The whole day had been devoted1, I remember, to preparations for this great event. Early in the morning I had been to the butcher’s to set in train the annual negotiations2 for a loan of cleaver3 and meat-saw; and hours afterward4 had borne these implements5 proudly homeward through the village street. In the interval6 I had turned the grindstone, over at the Four Corners, while the grocer’s hired man obligingly sharpened our carving-knife. Then there had been the even more back-aching task of clearing away the hard snow from the accustomed site of our wood-pile in the yard, and scraping together a frosted heap of chips and bark for the smudge in the smoke-barrel.
From time to time I sweetened this toil7, and helped the laggard8 hours to a swifter pace, by paying visits to the wood-shed to have still another look at the pig. He was frozen very stiff, and there were small icicles in the crevices9 whence his eyes had altogether disappeared. My emotions as I viewed his big, cold, pink carcass, with its extended legs, its bland10 and pasty countenance11, and that awful emptiness underneath12, were much mixed. Although I was his elder by seven or eight years, we had been close friends during all his life—or all except a very few weeks of his earliest sucking pig-hood, spent on his native farm. I had fed him daily; I had watched him grow week by week; more than once I had poked13 him with a stick as he ran around in his sty, to make him squeal14 for the edification of neighbors’ boys who had come into our yard, and would now be sharply ordered out again by Aunt Susan.
As these kindly15 memories surged over me I could not but feel like a traitor16 to my old companion, as he lay thus hairless and pallid17 before my eyes. But then I would remember how good he was going to be to eat—and straightway return with a light heart to the work of kicking up more chips from the ice.
From the living-room in the rear of our little house came the monotonous18 incessant19 clatter20 of Aunt Susan’s carpet loom21. Through the window I could see the outlines of her figure and the back of her head as she sat on her high bench. It was to me the most familiar of all spectacles, this tireless woman bending resolutely22 over her work. She was there when I first cautiously ventured my nose out from under the warm blanket of a winter’s morning. Very, very often I fell asleep at night in my bed in the recess24, lulled25 off by the murmur26 of the diligent27 loom.
Presently I went in to warm myself, and stood with my red fingers over the stove top. She cast but one vague glance at me, through the open frame of the loom between us, and went on with her work. It was not our habit to talk much in that house. She was too busy a woman, for one thing, to have much time for conversation. The impression that she preferred not to talk was always present in my boyish mind. I call up the picture of her still as I saw her then under the top bar of the cumbrous old machine, sitting with lips tight together, and resolute23, masterful eyes bent28 upon the twining intricacy of warp29 and woof before her. At her side were piled a dozen or more big balls of carpet rags, which the village wives and daughters cut up, sewed together and wound in the long winter evenings, while the men-folks sat with their stockinged feet on the stove hearth30, and read out the latest “news from the front” in their Weekly Tribune.
I knew all these rag balls by the names of their owners. Not only did I often go to their houses for them, upon the strength of the general village rumor31 that they were ready, and always carry back the finished lengths of carpet; but I had long since unconsciously grown to watch all the varying garments and shifts of fashion in the raiment of our neighbors, with an eye single to the likelihood of their eventually turning up at Aunt Susan’s loom. When Hiram Mabie’s checkered32 butternut coat was cut down for his son Roswell, I noted33 the fact merely as a stage of its progress toward carpet rags. If Mrs. Wilkins concluded to turn her flowered delaine dress a third year, or Sarah Northrup had her bright saffron shawl dyed black, I was sensible of a wrong having been done our little household. I felt like crossing the street whenever I saw approaching the portly figure of Cyrus Husted’s mother, the woman who dragged everybody into her house to show them the ingrain carpet she had bought at Tecumseh, and assured them that it was much cheaper in the long run than the products of my aunt’s industry. I tingled35 with indignation as she passed me on the sidewalk, puffing36 for breath and stepping mincingly37 because her shoes were too tight for her.
Nearly all the knowledge of our neighbors’ sayings and doings which reached Aunt Susan came to her from me. She kept herself to herself with a vengeance38, toiling39 early and late, rarely going beyond the confines of her yard save on Sunday mornings, when we went to church, and treating with frosty curtness40 the few people who ventured to come to our house on business or from social curiosity. For one thing, this Juno Mills in which we lived was not really our home. We had only been there for four or five years—a space which indeed spanned all my recollections of life—but left my Aunt more or less a stranger and a new-comer. She spared no pains to maintain that condition. I can see now that there were good reasons for this stern aloofness41. At the time I thought it was altogether due to the proud and unsociable nature of my Aunt.
