I was the oldest son in a numerous family, and therefore had the heritage of my father's clothes. He was an exceedingly neat and careful man, and never—to my sorrow be it said—did he ever wear out anything, unless it were an apple switch on me or my brothers. I had to wear out all his old clothes, it seemed to me. It was not a matter of choice but of necessity with me. My younger brother always escaped. By the time I had finished anything, there was no more of it. It went perforce to the ragman, if he would condescend1 to accept it.
There was a certain sad, plum-colored, shad-bellied coat that flashes athwart my memory in hideous2 recollection, which wrapped itself portentiously about my slim figure, to the great delectation of my young friends and companions, and to my corresponding misery3. I can recall their satirical criticisms vividly4 even now. They enjoyed it hugely, especially the little girls. Think of a small—say "skinny"—little boy, about nine or ten years old, in a purple shad-bellied coat which had been made to fit (?) him by cutting off the sleeves, also the voluminous tails just below the back buttons!
{316}
I could never understand the peculiar5 taste my father manifested in his younger days, for when I recall the age which permitted me to wear cut-down clothing (and that age arrived at an extraordinary early period in my existence, it appeared to me), such a fearful and wonderful assortment6 of miscellaneous garments of all colors, shapes and sizes as were resurrected from the old chests in the garret, where they had reposed7 in peaceful neglect for half a generation, the uninitiated can scarcely believe.
The shad-bellied coat was bad enough—you could take that off, though—but there was something worse that stayed on. Fortunately there is one season in the year when coats in the small Western village, in which I lived, were at a discount, especially on small boys, and that was summer. But on the warmest of summer days the most recklessly audacious youngster has to wear trousers even in the most sequestered8 village.
One pair rises before me among the images of many and will not down. The fabric9 of which this particular garment was made was colored a light cream, not to say yellow. There was a black stripe, a piece of round black braid down each leg, too, and the garment was as heavy as broadcloth and as stiff as a board. Nothing could have been more unsuitable for a boy to wear than that was. I rebelled and protested with all the strength of my infantile nature, but it was needs must—I had either to wear them or to remain in bed indefinitely. Swallowing my pride, in spite of my mortification10, I put them on and sallied forth11, but little consoled by the approving words and glances of my mother, who took what I childishly believed to be an utterly12 unwarranted pride in her—shall I say—adaptation or reduction? Those trousers had a {317} sentimental13 value for her, too, as I was to learn later. As for me, I fairly loathed14 them.
Many times since then, I have been the possessor of a "best and only pair," but never a pair of such color, quality and shape. They were originally of the wide-seated, peg-top variety, quite like the fashion of to-day, by the way—or is it yesterday, in these times of sudden changes?—and when they were cut off square at the knee and shirred or gathered or reefed in at the waist, they looked singularly like the typical "Dutchman's breeches." I might have worn them as one of Hendrik Hudson's crew in "Rip Van Winkle"—which was, even in those days, the most popular play in which Joseph Jefferson appeared. You can see how long ago it was from that.
Well, I put them on in bitterness of heart. How the other boys greeted me until they got used to them—which it seemed to me they never would! Unfortunately for them, anyway, they had only one day, one brief day, in which to make game of me; for the first time I wore them something happened.
There was a pond on a farm near our house called, from its owner, "Duffy's Pond." The water drained into a shallow low depression in a large meadow, and made a mudhole, a cattle wallow. Little boys have a fondness for water, when it is exposed to the air—that is, when it is muddy, when it is dirty—which is in adverse15 ratio to their zest16 for nice, clean water in a nice clean tub. To bathe and be clean does not seem instinctive17 with boys. And how careful we were not to wet the backs of our hands and our wrists except when in swimming! And how hard did our parents strive to teach us to distribute our ablutions more generally!
