“Don’t be afraid.”
It is all very well to say this, but Jerry and Linsky read over the brief message many scores of times that day, and still felt themselves very much afraid.
Muirisc was stirred by unwonted excitement. In all its history, the village had never resented anything else quite so much as the establishment of a police barrack in its principal street, a dozen years before. The inhabitants had long since grown accustomed to the sight of the sergeant1 and his four men lounging about the place, and had even admitted them to a kind of conditional2 friendship, but, none the less, their presence had continued to present itself as an affront3 to Muirisc. From one year’s end to another, no suspicion of crime had darkened the peaceful fame of the hamlet. They had heard vague stories of grim and violent deeds in other parts of the south and west, as the failure of the potatoes and the greed of the landlords conspired4 together to drive the peasantry into revolt, but in Muirisc, though she had had her evictions and knew what it was to be hungry, it had occurred to no one to so much as break a window.
Yet now, all at once, here were fresh constables5 brought in from Bantry, with an inspector6 at their head, and the amazed villagers saw these newcomers, with rifles slung7 over their short capes8, and little round caps cocked to one side on their close-cropped heads, ransacking9 every nook and cranny of the ancient town in quest of some mysterious thing, the while others spread their search over the ragged10 rocks and moorland roundabout. And then the astounding11 report flew from mouth to mouth that Father Jago had read in a Dublin paper that O’Daly was believed to have been murdered.
Sure enough, now that they had thought of it, O’Daly had not been seen for two or three days, but until this strange story came from without, no one had given this a thought. He was often away, for days together, on mining and other business, but it was said now that his wife, whom Muirisc still thought of as Mrs. Fergus, had given the alarm, on the ground that if her husband had been going away over night, he would have told her. There was less liking12 for this lady than ever, when this report started on its rounds.
Three or four of the wretched, unwashed and half-fed creatures, who had fled from O’Daly’s evictions to the shelter of the furze-clad ditches outside, had been brought in and sharply questioned at the barracks, on this third day, but of what they had said the villagers knew nothing. And, now, toward evening, the excited groups of gossiping neighbors at the corners saw Jerry Higgins himself, with flushed face and apprehensive13 eye, being led past with his shambling cousin toward constabulary headquarters by a squad14 of armed policemen. Close upon the heels of this amazing spectacle came the rumor—whence started, who could tell?—that Jerry had during the day received a telegram clearly implicating15 him in the crime, At this, Muirisc groaned16 aloud.
“’Tis wid you alone I want to spake,” said Kate, bluntly, to the mother superior.
The April twilight18 was deepening the shadows in the corners of the convent’s reception hall, and mellowing19 into a uniformity of ugliness the faces of the four Misses O’Daly who sat on the long bench before the fireless hearth20. These young women were strangers to Muirisc, and had but yesterday arrived from their country homes in Kerry or the Macroom district to enter the convent of which their remote relation was patron. They were plain, small-farmers’ daughters, with flat faces, high cheek-bones and red hands. They had risen in clumsy humility21 when Kate entered the room, staring in admiration22 at her beauty, and even more at her hat; they had silently seated themselves again at a sign from the mother superior, still staring in round-eyed wonder at this novel kind of young woman; and they clung now stolidly23 to their bench, in the face of Kate’s remark. Perhaps they did not comprehend it, But they understood and obeyed the almost contemptuous gesture by which the aged24 nun25 bade them leave the room.
“What is it thin, Dubhdeasa?” asked Mother Agnes, with affectionate gravity, seating herself as she spoke26. The burden of eighty years rested lightly upon the lean figure and thin, wax-like face of the nun. Only a close glance would have revealed the fine net-work of wrinkles covering this pallid27 skin, and her shrewd observant eyes flashed still with the keenness of youth. “Tell me, what is it?”
“I’ve a broken heart in me, that’s all!” said the girl.
She had walked to one of the two narrow little windows, and stood looking out, yet seeing nothing for the mist of tears that might not be kept down. Only the affectation of defiance28 preserved her voice from breaking.
“Here there will be rest and p’ace of mind,” intoned the other. “’T is only a day more, Katie, and thin ye’ll be wan17 of us, wid all the worriments and throubles of the world lagues behind ye.”
The girl shook her head with vehemence29 and paced the stone floor restlessly.
“’T is I who’ll be opening the dure to ’em and bringing ’em all in here, instead. No fear, Mother Agnes, they’ll folly30 me wherever I go.”
The other smiled gently, and shook her vailed head in turn.
“’T is little a child like you drames of the rale throubles of me,” she murmured. “Whin ye’re older, ye’ll bless the good day that gave ye this holy refuge, and saved ye from thim all. Oh, Katie, darlin’, when I see you standing31 be me side in your habit—’t is mesilf had it made be the Miss Maguires in Skibbereen, the same that sews the vestmints for the bishop32 himself—I can lay me down, and say me nunc dimittis wid a thankful heart!”
Kate sighed deeply and turned away. It was the trusting sweetness of affection with which old Mother Agnes had enveloped33 her ever since the promise to take vows34 had been wrung35 from her reluctant tongue that rose most effectually always to restrain her from reconsidering that promise. It was clear enough that the venerable O’Mahony nuns36 found in the speedy prospect37 of her joining them the one great controlling joy of their lives. Thinking upon this now, it was natural enough for her to say:
“Can thim O’Daly girls rade and write, I wonder?”
“Oh, they’ve had schooling38, all of them. ’T is not what you had here, be anny manes, but ’t will do.”