In my child’s mind I regarded her as distinctly an elderly person. People outside, I know, spoke42 of her as an old maid, sometimes winking43 furtively44 over my head as they did so. But she was not really old at all—was in truth just barely in the thirties.
Doubtless the fact that she was tall and dark, with very black hair, and that years of steady concentration of sight, upon the strings45 and threads of the loom, had scored a scowling46 vertical47 wrinkle between her near-sighted eyes gave me my notion of her advanced maturity48. And in all her ways and words, too, she was so far removed from any idea of youthful softness! I could not remember her having ever kissed me. My imagination never evolved the conceit49 of her kissing anybody. I had always had at her hands uniformly good treatment, good food, good clothes; after I had learned my letters from the old maroon50 plush label on the Babbitt’s soap box which held the wood behind the stove, and expanded this knowledge by a study of street signs, she had herself taught me how to read, and later provided me with books for the village school. She was my only known relative—the only person in the world who had ever done anything for me. Yet it could not be said that I loved her. Indeed she no more raised the suggestion of tenderness in my mind than did the loom at which she spent her waking hours.
“The Perkinses asked me why you didn’t get the butcher to cut up the pig,” I remarked at last, rubbing my hands together over the hot stove griddles.
“It’s none of their business!” said Aunt Susan, with laconic51 promptness.
“And Devillo Pollard’s got a new overcoat,” I added. “He hasn’t worn the old army one now for upward of a week.”
“If this war goes on much longer,” commented my Aunt, “every carpet in Dearborn County ‘ll be as blue as a whetstone.”
I think that must have been the entire conversation of the afternoon. I especially recall the remark about the overcoat. For two years now the balls of rags had contained an increasing proportion of pale blue woollen strips, as the men of the country round about came home from the South, or bought cheap garments from the second-hand52 dealers53 in Tecumseh. All other colors had died out. There was only this light blue, and the black of bombazine or worsted mourning into which the news in each week’s papers forced one or another of the neighboring families. To obviate54 this monotony, some of the women dyed their white rags with butternut or even cochineal, but this was a mere34 drop in the bucket, so to speak. The loom spun55 out only long, depressing rolls of black and blue.
My memory leaps lightly forward now to the early evening, when I held the lamp in the woodshed, and Aunt Susan cut up the pig.
How joyfully56 I watched her every operation! Every now and again my interest grew so beyond proper bounds that I held the lamp sidewise, and the flame smoked the chimney. I was in mortal terror over this lamp, even when it was standing57 on the table quite by itself. We often read in the paper of explosions from this new kerosene58 by which people were instantly killed and houses wrapped in an unquenchable fire. Aunt Susan had stood out against the strange invention, long after most of the other homes of Juno Mills were familiar with the idea of the lamp. Even after she had yielded, and I went to the grocery for more oil and fresh chimneys and wicks, like other boys, she refused to believe that this inflammable fluid was really squeezed out of hard coal, as they said. And for years we lived in momentary59 belief that our lamp was about to explode.
My fears of sudden death could not, however, for a moment stand up against the delighted excitement with which I viewed the dismemberment of the pig. It was very cold in the shed, but neither of us noticed that. My Aunt attacked the job with skilful60 resolution and energy, as was her way, chopping small bones, sawing vehemently61 through big ones, hacking62 and slicing with the knife, like a strong man in a hurry.
For a long time no word was spoken. I gazed in silence as the head was detached, and then resolved itself slowly into souse—always tacitly set aside as my special portion. In prophecy I saw the big pan, filled with ears, cheeks, snout, feet, and tail, all boiled and allowed to grow cold in their own jelly—that pan to which I was free to repair any time of day until everything was gone. I thought of myself, too, with apron63 tied round my neck and the chopping-bowl on my knees, reducing what remained of the head into small bits, to be seasoned by my Aunt, and then fill other pans as head-cheese. The sage64 and summer savory65 hung in paper flour-bags from the rafters overhead. I looked up at them with rapture66. It seemed as if my mouth already tasted them in head-cheese and sausage and in the hot gravy67 which basted68 the succulent spare-rib. Only the abiding69 menace of the lamp kept me from dancing with delight.