{318}
Well, Mr. Duffy did not allow boys to swim in his pond, which made it all the more inviting18. It was a hot August day when I first put on those cream-colored pants. Naturally, we went in swimming. Having divested19 ourselves of our clothing—and with what joy I cast off the hideous garment!—we had to wade20 through twenty or thirty yards of mud growing deeper and more liquid with every step, until we reached the water. We were having a great time playing in the ooze21 when Mr. Duffy appeared in sight. He was an irascible old man, and did not love his neighbors' children! He had no sympathy at all with us in our sports; he actually begrudged22 us the few apples we stole when they were unripe23 and scarce, and as for watermelons—ah, but he was an unfeeling farmer!
Fortunately, he had no dog with him that morning, nothing but a gun—an old shotgun with the barrels sawed off at half their length, loaded with beans or bacon, or pepper or sand, I don't remember which—they were all bad enough if they hit you. The alarm was given instantly, and we made a wild rush for the tall grass through that mud. You can fancy how dirty we became, splashing, stumbling, wallowing in it. Mr. Duffy, firing beans at us from the rear, accelerated our pace to a frightful24 degree. Fortunately again, like Hamlet, he was "fat and scant25 o' breath," and we could run like deer, which we did. En route I grabbed my shirt with one hand and those cream-colored pants with the other.
The mud of that pond was the thick, black, sticky kind. It stained hideously26 anything light that it touched, as irrevocably as sin. Those trousers had been clasped against my boyish muddy breast or flapped against my muddy, skinny legs, and they were {319} a sight to behold27! There was no water available for miles where we stopped. We rubbed ourselves off with the burnt grass of August and dusty leaves as well as we could, dressed ourselves and repaired home.
I was a melancholy28 picture. The leopard29 could have changed his spots as easily as I. Yet I well remember the mixture of fierce joy and terrified apprehension30 that pervaded31 me. I arrived home about dinner-time. Father was there. "Wh—what!" he cried in astonishment32. "Where have you been, sir?"
"Those," sobbed33 my mother in anguished34 tones, "were your father's wedding trousers! I gave them to you with reluctance35 and as a great favor, you wretched boy, and—and—you have ruined them."
I was taken upstairs, thoroughly36 washed, scrubbed—in the tub, which was bad enough—and when sufficiently37 clean to be handed to my father, he and I had an important interview in the wood-shed—our penal38 institution—over which it were well to draw the curtain. There was a happy result to the adventure, however: I never wore the cream-colored pants again, and hence my joy. The relief was almost worth the licking.
Some of the material, however, was worked up into a patchwork39 quilt, and of the rest my mother made a jacket for my sister. My mother could not look upon those things without tears; neither could I! Why is it that grown people will be so inconsiderate about a little boy's clothes?
It was the fashion of many years before I was born for people—that is, men and boys—to wear shawls. There was a dearth40 in the family exchequer41 on one occasion—on many occasions, I may say, but this {320} was a particular one. I had no overcoat, at least not one suitable for Sunday, and really it would have been preposterous42 to have attempted to cut down one of father's for me. That feat44 was beyond even my mother's facile scissors, and she could effect marvels45 with them, I knew to my cost. It was a bitter cold winter day, I remember, and my mother, in the kindness of her heart, brought to light one of those long, narrow, fringed, brilliantly colored plaided shawls, so that I should not miss Sunday school. I was perfectly46 willing to miss it, then or any other time, for any excuse was a good one for that. But no, I was wrapped up in it in spite of my frantic47 protests and despatched with my little sister—she who wore the cream-colored trousers-jacket—to the church. Strange to say, she did not mind at all.
We separated outside the house door, and I ran on alone. I had evolved a deep, dark purpose. I went much more rapidly than she, and as soon as I turned the corner, and was safely out of sight, I tore off that hateful shawl and when I arrived at the meeting-house I ignominiously49 thrust it into the coal heap in the dilapidated shed in the corner of the lot. I was almost frozen by the time I arrived, but any condition was better than that shawl.
