’s aide’s uniform. “I’ll stop growling14 and try to help.”
“I don’t think you’ll have much trouble doing it,” said Larry, smiling down at her, “judging by what you’ve done so far. Only this time you’ll have an easier job of it,—no prisoners to set free. You can’t imagine a peacefuller spot than that little hospital you’re going to. It’s lost in the forest, and even the village near it looks half asleep and as though it might tumble any minute down the hillside.”
“The peacefuller it is the better I’ll like it,” said Lucy with something of a sigh. “I’ve had enough of war.”
Although General Gordon was stationed with the Fifth Army Headquarters in Coblenz, where already, a month after the armistice, American troops had taken possession of houses in the German city and were preparing for their long stay in the occupied territory, Lucy herself was still on duty elsewhere. With the end of the fighting, need for war workers of all sorts had not grown less. Mrs. Gordon could not yet leave her hospital at Cannes, and Lucy had been urged to keep on as nurse’s aide with an insistence15 that could not but fill her with honest pride and satisfaction. The army surgeons spoke16 to her of the increasing need of nurses among the convalescents, and Miss Pearse frankly17 begged Lucy not to abandon her.
“You can go to Coblenz in the spring, Lucy dear,” the young nurse persuaded, when new plans and changes of base occupied every mind in the joyful18 week after the armistice. “We have to garrison19 Coblenz for fifteen years, they say, so your father will probably be there a good while. But perhaps he won’t,” she added, smiling at Lucy’s face, grown disconsolate20 at her words. “Anyway, while you’re over here I know you’d sooner be helping21. There’s almost more to do than ever. The men have been rather let down by the war’s end and all the delays following. They don’t know what to do with themselves, especially the wounded who are slow in getting well. We’ve got to give them a Christmas that will stifle22 their homesickness a little. And I can’t half work without you, Lucy. I’m so used to having my little aide to call on. You’ll stay, won’t you?”
This was not the sort of persuasion23 Lucy could resist, when her heart was already in the work that she had learned in such a hard school of suffering and anxiety. She eagerly consented to follow Miss Pearse wherever her father would allow her to go, which ended by being a little convalescent hospital outside the village of Badheim, ten miles west of Coblenz on the banks of the Moselle. Cold breezes from the two rivers swept it, and the air was pure and sweet with the odor of pine. After the shell-torn villages of France, Badheim hospital, as Miss Pearse described it, seemed lovely and inviting24 to Lucy in its woodland stillness. Yet something, she felt, would keep her from yielding to its peaceful spell: it was a part of Germany. It was unspoiled because France was desolate25. She could not forget this long enough to look about her at any German landscape with untroubled eyes.
Even now, walking with Larry along the Rhine, she watched the smooth flow of the river and looked across at the vineyard-clad slopes and at the great old fortress26 towering opposite Coblenz with coolly critical gaze. All at once she turned to Larry, with sudden recollection that this was her last day of freedom and perhaps her last chance in weeks of talking with Bob’s friend, to ask longingly27:
“Larry, can’t you tell me anything more of what Bob is doing at Archangel? He doesn’t write much about his work, and the letters are so slow. I know it’s hard up there. And they don’t get ahead. The Bolsheviki are strong.”
“Our force is hardly of a size to accomplish much. It ought to be enough men or none,” declared Larry, with the troubled, puzzled look that sometimes came over his face, making him look extraordinarily29 sober and thoughtful by contrast with his usual cool cheerfulness. “But don’t worry too much about Bob,” he added, putting aside the doubts which had made him speak so earnestly. “He’s doing scouting work. He’s far safer than he was on the German front. The cold is the disagreeable part.”
“I know. I’ve knitted him everything I thought he could pile on. He doesn’t say much about it, but I looked up Archangel on the map and, Larry, it’s near the North Pole.”
“Not quite, but I won’t say it’s a pleasant climate. Perhaps they won’t stay there much longer.”
“Well, I thought on Armistice Day that it was over, really over,—the war, I mean. But here it seems to be tailing out in every direction.”
“Yes, it has rather a nasty way of refusing to be finished,” Larry agreed, looking around him as he spoke at the passers-by, for they were now re-entering the town. “To judge by their manner these Boches seem to think it’s quite over and that we’re friends again. Yet some of them, I’m sure, are very far from feeling that way.”
“What do you really think?” asked Lucy curiously30. “They smile at us and are eager to sell things. But Larry, how can they feel friendly?”