Gradually, however, as my Aunt passed from the tid-bits to the more substantial portions of her task, getting out the shoulders, the hams for smoking, the pieces for salting down in the brine-barrel, my enthusiasm languished70 a trifle. The lamp grew heavy as I changed it from hand to hand, holding the free fingers at a respectful distance over the chimney-top for warmth, and shuffling71 my feet about. It was truly very cold. I strove to divert myself by smiling at the big shadow my bustling72 Aunt cast against the house side of the shed, and by moving the lamp to affect its proportions, but broke out into yawns instead. A mouse ran swiftly across the scantling just under the lean-to roof. At the same time I thought I caught the muffled73 sound of distant rapping, as if at our own rarely used front door. I was too sleepy to decide whether I had really heard a noise or not.
All at once I roused myself with a start. The lamp had nearly slipped from my hands, and the horror of what might have happened frightened me into wakefulness.
“The Perkins girls keep on calling me ‘Wise child.’ They yell it after me all the while,” I said, desperately74 clutching at a subject which I hoped would interest my Aunt. I had spoken to her about it a week or so before, and it had stirred her quite out of her wonted stern calm. If anything would induce her to talk now, it would be this.
“They do, eh?” she said, with an alert sharpness of voice, which dwindled75 away into a sigh. Then, after a moment, she added, “Well, never you mind. You just keep right on, tending to your own affairs, and studying your lessons, and in time it’ll be you who can laugh at them and all their low-down lot. They only do it to make you feel bad. Just don’t you humor them.”
“But I don’t see,” I went on, “why—what do they call me ‘wise child’ for? I asked Hi Budd, up at the Corners, but he only just chuckled76 and chuckled to himself, and wouldn’t say a word.”
My Aunt suspended work for the moment, and looked severely77 down upon me. “Well! Ira Clarence Blodgett!” she said, with grim emphasis, “I am ashamed of you! I thought you had more pride! The idea of talking about things like that with a coarse, rough, hired man—in a barn!”
To hear my full name thus pronounced, syllable78 by syllable, sent me fairly weltering, as it were, under Aunt Susan’s utmost condemnation79. It was the punishment reserved for my gravest crimes. I hung my head, and felt the lamp wagging nervelessly in my hands. I could not deny even her speculative80 impeachment81 as to the barn; it was blankly apparent in my mind that the fact of the barn made matters much worse. “I was helping82 him wash their two-seated sleigh,” I submitted, weakly. “He asked me to.”
“What does that matter?” she asked, peremptorily83. “What business have you got going around talking with men about me?”
“Why, it wasn’t about you at all, Aunt Susan,” I put in more confidently. “I said the Perkins girls kept calling me ‘wise child,’ and I asked Hi—”
Aunt Susan sighed once more, and interrupted me to inspect the wick of the lamp. Then she turned again to her work, but less spiritedly now. She took up the cleaver with almost an air of sadness.
“You don’t understand—yet,” she said. “But don’t make it any harder for me by talking. Just go along and say nothing to nobody. People will think more of you.”
My mind strove in vain to grapple with this suggested picture of myself, moving about in perpetual dumbness, followed everywhere by universal admiration84. The lamp would not hold itself straight.
All at once we both distinctly heard the sound of footsteps close outside. The noise of crunching85 on the dry, frozen snow came through the thin clapboards with sharp resonance86. Aunt Susan ceased cutting and listened.
“I heard somebody rapping at the front door a spell ago,” I ventured to whisper. My Aunt looked at me, and probably realized that I was too sleepy to be accountable for my actions. At all events she said nothing, but moved toward the low door of the shed, cleaver in hand.
“Who’s there?” she called out in shrill87, belligerent88 tones; and this demand she repeated, after an interval of silence, when an irresolute89 knocking was heard on the door.
We heard a man coughing immediately outside the door. I saw Aunt Susan start at the sound—almost as if she recognized it. A moment later this man, whoever he was, mastered his cough sufficiently90 to call out, in a hesitating way:
“Is that you, Susan?”