The Sunday school exercises proceeded as usual, but in the middle of them, the janitor50 who had gone into the coal house for the wherewithal to replenish51 the fires, came back with the shawl. I had rammed52 it rather viciously under the coal, and it was a filthy53 object. The superintendent54 held it up by finger and thumb and asked to whom it belonged.
"Why, that's our Johnny's" piped up my little sister amid a very disheartening roar of laughter from the {321} school. There was no use in my denying the statement. Her reputation for veracity55 was much higher than mine, and I recognized the futility56 of trying to convince any one that she was mistaken. At the close of the session I had to wrap myself in that coal-stained garment and go forth. I was attended by a large delegation57 of the scholars when the school was over. They did not at all object to going far out of their way to escort me home, and they left me at my own gate.
It was Sunday, and it was against my father's religious principles to lick us on Sunday—that was one of the compensations, youthful compensations of that holy day—but Monday wasn't far off, and father's memory was remarkably58 acute. Ah, those sad times, but there was fun in them, too, after all.
There was a little boy who lived near us named Henry Smith. He and I were inseparable. He had a brother three years older than himself whose name was Charles. Charles was of course much taller and stronger than Henry and myself, and he could attend to one of us easily. But both of us together made a pretty good match for him. Consequently we hunted in couples, as it were. Charles was unduly59 sensitive about his Christian60 name. I think he called it his unchristian name. Not the "Charles" part of it, that was all right, but his parents had inconsiderately saddled him with the hopeless additional name of Peter Van Buskirk Smith! All we had to do to bring about a fight was to approach him and address him as "Peter Van Buskirk." He bitterly resented it, which was most unreasonable61 of him. I recall times when the three of us struggled in the haymow for hours at a time, Peter Van Buskirk, furiously angry, striving to force an apology or retraction62, and Henry and I having a glorious time refusing him.
We were safe enough while we were together, but when he caught us alone—O my! I can remember it yet. He was always Charles, at that time, but it was of no use. Yet notwithstanding the absolute certainty of a severe thrashing when he caught us singly, we never could refrain from calling him "Peter Van Buskirk" when we were together.
Why is it that parents are so thoughtless about the naming of their children? I knew a boy once named Elijah Draco and there was another lad of my acquaintance who struggled under the name of Lord Byron. That wasn't so bad, because we shortened it to "By," but "Elijah Draco" was hopeless, so we called him "Tommy," as a rebuke64 to his unfeeling parents.
Charles Peter Van Buskirk was a funny boy. He was as brave as a lion. You could pick him up by the ears, which were long—and shall I say handy?—and he never would howl. We knew that was the way to tell a good dog. "Pick him up by the ears; an' if he howls, he'll be no fighter!" And we thought what was a good test for a dog could not be amiss for a boy.
He had a dog once, sold to him for a quarter when it was a pup by a specious65 individual of the tramp variety, as one of the finest "King-Newf'un'lan'—Bull Breed." His appetite and his vices66 were in proportion to his descriptions, but he had no virtues67 that we could discover. With a boy's lack of inventiveness we called him "Tiger" although anything less ferocious68 than he would be hard to find. He was more like a sheep in spirit than anything else. But Charles thought he saw signs of promise in that pup, and in spite of our disparaging69 remarks he clung to him. Charles knew a lot about dogs, or thought he did, which was the same thing.
I remember we were trying to teach Tige to "lead" one day. He had no more natural aptitude70 for leading than an unbroken calf71. The perverse72 dog at last flattened73 himself down on his stomach, spread-eagled himself on the ground, and stretched his four legs out as stiff as he could. We dragged him over the yard until he raised a pile of dirt and leaves in front of him like a plow74 in an untilled field. He would not "lead," although we nearly choked him to death trying to teach him. Then we tried picking him up by the ears, applying that test for courage and blood, you know! You might have heard that dog yelp75 for miles. He had no spirit at all. Charles Peter Van Buskirk was disgusted with him.