“I can’t fathom31 them,” said Larry, not much given to analyzing32 character at any time. “Most of them seem spiritless enough, but I’ve seen a few bitter looks, all the same, and some eyes that shone with hate at sight of us. I don’t trust one of them.”
“Oh, they’ll have to take it out in hating us,” said Lucy easily. “They can’t do any worse now.”
Lucy had had enough of plotting and conspiracy33. She was determined34 to put German treachery out of her mind and live in confident simplicity35 once more.
“Fed-up with the war, eh, Lucy?” Captain Beattie had remarked, when Lucy and the young Britisher met by chance in Cantigny soon after the armistice. “Well, you know, I rather am myself. Let’s cross the Channel and leave it all behind.”
And that was what Lucy longed to do, putting the Atlantic in place of the Channel, in spite of trying to persuade herself of the contrary after Miss Pearse’s urging. All through the war she had looked forward to that day, the fighting ended, that would see the Gordon family on board the first ship bound for America. Even adventurous36 spirits have their homesick moments. Foreign sights and sounds had, while this mood lasted, lost their charm for her. She looked around her now at the old gabled houses of Coblenz, at the Germans passing, who paused to stare with blank curiosity at the Americans, already a familiar part of the city’s inhabitants, and she felt no sympathy with her surroundings.
“I’m going to bury myself in that forest and work so hard at the hospital that I’ll forget I’m in Germany,” she told Larry, as they neared the house commandeered for General Gordon’s quarters. “You might come out and see me once in a while, though, Larry, and tell me how peace is getting on.”
“I’ll be out every year or two and bring you the news,” Larry promised. “Maybe I’ll feel the need of a little rest cure myself. I’m pretty well exhausted37.”
Lucy laughed as she met the blue twinkling eyes above his tanned cheeks. An orderly opened the house door as Larry held out his hand in good-bye.
The following day Lucy joined Miss Pearse and half a dozen other Red Cross workers to travel by motor-lorry to Badheim. The road ran along the Moselle, a lovely woodland countryside which went far toward bringing back Lucy’s lost serenity38.
“I love the country, don’t you, Miss Pearse?” she said, breathing deep breaths of the piney air. “I should think sick men would get well quickly here.”
“I hope they will,” the young nurse responded. “But I’m sure they’d get well quicker if these woods were in Maine or in Michigan,—anywhere at home.”
Her voice betrayed her and Lucy looked at her friend with a quick thrill of sympathy. Miss Pearse was as homesick as she herself, in spite of her stoic39 calm. And, meeting the glance of an orderly who sat on a case of supplies in one corner of the lorry, Lucy read the same longing28 in his eyes even before he exclaimed almost involuntarily, “Or not even woods or rivers, Miss. Just the docks at Hoboken would look good enough to me.”
The little village of Badheim was perched upon a hillside, the road winding40 at its foot. The lorry turned sharply away from the Moselle to begin a long climb up a heavily wooded slope. The forest now closed in on both sides,—majestic oaks, mixed with pines and hemlocks41 which sang and murmured as the river breeze swept over them. Rabbits darted43 across the road and squirrels chattered44 in the overhanging branches. All at once the hospital appeared, a big frame building in a clearing near the top of the hill, its roof in spreading gables, like a Swiss chalet, and the Stars and Stripes floating over it.
Behind it were half a dozen cottages for the staff. The whole had a weather-beaten look, for it had stood there more than fifty years, and an air of solitude45 enveloped46 it, as though it were much further removed from town and village than it really was. Lucy decided47 in one glance that it needed sunlight and cheerful voices to keep from being a gloomy spot where the murmur42 of the swaying pines would change to sighs of loneliness.
In fact the convalescent soldiers seated on the verandas49 or strolling over the grassy clearing and in the borders of the woodland looked sober and purposeless, their idle steps leading vaguely50 from one spot to the other, without any spur of hopeful energy. Lucy understood at last Miss Pearse’s eloquent51 persuasions52, and seeing how sorely help was needed here, she forgot her own repinings and was herself again.
Miss Pearse and Lucy installed themselves in a room in one of the cottages beside the hospital,—a sort of shed built of heavy unpainted planks53, with sloping roof and leaded window-panes. A stove fed with pine-boughs54 warmed the drafty interior somewhat from the December cold.
While the two newcomers were unpacking55 and settling themselves in their narrow quarters the hospital’s head nurse came in and talked to them, dropping down on the nearest chair to do so; for she was tired and glad of a moment’s rest.