Aunt Susan raised her chin on the instant, her nostrils91 drawn92 in, her eyes flashing like those of a pointer when he sees a gun lifted. I had never seen her so excited. She wheeled round once, and covered me with a swift, penetrating93, comprehensive glance, under which my knees smote94 together, and the lamp lurched perilously95. Then she turned again, glided96 toward the door, halted, moved backward two or three steps—looked again at me, and this time spoke.
“Well, I swan!” was what she said, and I felt that she looked it.
“Susan! Is that you?” came the voice again, hoarsely98 appealing. It was not the voice of any neighbor. I made sure I had never heard it before. I could have smiled to myself at the presumption99 of any man calling my Aunt by her first name, if I had not been too deeply mystified.
“I’ve been directed here to find Miss Susan Pike,” the man outside explained, between fresh coughings.
“Well, then, mog your boots out of this as quick as ever you can!” my Aunt replied, with great promptitude. “You won’t find her here!”
“But I have found her!” the stranger protested, with an accent of wearied deprecation. “Don’t you know me, Susan? I am not strong, this cold air is very bad for me.”
“I say ‘get out!’” my Aunt replied, sharply. Her tone was unrelenting enough, but I noted that she had tipped her head a little to one side, a clear sign to me that she was opening her mind to argument. I felt certain that presently I should see this man.
And, sure enough, after some further parley100, Susan went to the door, and, with a half-defiant gesture, knocked the hook up out of the staple101.
“Come along then, if you must!” she said, in scornful tones. Then she marched back till she stood beside me, angry resolution written all over her face and the cleaver in her hand.
A tall, dark figure, opaque102 against a gleaming background of moonlight and snowlight, was what I for a moment saw in the frame of the open doorway103. Then, as he entered, shut and hooked the door behind him, and stood looking in a dazed way over at our lamplit group, I saw that he was a slender, delicately featured man, with a long beard of yellowish brown, and gentle eyes. He was clad as a soldier, heavy azure-hued caped105 overcoat and all, and I already knew enough of uniforms—cruel familiarity of my war-time infancy—to tell by his cap that he was an officer. He coughed again before a word was spoken. He looked the last man in the world to go about routing up peaceful households of a winter’s night.
“Well, now—what is your business?” demanded Aunt Susan. She put her hand on my shoulder as she spoke, something I had never known her to do before. I felt confused under this novel caress106, and it seemed only natural that the stranger, having studied my Aunt’s face in a wistful way for a moment, should turn his gaze upon me. I was truly a remarkable107 object, with Aunt Susan’s hand on my shoulder.
“I could make no one hear at the other door. I saw the light through the window here, and came around,” the stranger explained. He sent little straying glances at the remains108 of the pig and at the weapon my Aunt held at her side, but for the most part looked steadily109 at me.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Aunt Susan, coldly.
“What do you want, now that you are here? Why did you come at all? What business had you to think that I ever wanted to lay eyes on you again? How could you have the courage to show your face here—in my house?”
The man’s shoulders shivered under their cape104, and a wan97 smile curled in his beard. “You keep your house at a very low temperature,” he said with grave pleasantry. He did not seem to mind Aunt Susan’s hostile demeanor110 at all.
“I was badly wounded last September,” he went on, quite as if that was what she had asked him, “and lay at the point of death for weeks. Then they sent me North, and I have been in the hospital at Albany ever since. One of the nurses there, struck by my name, asked me if I had any relatives in her village—that is, Juno Mills. In that way I learned where you were living. I suppose I ought not to have come—against doctor’s orders—the journey has been too much—I have suffered a good deal these last two hours.”
I felt my Aunt’s hand shake a little on my shoulder. Her voice, though, was as implacable as ever.
“There is a much better reason than that why you should not have come,” she said, bitterly.
The stranger was talking to her, but looking at me. He took a step toward me now, with a softened111 sparkle in his eyes and an outstretched hand. “This—this then is the boy, is it?” he asked.
With a gesture of amazing swiftness Aunt Susan threw her arm about me, and drew me close to her side, lamp and all. With her other hand she lifted and almost brandished112 the cleaver.