We got out a can of wagon-grease and spotted76 him artistically77 to make him look like a coach-dog, which was legitimate78, as coach-dogs are notoriously remarkable79 for lack of courage. They are only for ornament80. That was a pretty-looking animal when it rained. We changed his name, too, and called him "Kitty," regardless of his sex. It was the last insult to a dog, we thought, but he never seemed to mind it. I feel sorry for that dog as I look back at him now, and it rather provoked Charles when we subsequently asked his opinion of any other dog. This we did as often as there were enough of us together to make it safe.
When we felt very reckless, we used to go in swimming in the river, which was a very dangerous proceeding81 indeed, for the Missouri is a treacherous82, wicked {324} stream, full of "suck-holes" and whirlpools and with a tremendous current, especially during the June "rise." The practice was strictly83 forbidden by all right-minded parents, including our own. Frequently, however, in compliance84 with that mysterious sign, the first two fingers of the right hand up-lifted and held wide apart, which all boys over a thousand miles of country knew meant "Will you go swimming?" we would make up a party after school and try the flood.
Father usually inspected us with a rather sharper eye, when we came sneaking86 in the back way after such exercises. For a busy man, father had a habit, that was positively87 maddening, of happening upon a boy at the wrong time. We used to think we had no privacy at all.
"Hum!" he was wont88 to say, looking suspiciously at our wet, sleek89 heads and general clean appearance—clean for us, that is, for the Missouri River, sandy though it was, was vastly cleaner than Duffy's Pond or puddles90 of that ilk—"been in swimming again, have you? In the river, I'll be bound."
Two little boys, my brother and I would choke out some sort of a mumbling91 evasion92 in lieu of a reply.
"How did you get your hair wet?" the old man would continue, rising and feeling two guilty little heads.
"Per-perspiration93, sir," we would gasp94 out faintly.
"And that vile95 odor about you? Hey? Is that perspiration, too?" sniffing96 the air with a grim resolution that made our hearts sink.
We had been smoking drift-wood, the vilest97 stuff that anybody can put in his mouth. This was enough to betray us.
"It's no use, boys; you needn't say another word," father would add in the face of our desperate and awful {325} attempts at an adequate explanation. "You know what I told you. Go to the wood-shed!"
Oh, that wood-shed! "Abandon ye all hope who enter here" should have been written over its door. Often mother would interfere—bless her tender heart!—but not always. Father was a small man of sedentary habits, not given to athletic98 exercises. A board across two barrels afforded a convenient resting-place for the arms and breast of the one appointed to receive the corporal punishment, and a barrel stave was an excellent instrument with which to administer it. I said father was a small, weak man. When he got through with us we used to think he would have made a splendid blacksmith. Our muscles were pretty strong, and our skin callous—"the hand of little use hath the daintier touch!"—but they were as nothing to his. We always tired of that game before he did, although we played it often.
Two of us, I recall, have carried large tubs up the steep bank from the river to the train at 4 A. M. on a summer morning, when the circus came to town. We were proud to be privileged to water the elephants, but it killed us to split wood for a day's burning in the kitchen stove. We never were good for anything except assisting the circus people, on circus day. School was torture, and it was generally dismissed.
Our father was mayor of the town, and the mayor's children usually got in free. On one occasion we yielded to the solicitations of our most intimate friends and assembled thirty of them in a body. This group of children of all ages and sizes—and there was even one lone48 "nigger" in it—we were to pass through the gate by declaring that we were the mayor's children.
"Great heavens!" cried the ticket man, appalled99 {326} at the sight, "How many blame children has the mayor of the town got? Is he a Mormon, anyway, or what? An' how about that one?" pointing to the darky.
Father was standing63 near. We had not seen him. He turned and surveyed the multitude, including the black boy, that we had foisted100 upon him. It was a humorous situation, but father didn't see it that way. He sent all of us home with a few scathing101 words. My younger brother and I wanted to go to that circus more than we ever wanted to go to any circus before. We slept in a half-story room with windows opening on the porch roof. That night we climbed out on the roof and slid down the porch to the ground at the risk of breaking our necks.