“You will think there is terrible confusion here, for we are all at loose ends,” she told them. “We haven’t enough nurses nor orderlies, and nothing is in smooth running order. I hope you won’t mind, for a few weeks, not having a regular routine but doing whatever presents itself.”
“That will just suit me,” remarked Lucy, brushing her corn-colored hair before the little mirror. “Send me on all the errands you can think of, Miss Webster.”
The head nurse laughed, looking kindly56 at Lucy’s pretty face, lighted by the smile that her unaffectedness made very attractive. “I’ll find plenty for you to do, don’t worry,” she said confidently. “When nothing else turns up, go about among the convalescents and talk to them of home.”
“Are there bad cases here? What sort, mostly?” Miss Pearse asked.
“Some are men who have been gassed and their lungs are injured. Those are the discouraged ones who think they can never get well. Then we have a good many with broken limbs slowly mending, and some recovering from pneumonia57 and trench58 fever. There are about eighty in all, and most of them getting on splendidly, if they would only forget their homesickness and that they must spend Christmas in Germany.”
“U-um, but it’s not so easy to forget that,” murmured Lucy, understandingly. “And, though of course this hospital has fine air and all that, it’s not a very cheerful place, do you think? With all these German woods shutting it in?”
“German woods are just like any other woods, Lucy,” said Miss Pearse laughing. “Don’t be making trouble. We’re ready now, Miss Webster.”
The hospital wards60 were nearly empty for a part of the day, during which almost all the patients got up and sat on the verandas, or were wheeled about if they could not walk. Lucy was surprised to see a good number of French soldiers scattered61 among the Americans, and looking a good deal more cheerful than her own countrymen, as though they knew that their return home could not be much longer postponed62.
Miss Webster explained to her: “These Frenchmen were in need of special treatment—we have mineral baths here. Or else they were in American hospitals and were brought along with other convalescents. They will almost all go before Christmas.”
Lucy was put to work in the diet kitchen, which she left at lunch time to carry trays to those of the convalescents whose capricious appetites needed special encouragement. The trays were numbered and so were the chairs in which the invalids63 reclined, but as Lucy, carrying a tray holding chicken broth64 and biscuits and numbered forty-five, approached the chair bearing that number, the occupant got up and, walking slowly down the veranda48 steps, strolled off toward the edge of the clearing.
The man was a French officer, a blond of tall and powerful build, though now his blue uniform hung loosely on his shrunken frame and his slow steps were a trifle uncertain. Lucy put down the tray and ran after him, calling out, “Quarante-cinq! Quarante-cinq!” Then as she neared him and saw the insignia on his uniform she changed her form of address to, “Monsieur le capitaine! Attendez, s’il vous plait?”
The Frenchman turned around and seeing Lucy pointing with expressive65 gesture to the veranda where the soup was cooling on the deserted66 chair he smiled and took off his cap, saying with quick apology, “Pardon, Mademoiselle.” Then changing into good English he continued, “I am sorry to have made you follow me. Thank you very much.”
Lucy walked beside him in silence, stealing glances at his face in puzzled amazement67. Where had she seen that face before? It was not really familiar, yet she knew beyond a doubt that she had seen the man and spoken to him and, more than that, at a moment of great fear and anxiety. Almost a shiver caught her now at the dim remembrance. Where had it been?
“You have just arrived here, Mademoiselle?” the officer inquired, turning pleasantly toward her.
All at once Lucy knew. She saw in her mind’s eye the de la Tours’ little house in Chateau-Plessis, the German soldier entering the dining-room and Michelle’s cry of joy and terror.
“Captain de la Tour!” she exclaimed in vivid recollection, and as the officer looked at her in surprise she went eagerly on, “You don’t remember me? Of course not—how could you? I’m Michelle’s friend, Lucy Gordon. I was in your mother’s house when you came into Chateau-Plessis as a spy. For a moment I couldn’t remember. Oh, tell me, how is Michelle?”
The Frenchman looked at her closely, his blue eyes shining with pleasure. “I remember you now, Mademoiselle! And that day—will I ever forget it! I am happy to see you, my sister’s very dear friend.” He held out his hand as he spoke—a thin, bony hand from which fever had taken the strength and firmness. “Can you stay a moment? I will give you good news of Michelle.”
“A moment, yes. But don’t let your soup get cold,” said Lucy, handing him the little tray as he sank down on his chair again, breathing hard. “And your mother—is she well, too?”