“No, you don’t!” she cried. “You don’t touch him! He’s mine! I’ve worked for him day and night ever since I took him from his dying mother’s breast. I closed her eyes. I forgave her. Blood is thicker ’n water after all. She was my sister. Yes, I forgave poor Emmeline, and I kissed her before she died. She gave the boy to me, and he’s mine! Mine, do you hear?—mine!”
“My dear Susan—” our visitor began. “Don’t ‘dear Susan’ me! I heard it once—once too often. Oh, never again! You left me to run away with her. I don’t speak of that. I forgave that when I forgave her. But that was the least of it. You left her to herself for months before she died. You’ve left the boy to himself ever since. You can’t begin now. I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for him—you can’t make me stop now.”
“I went to California,” he went on in a low voice, speaking with difficulty. “We didn’t get on together as smoothly113 as we might perhaps, but I had no earthly notion of deserting her. I was ill myself, lying in yellow-fever quarantine off Key West, at the very time she died. When I finally got back you and the child were both gone. I could not trace you. I went to the war. I had made money in California. It is trebled now. I rose to be Colonel—I have a Brigadier’s brevet in my pocket now. Yet I give you my word I never have desired anything so much, all the time, as to find you again—you and the boy.”
My Aunt nodded her head comprehendingly. I felt from the tremor114 of her hand that she was forcing herself against her own desires to be disagreeable.
“Yes, that war,” was what she said. “I know about that war! The honest men that go get killed. But you—you come back!”
The man frowned wearily, and gave a little groan115 of discouragement. “Then this is final, is it? You don’t wish to speak with me; you really desire to keep the boy—you are set against my ever seeing him—touching him. Why, then, of course—of course—excuse my—”
And then for the first time I saw a human being tumble in a dead swoon. My little brain, dazed and bewildered by the strange new things I was hearing, lagged behind my eyes in following the sudden pallor on the man’s face—lagged behind my ears in noting the tell-tale quaver and gasp116 in his voice. Before I comprehended what was toward—lo! there was no man standing in front of me at all.
Like a flash Aunt Susan snatched the lamp from my grasp and flung herself upon her knees beside the limp and huddled117 figure. After a momentary inspection118 of the white, bearded face, she set the lamp down on the frozen earth floor and took his head upon her lap.
“Take the lamp, run to the buttery, and bring the bottle of hartshorn!” she commanded me, hurriedly. “Or, no—wait—open the door—that’s it—walk ahead with the light!”
The strong woman stood upright as she spoke, her shoulders braced119 against the burden she bore in her arms. Unaided, with slow steps, she carried the senseless form of the soldier into the living-room, and held it without rest of any sort, the while I, under her direction, wildly tore off quilts, blankets, sheets, and feather-tick from my bed and heaped them up on the floor beside the stove. Then, when I had spread them to her liking120, she bent and gently laid him down.
“Now get the hartshorn,” she said.. I heard her putting more wood on the fire, but when I returned with the phial she sat once again with the stranger’s head upon her knee. She was softly stroking the fine, waving brown hair upon his brow, but her eyes were lifted, looking dreamily at far-away things. I could have sworn to the beginnings of a smile about her parted lips. It was not like my Aunt Susan at all.
“Come here, Ira,” I heard her say at last, after a long time had been spent in silence. I walked over and stood at her shoulder, looking down upon the pale face upturned against the black of her worn dress. The blue veins121 just discernible in temples and closed eyelids122, the delicately turned features, the way his brown beard curled, the fact that his breathing was gently regular once more—these are what I saw. But my Aunt seemed to demand that I should see more.
“Well?” she asked, in a tone mellowed123 beyond all recognition. “Don’t you—don’t you see who it is?”
I suppose I really must have had an idea by this time. But I remember that I shook my head.
My Aunt positively124 did smile this time. “The Perkins girls were wrong,” she said; “there isn’t the least smitch of a ‘wise child’ about you!”
There was another pause. Emboldened125 by consciousness of a change in the emotional atmosphere, I was moved to lay my hand upon my Aunt’s shoulder. The action did not seem to displease126 her, and we remained thus for some minutes, watching together this strange addition to our family party.
Finally she told me to get on my cap, comforter, and mittens127, and run over to Dr. Peabody’s and fetch him back with me. The purport128 of my mission oppressed me.
“Is he going to die then?” I asked.
Aunt Susan laughed outright129. “You little goose,” she said; “do you think the doctors kill people every time?”