Henry and Charles met us by appointment. We none of us had any money and we resolved to sneak85 in, our services at watering the elephants not being considered worthy102 of a ticket. My brother and I got in safely under the canvas in one place. Henry succeeded in effecting an entrance in another, but Charles Peter Van Buskirk got caught. A flat board in the hands of a watchman made a close connection with his anatomy103. Charles was hauled back, well paddled and sent home. Circuses were a tabooed subject where he was concerned for some time thereafter.
William, my brother, and I clambered through the legs of the crowd on the seats after we got into the canvas tent. As luck would have it, we ran right into the arms of our father. I was paralyzed, but William burst out with a boldness that savored104 of an inspiration, "Why father, you here? I thought you were going to prayer-meeting."
Everybody laughed, father said nothing; some one made room for us, and we watched the performance {327} with mingled105 feelings of delight and apprehension. The wood-shed loomed106 up awfully107 black as we passed it that night. We held our breath. However, father never said anything to us but, "Good night, boys. I hope you had a good time."
We certainly had. And we escaped the usual licking, deserved though it was. And it wasn't Sunday, either.
But where was I? O, yes! Charles Peter Van Buskirk one Saturday morning announced his intention of going on an expedition across the river. Over the river from where we lived was "Slab108 Town," dilapidated little settlement of no social or moral consideration. The old captain, the pilot of the wheezy ferry-boat Edgar, was our sworn friend, and allowed us to ride free as often as we could get away. Charles intended crossing the river to get pawpaws. A pawpaw is an easily mashed109 fruit, three or four inches long, with a tough skin inclosing a very liquid pulp110 full of seeds, and about as solid as a cream puff111, when it is dead ripe. It grows on a low, stunted112 bush-like tree.
We were mighty113 fond of pawpaws, but little fellows as we were didn't dare to cross the river and venture into "Slab Town" or its vicinity, for such an excursion within its territory usually provoked a fight with the young ruffians of that hamlet, who hated the village boys as aristocrats114.
"You'd better not go over there, Charles," we advised him timorously115. "Those Slab Town boys will take your pawpaws away from you."
I can see now the chesty movement with which Charles stuck out his breast, threw back his shoulders, curved inward and swung his arms, and went away basket in hand, remarking in a lordly manner; "Aw, who's goin' to take my pawpaws?"
{328} It was evening when the rash youth returned. He came slinking up the back alley116 in a vain endeavor to elude117 observation, but we had a number of his and our friends on the watch for him—to see that he returned safely, of course—and we gave him a royal greeting. We had been true prophets, though without honor in Charles's sight. The Slab Town boys had taken his pawpaws in a spirit of aggressive appropriation118, which was bad enough, but with rare and unusual generosity119 they had afterward120 returned them to Charles. They had not put them back in his basket, however, but had heaped them indiscriminately upon his person. It appears that he must have run for miles pursued by a howling mob of all the ruffians over there, engaged in the happy pastime of throwing soft, mushy pawpaws at him. Charles could hardly see; in fact he could hardly walk. He was plastered with pawpaws from his head to his feet.
Thereafter when we wanted to provoke a fight, all that was necessary when the unappreciated portion of his name was flung at him and was not sufficient to awaken121 his ire, was to throw out our chests, hold back our shoulders, curve our arms and say in a throaty voice, "Who's going to take my pawpaws?"
I feel tempted43 to use the old phrase in certain modern circumstances to-day when it seems to fit some bold and reckless endeavor. I have never forgotten Charles's "who's-goin'-to-take-my-pawpaws" air!
We were sometimes able to get a little money together by doing odd jobs—not for our parents, however, but for the neighbors. We had plenty of odd jobs to do at home, but such work was a matter of obligation and not remunerative122, nor was it interesting. With this money Henry and I each bought a game-chicken, {329} which we kept cooped up separately in the back lot behind the stable. Neither father nor mother knew anything about it, of course.