“Not very well, but nevertheless she thinks more of her absent son than of her own health. I am not able to go home, they say, and Maman fears I shall be lonely at this season, in spite of my kind American friends. She and Michelle are coming to Badheim for the No?l.”
At this Lucy was struck so speechless with delight there was a pause before she could put into words her joyful amazement. “Coming here? Oh, Captain de la Tour, isn’t it good news? I can’t tell you—you can’t guess how glad I am!”
Lucy’s hazel eyes sparkled with the words and her whole face lighted up. Perhaps never until that moment had she realized the place Michelle held in her heart. Now at this lucky chance to review in peace and security the friendship woven among such sad and peril-haunted days she felt a thrill of happiness that raised her spirits almost to their old-time level.
Captain de la Tour watched her with quick sympathy, his pale lips touched for an instant by the brief, radiant smile which could so strikingly change both his and Michelle’s faces from their thoughtful gravity. Lucy longed to ask all about her friend, of whom she had caught so short a glimpse on the eleventh of November, but she had not another moment to spare. “When will they come?” she lingered to ask.
“This week, I think. I am waiting every day to hear,” said Captain de la Tour, his voice filled with eager hope. “I have not seen them since the war ended. I was shot through the lungs the day of the armistice.”
When the luncheon68 hour was over Miss Pearse said to Lucy, “This is a good chance to do what Miss Webster asked me to find time for. She wants us to go with the orderlies to the spring in the forest and see to the bottling of the water. It won’t take long.”
Lucy was thinking so much about all she would have to tell Michelle that she hardly noticed what Miss Pearse said, but followed her in obedient silence across the clearing behind the hospital and into the woodland. In front of them went two Hospital Corps69 men drawing hand-carts filled with empty bottles.
There was no snow yet on the ground and, beneath the trees, it was carpeted with moss70 and pine needles so that footsteps were hushed and the sigh of the branches overhead made so deep and steady a murmur that the forest seemed all at once to have an atmosphere of its own. A great peace pervaded71 it so that even the soldiers spoke involuntarily in low tones, and glanced about them with a kind of solemnity at the tall trunks of the firs and hemlocks, with here and there an oak spreading its wide, bare branches. The sunlight shone down with a golden gleam into the dim greenness of forest aisles72 stretching endlessly on every side.
Lucy walked on in enchanted73 silence. She thought she had never known anything more lovely than this murmurous74 stillness, the soft carpet beneath her feet, the great evergreen75 trees closing in around her and the cold, pine-laden air against her face. The mysterious scamper76 of shy woodland bird and beast delighted her. She would not have guessed that they had gone a hundred yards when, after half a mile’s walk, they came out suddenly into another big clearing, near the center of which stood a little cottage built of unplaned logs, its roof covered with pine boughs and smoke rising from its earthen chimney.
“It looks like a fairy story,” said Lucy softly, remembering Elizabeth’s old forest tales.
The soldiers led the way along the clearing’s edge for a hundred yards and then re?ntered the forest. Almost at once the sound of water tumbling over stones broke the stillness and a little spring came into view, a bubbling basin with moss-lined, rocky bottom, and beside it a tiny rustic77 shed, its door fastened with a rusty78 padlock.
“That little shed held the bottling machine the Germans used,” Miss Pearse explained to Lucy as the men began to unload their carts, “but it got out of order toward the end of the war, so for a few weeks we shall have to bottle by hand. We are supposed to supervise but it’s quicker work if we help.”
All four knelt down on the mossy earth and began dipping up the spring water with ladles and pouring it through funnels79 into the big water-bottles. The spring bubbled up unceasingly, so crystal clear that no disturbance80 of the water could keep the rocky bottom from showing always in trembling outline.
“This is a mineral spring,” said Miss Pearse, setting aside a filled bottle which looked empty in its clearness. “The water is as wonderful as this forest air. Hello, who’s this?”
A little girl five or six years old had crept silently up to the spring and was standing59 with big blue eyes fixed81 on the Americans. Her flaxen braids hung over her faded print dress, a ragged82 red shawl was clutched about her and her feet were thrust into clumsy sabots above which her stockings were slipping down. An uncertain smile that began to dimple her pink cheeks broadened as she met Lucy’s friendly eyes.
“Guten tag,” she murmured shyly.
And “Guten tag,” repeated a man’s voice as the fir branches were brushed aside. A big German, close to middle age, blond and deeply sunburned, ax in hand, stood behind the child, his keen eyes fixed on the workers, a touch of sourness about his lips, though he spoke pleasantly enough.