And, laughing again, with a trembling softness in her voice and tears upon her black eyelashes, she lifted her face to mine—and kissed me!
No fatality130 dogged good old Doctor Peabody’s big footsteps through the snow that night. I fell asleep while he was still at my Aunt’s house, but not before the stranger had recovered consciousness, and was sitting up in the large rocking-chair, and it was clearly understood that he was soon to be well again.
The kindly, garrulous131 doctor did more than reassure132 our little household. He must have spent most of the night going about reassuring133 the other households of Juno Mills. At all events, when I first went out next morning—while our neighbors were still eating their buckwheat cakes and pork fat by lamplight—everybody seemed to know that my father, the distinguished134 Colonel Blodgett, had returned from the war on sick-leave, and was lying ill at the house of his sister-in-law. I felt at once the altered attitude of the village toward me. Important citizens who had never spoken to me before—dignified and portly men in blue cutaway coats with brass135 buttons, and high stiff hats of shaggy white silk—stopped now to lay their hands on the top of my head and ask me how my father, the Colonel, was getting along. The grocer’s hired man gave me a Jackson ball and two molasses cookies the very first time I saw him. Even the Perkins girls, during the course of the afternoon, strolled over to our front gate, and, instead of hurling136 enigmatic objurgations at me, invited me to come out and play. The butcher of his own accord came and finished cutting up the pig.
These changes came back to me as one part of the great metamorphosis which the night’s events had wrought137. Another part was the definite disappearance138 of the stern-faced, tirelessly toiling old maid I had known all my life as Aunt Susan. In her place there was now a much younger woman, with pleasant lines about her pretty mouth, and eyes that twinkled when they looked at me, and who paid no attention to the loom whatever, but bustled139 cheerily about the house instead, thinking only of good things for us to eat.
I remember that I marked my sense of the difference by abandoning the old name of Aunt Susan, and calling her now just “Auntie.” And one day, in the mid-spring, after she and her convalescent patient had returned from their first drive together in the country round about, she told me, as she took off her new bonnet140 in an absent-minded way, and looked meditatively141 at the old disused loom, and then bent down to brush my forehead with her warm lips—she told me that henceforth I was to call her Mother.
The End
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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cleaver
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| n.切肉刀 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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laggard
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| n.落后者；adj.缓慢的，落后的 | |
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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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28
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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29
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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30
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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31
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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32
checkered
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| adj.有方格图案的 | |
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33
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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34
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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35
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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37
mincingly
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38
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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39
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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40
curtness
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| n.简短；草率；简略 | |
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41
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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42
spoke
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| 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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43
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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44
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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45
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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46
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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47
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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48
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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49
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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50
maroon
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| v.困住，使（人）处于孤独无助之境；n.逃亡黑奴；孤立的人；酱紫色，褐红色；adj.酱紫色的，褐红色的 | |
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51
laconic
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| adj.简洁的；精练的 | |
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52
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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53
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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54
obviate
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| v.除去，排除，避免，预防 | |
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55
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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56
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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57
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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58
kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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59
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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60
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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61
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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62
hacking
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| n.非法访问计算机系统和数据库的活动 | |
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63
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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64
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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65
savory
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| adj.风味极佳的，可口的，味香的 | |
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66
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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67
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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68
basted
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| v.打( baste的过去式和过去分词 )；粗缝；痛斥；（烤肉等时）往上抹[浇]油 | |
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69
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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70
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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71
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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72
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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73
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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74
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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75
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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78
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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79
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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80
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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81
impeachment
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| n.弹劾；控告；怀疑 | |
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82
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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83
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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84
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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85
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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86
resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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87
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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88
belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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89
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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90
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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91
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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92
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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93
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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94
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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95
perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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96
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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97
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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98
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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99
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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100
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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101
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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102
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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103
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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104
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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105
caped
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| 披斗篷的 | |
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106
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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107
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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108
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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109
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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110
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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111
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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112
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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113
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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114
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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115
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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116
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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117
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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118
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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119
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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120
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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121
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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122
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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123
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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124
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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125
emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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127
mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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128
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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129
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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130
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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131
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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132
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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133
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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134
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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135
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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136
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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137
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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138
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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139
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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140
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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141
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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