We would let these two game-cocks out half a dozen times a day. They would rush at each other fiercely, but before the battle was fairly on, we would summarily part them, and put them back in their coops, which were placed opposite each other, when they would indulge in chicken-swearing and personalities123 as much as they desired. Their appetites for fighting were whetted124 indeed. In fact, there was so much animosity engendered125 between these two birds that they would rush together like two express trains trying to pass each other on the same track whenever they were turned loose. There was no time sparring for time or position. It was fight from the moment they saw each other, although we never let them strike more than one blow or two. A half-minute round was enough for us. I think it really scared us.
Charles, in spirit of revenge, let them out one day during our absence. When we got back from school we had only one chicken between us. It was a wonderful chicken, for it had beaten the other, although the conquered bird had fought until it had been killed. We burned him on a funeral pyre as a dead gladiator, with much ceremony and boyish speaking. We wanted to sacrifice to his manes a hen as his wife, but finally concluded to abandon that part of the ceremony; mother kept count of the hens, you see.
Of course, Julius Caesar (as we named him) had the run of the yard thereafter, there being no one to oppose him. He led a very peaceful life until our next door neighbor bought a large Shanghai rooster. I forgot now what particular breed our rooster was, {330} but he was small, not much larger than a bantam. The Shanghai rooster, which was a huge monster, had the most provoking crow, large, loud and aggressive. An alley intervened between the yard where he held forth and our yard. One day we came home from school and looked for our chicken. He was gone!
We hunted everywhere for him, but could not find him. We missed the crowing of the Shanghai rooster, which had been frequent and exasperating126, I have no doubt. The yard was very silent. We pursued our investigations127 with zeal128 and finally reached the alley. It had been raining heavily for almost a week, and the alley was a mass of black, sticky mud. Gazing anxiously over the fence, we heard a feeble chirp129 from a large gob of mud in the alley. It was our rooster!
The Shanghai had rashly ventured into supposed neutral ground in that alley and had crowed once too often. The little game cock had squeezed through the fence and come over to investigate the situation. They had fought there in the mud. The mud was too deep for the Shanghai to run and the bantam killed him. During the battle the victor had become so covered with mud that he could neither move nor crow nor see. He was in a worse state than Charles with the pawpaws, and indifferent to honors.
We took him and washed him. He seemed none the worse for his adventure, but that battle must have been a royal one. It was the second one we had not seen! We felt like the Roman public deprived of its "Circenses." We really never did see that chicken fight, for he got the pip or something, a few days after, perhaps from the microbes in the alley, and in spite of our careful nursing, or possibly because of it, he died. He died just in time, too, for after we had put {331} him away with more ceremony than we had used before, father who had got some inkling of the affair, suddenly broke out at supper: "Boys, are you keeping game-cocks in the back lot? Fighting-chickens, eh?"
"No, sir," we both answered meekly130, with a clear conscience and a steady eye.
We had lots of pets in those days; some time they may serve for another story.