Lucy looked up at him and the enchantment83 of the great old forest, of the bubbling spring and the soft-footed little girl vanished in that one glance. She was back again in Germany.
点击收听单词发音
1 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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2 grassy | |
adj.盖满草的;长满草的 | |
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3 pal | |
n.朋友,伙伴,同志;vi.结为友 | |
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4 outskirts | |
n.郊外,郊区 | |
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5 aviator | |
n.飞行家,飞行员 | |
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6 invincibly | |
adv.难战胜地,无敌地 | |
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7 philosophic | |
adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
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8 rebellious | |
adj.造反的,反抗的,难控制的 | |
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9 armistice | |
n.休战,停战协定 | |
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10 scouting | |
守候活动,童子军的活动 | |
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11 tinge | |
vt.(较淡)着色于,染色;使带有…气息;n.淡淡色彩,些微的气息 | |
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12 woolen | |
adj.羊毛(制)的;毛纺的 | |
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13 cape | |
n.海角,岬;披肩,短披风 | |
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14 growling | |
n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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15 insistence | |
n.坚持;强调;坚决主张 | |
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16 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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17 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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18 joyful | |
adj.欢乐的,令人欢欣的 | |
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19 garrison | |
n.卫戍部队;驻地,卫戍区;vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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20 disconsolate | |
adj.忧郁的,不快的 | |
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21 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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22 stifle | |
vt.使窒息;闷死;扼杀;抑止,阻止 | |
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23 persuasion | |
n.劝说;说服;持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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24 inviting | |
adj.诱人的,引人注目的 | |
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25 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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26 fortress | |
n.堡垒,防御工事 | |
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27 longingly | |
adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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28 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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29 extraordinarily | |
adv.格外地;极端地 | |
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30 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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31 fathom | |
v.领悟,彻底了解 | |
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32 analyzing | |
v.分析;分析( analyze的现在分词 );分解;解释;对…进行心理分析n.分析 | |
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33 conspiracy | |
n.阴谋,密谋,共谋 | |
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34 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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35 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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36 adventurous | |
adj.爱冒险的;惊心动魄的,惊险的,刺激的 | |
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37 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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38 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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39 stoic | |
n.坚忍克己之人,禁欲主义者 | |
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40 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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41 hemlocks | |
由毒芹提取的毒药( hemlock的名词复数 ) | |
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42 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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43 darted | |
v.投掷,投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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44 chattered | |
(人)喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 ); 唠叨; (牙齿)打战; (机器)震颤 | |
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45 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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46 enveloped | |
v.包围,笼罩,包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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48 veranda | |
n.走廊;阳台 | |
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49 verandas | |
阳台,走廊( veranda的名词复数 ) | |
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50 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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51 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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52 persuasions | |
n.劝说,说服(力)( persuasion的名词复数 );信仰 | |
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53 planks | |
(厚)木板( plank的名词复数 ); 政纲条目,政策要点 | |
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54 boughs | |
大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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55 unpacking | |
n.取出货物,拆包[箱]v.从(包裹等)中取出(所装的东西),打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 );拆包;解除…的负担;吐露(心事等) | |
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56 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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57 pneumonia | |
n.肺炎 | |
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58 trench | |
n./v.(挖)沟,(挖)战壕 | |
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59 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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60 wards | |
区( ward的名词复数 ); 病房; 受监护的未成年者; 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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61 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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62 postponed | |
vt.& vi.延期,缓办,(使)延迟vt.把…放在次要地位;[语]把…放在后面(或句尾)vi.(疟疾等)延缓发作(或复发) | |
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63 invalids | |
病人,残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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64 broth | |
n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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65 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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66 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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67 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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68 luncheon | |
n.午宴,午餐,便宴 | |
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69 corps | |
n.(通信等兵种的)部队;(同类作的)一组 | |
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70 moss | |
n.苔,藓,地衣 | |
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71 pervaded | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72 aisles | |
n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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73 enchanted | |
adj. 被施魔法的,陶醉的,入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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74 murmurous | |
adj.低声的 | |
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75 evergreen | |
n.常青树;adj.四季常青的 | |
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76 scamper | |
v.奔跑,快跑 | |
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77 rustic | |
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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78 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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79 funnels | |
漏斗( funnel的名词复数 ); (轮船,火车等的)烟囱 | |
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80 disturbance | |
n.动乱,骚动;打扰,干扰;(身心)失调 | |
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81 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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82 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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83 enchantment | |
n.迷惑,妖术,魅力 | |
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