THE END
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1
condescend
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v.俯就,屈尊;堕落,丢丑 | |
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2
hideous
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adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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3
misery
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n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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4
vividly
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adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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5
peculiar
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adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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6
assortment
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n.分类,各色俱备之物,聚集 | |
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7
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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8
sequestered
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adj.扣押的;隐退的;幽静的;偏僻的v.使隔绝,使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 );扣押 | |
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9
fabric
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n.织物,织品,布;构造,结构,组织 | |
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10
mortification
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n.耻辱,屈辱 | |
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11
forth
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adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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12
utterly
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adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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13
sentimental
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adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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14
loathed
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v.憎恨,厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 );极不喜欢 | |
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15
adverse
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adj.不利的;有害的;敌对的,不友好的 | |
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zest
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n.乐趣;滋味,风味;兴趣 | |
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17
instinctive
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adj.(出于)本能的;直觉的;(出于)天性的 | |
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18
inviting
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adj.诱人的,引人注目的 | |
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19
divested
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v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 );脱去(衣服);2。从…取去…;1。(给某人)脱衣服 | |
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20
wade
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v.跋涉,涉水;n.跋涉 | |
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21
ooze
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n.软泥,渗出物;vi.渗出,泄漏;vt.慢慢渗出,流露 | |
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22
begrudged
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嫉妒( begrudge的过去式和过去分词 ); 勉强做; 不乐意地付出; 吝惜 | |
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23
unripe
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adj.未成熟的;n.未成熟 | |
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24
frightful
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adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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25
scant
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adj.不充分的,不足的;v.减缩,限制,忽略 | |
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26
hideously
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adv.可怕地,非常讨厌地 | |
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27
behold
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v.看,注视,看到 | |
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28
melancholy
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n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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leopard
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n.豹 | |
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30
apprehension
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n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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31
pervaded
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v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
astonishment
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n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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33
sobbed
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哭泣,啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 ); 哭诉,呜咽地说 | |
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34
anguished
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adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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35
reluctance
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n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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36
thoroughly
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adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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37
sufficiently
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adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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38
penal
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adj.刑罚的;刑法上的 | |
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39
patchwork
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n.混杂物;拼缝物 | |
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40
dearth
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n.缺乏,粮食不足,饥谨 | |
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41
exchequer
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n.财政部;国库 | |
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42
preposterous
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adj.荒谬的,可笑的 | |
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43
tempted
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v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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44
feat
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n.功绩;武艺,技艺;adj.灵巧的,漂亮的,合适的 | |
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45
marvels
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n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 );令人惊奇的事物(或事例);不平凡的成果;成就v.惊奇,对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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46
perfectly
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adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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47
frantic
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adj.狂乱的,错乱的,激昂的 | |
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48
lone
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adj.孤寂的,单独的;唯一的 | |
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49
ignominiously
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adv.耻辱地,屈辱地,丢脸地 | |
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50
janitor
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n.看门人,管门人 | |
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51
replenish
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vt.补充;(把…)装满;(再)填满 | |
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52
rammed
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v.夯实(土等)( ram的过去式和过去分词 );猛撞;猛压;反复灌输 | |
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53
filthy
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adj.卑劣的;恶劣的,肮脏的 | |
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54
superintendent
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n.监督人,主管,总监;(英国)警务长 | |
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55
veracity
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n.诚实 | |
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56
futility
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n.无用 | |
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57
delegation
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n.代表团;派遣 | |
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58
remarkably
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ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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59
unduly
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adv.过度地,不适当地 | |
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60
Christian
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adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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61
unreasonable
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adj.不讲道理的,不合情理的,过度的 | |
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62
retraction
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n.撤消;收回 | |
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63
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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64
rebuke
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v.指责,非难,斥责 [反]praise | |
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65
specious
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adj.似是而非的;adv.似是而非地 | |
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66
vices
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缺陷( vice的名词复数 ); 恶习; 不道德行为; 台钳 | |
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virtues
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美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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68
ferocious
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adj.凶猛的,残暴的,极度的,十分强烈的 | |
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69
disparaging
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adj.轻蔑的,毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 );贬低;批评;非难 | |
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70
aptitude
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n.(学习方面的)才能,资质,天资 | |
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71
calf
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n.小牛,犊,幼仔,小牛皮 | |
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72
perverse
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adj.刚愎的;坚持错误的,行为反常的 | |
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73
flattened
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[医](水)平扁的,弄平的 | |
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74
plow
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n.犁,耕地,犁过的地;v.犁,费力地前进[英]plough | |
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75
yelp
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vi.狗吠 | |
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76
spotted
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adj.有斑点的,斑纹的,弄污了的 | |
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77
artistically
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adv.艺术性地 | |
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78
legitimate
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adj.合法的,合理的,合乎逻辑的;v.使合法 | |
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79
remarkable
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adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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80
ornament
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v.装饰,美化;n.装饰,装饰物 | |
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81
proceeding
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n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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82
treacherous
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adj.不可靠的,有暗藏的危险的;adj.背叛的,背信弃义的 | |
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83
strictly
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adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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84
compliance
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n.顺从;服从;附和;屈从 | |
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85
sneak
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vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝);偷偷摸摸做;n.潜行;adj.暗中进行 | |
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86
sneaking
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a.秘密的,不公开的 | |
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87
positively
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adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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88
wont
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adj.习惯于;v.习惯;n.习惯 | |
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89
sleek
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adj.光滑的,井然有序的;v.使光滑,梳拢 | |
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90
puddles
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n.水坑, (尤指道路上的)雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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91
mumbling
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含糊地说某事,叽咕,咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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92
evasion
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n.逃避,偷漏(税) | |
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93
perspiration
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n.汗水;出汗 | |
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94
gasp
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n.喘息,气喘;v.喘息;气吁吁他说 | |
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95
vile
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adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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96
sniffing
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n.探查法v.以鼻吸气,嗅,闻( sniff的现在分词 );抽鼻子(尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气);抱怨,不以为然地说 | |
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97
vilest
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adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 );可耻的;极坏的;非常讨厌的 | |
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98
athletic
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adj.擅长运动的,强健的;活跃的,体格健壮的 | |
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99
appalled
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v.使惊骇,使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的;丧胆的 | |
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100
foisted
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强迫接受,把…强加于( foist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
scathing
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adj.(言词、文章)严厉的,尖刻的;不留情的adv.严厉地,尖刻地v.伤害,损害(尤指使之枯萎)( scathe的现在分词) | |
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102
worthy
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adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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103
anatomy
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n.解剖学,解剖;功能,结构,组织 | |
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104
savored
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v.意味,带有…的性质( savor的过去式和过去分词 );给…加调味品;使有风味;品尝 | |
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105
mingled
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混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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106
loomed
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v.隐约出现,阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 );隐约出现,阴森地逼近 | |
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107
awfully
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adv.可怕地,非常地,极端地 | |
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108
slab
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n.平板,厚的切片;v.切成厚板,以平板盖上 | |
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109
mashed
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a.捣烂的 | |
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110
pulp
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n.果肉,纸浆;v.化成纸浆,除去...果肉,制成纸浆 | |
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111
puff
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n.一口(气);一阵(风);v.喷气,喘气 | |
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112
stunted
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adj.矮小的;发育迟缓的 | |
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113
mighty
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adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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114
aristocrats
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n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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115
timorously
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adv.胆怯地,羞怯地 | |
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116
alley
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n.小巷,胡同;小径,小路 | |
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117
elude
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v.躲避,困惑 | |
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118
appropriation
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n.拨款,批准支出 | |
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119
generosity
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n.大度,慷慨,慷慨的行为 | |
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120
afterward
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adv.后来;以后 | |
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121
awaken
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vi.醒,觉醒;vt.唤醒,使觉醒,唤起,激起 | |
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122
remunerative
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adj.有报酬的 | |
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123
personalities
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n. 诽谤,(对某人容貌、性格等所进行的)人身攻击; 人身攻击;人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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124
whetted
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v.(在石头上)磨(刀、斧等)( whet的过去式和过去分词 );引起,刺激(食欲、欲望、兴趣等) | |
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125
engendered
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v.产生(某形势或状况),造成,引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
exasperating
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adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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127
investigations
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(正式的)调查( investigation的名词复数 ); 侦查; 科学研究; 学术研究 | |
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128
zeal
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n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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129
chirp
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v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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130
meekly
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adv.温顺地,逆来顺受地 | |
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