“Just think, Mother Agnes,” Kate burst forth39, “what it ‘ll be like to be shut with such craytures as thim afther—afther you l’ave us!”
“They’re very humble,” said the nun, hesitatingly. “’T is more of that same spirit I’d fain be seeing in yourself, Katie! And in that they’ve small enough resimblance to Cormac O’Daly, who’s raked ’em up from the highways and byways to make their profession here. And oh—tell me now—old Ellen that brings the milk mintioned to Sister Blanaid that O’Daly was gone somewhere, and that there was talk about it.”
“Talk, is it!” exclaimed Kate, whose introspective mood had driven this subject from her mind, but who now spoke with eagerness. “That’s the word for it, ‘talk.’ ’T is me mother, for pure want of something to say, that putt the notion into Sergeant O’Flaherty’s thick skull40, and, w’u’d ye belave it, they’ve brought more poliss to the town, and they’re worriting the loives out of the people wid questions and suspicions. I’m told they’ve even gone out to the bog41 and arrested some of thim poor wretches42 of O’Driscolls that Cormac putt out of their cottages last winter. The idea of it!”
“Where there’s so much smoke there’s some bit of fire,” said the older woman. “Where is O’Daly?” The girl shrugged43 her shoulders.
“’T is not my affair!” she said, curtly44. “I know where he’d be, if I’d my will.”
“Katie,” chanted the nun, in tender reproof45, “what spirit d’ye call that for a woman who’s within four-an’-twinty hours of making her profession! Pray for yourself, child, that these worldly feelings may be taken from ye!”
“Mother Agnes,” said the girl, “if I’m to pretind to love Cormac O’Daly, thin, wance for all, ’t is no use!”
“We’re bidden to love all thim that despite—” The nun broke off her quotation46 abruptly47. A low wailing48 sound from the bowels49 of the earth beneath them rose through the flags of the floor, and filled the chamber50 with a wierd and ghostly dying away echo. Mother Agnes sprang to her feet.
“’T is the Hostage again!” she cried. “Sister Ellen vowed51 to me she heard him through the night. Did you hear him just now?”
“I heard it,” said Kate, simply.
The mother superior, upon reflection, seated herself again.
“’T is a strange business,” she said, at last. Her shrewd eyes, wandering in a meditative52 gaze about the chamber, avoided Katie’s face. “’T is twelve years since last we heard him,” she mused53 aloud, “and that was the night of the storm. ’T is a sign of misfortune to hear him, they say—and the blowing down of the walls that toime was taken be us to fulfill54 that same. But sure, within the week, The O’Mahoney had gone on his thravels, and pious55 Cormac O’Daly had taken his place, and the convint prospered56 more than ever. At laste that was no misfortune.”
“Hark to me, Mother Agnes,” said Kate, with emphasis. “You never used to favor the O’Mahonys as well I remimber, but you’re a fair-minded woman and a holy woman, and I challenge ye now to tell me honest: Wasn’t anny wan hair on The O’Mahony’s head worth the whole carcase of Cormac O’Daly? ’T was an evil day for Muirisc whin he sailed away. If the convint has prospered, me word, ’t is what nothing else in Muirisc has done. And laving aside your office as a nun, is it sp’akin well for a place to say that three old women in it are better off, and all the rist have suffered?”
“Katie!” admonished57 the other. “You’ll repint thim words a week hence! To hearken to ye, wan would think yer heart was not in the profession ye’re to make.”
The girl gave a scornful, little laugh.
“Did I ever pretind it was?” she demanded.
“’T is you are the contrary crayture!” sighed the mother superior. “Here now for all these cinturies, through all the storms and wars and confiscations, this holy house has stud firm be the old faith. There ’s not another family in Ireland has kept the mass in its own chapel58, wid its own nuns kneeling before it, and never a break or interruption at all. I’ll l’ave it to yer own sinse: Can ye compare the prosperity of a little village, or a hundred of ’em, wid such a glorious and unayqualed riccord as that? Why, girl, ’t is you should be proud beyond measure and thankful that ye’re born and bred and selected to carry on such a grand tradition. To be head of the convint of the O’Mahonys ’t is more historically splindid than to be queen of England.”
“But if I come to be the head at all,” retorted Kate, “sure it will be a convint of O’Dalys.”
The venerable woman heaved another sigh and looked at the floor in silence.
Kate pursued her advantage eagerly.
“Sure, I’ve me full share of pride in proper things,” she said, “and no O’Mahony of them all held his family higher in his mind than I do. And me blood lapes to every word you say about that same. But would you—Agnes O’Mahony as ye were born—would you be asking me to have pride in the O’Dalys? And that ’s what ’t is intinded to make of the convint now. For my part, I’d be for saying: ‘L’ave the convint doy now wid the last of the ladies of our own family rather than keep it alive at the expinse of giving it to the O’Dalys.’”
Mother Agnes shook her head.
“I’ve me carnal feelings no less than you,” she said, “and me family pride to subdue59. But even if the victory of humility were denied me, what c’u’d we do? For the moment, I’ll put this holy house to wan side. What can you do? How can you stand up forninst Cormac O’Daly’s determination? Remimber, widout him ye’re but a homeless gerrel, Katie.”
“And whose fault is that, Mother Agnes?” asked Kate, with swift glance and tone. “Will ye be telling me ’t was The O’Mahony’s? Did he l’ave me widout a four-penny bit, depindent on others, or was it that others stole me money and desaved me, and to-day are keeping me out of me own? Tell me that, Mother Agnes.”
The nun’s ivory-tinted face flushed for an instant, then took on a deeper pallor. Her gaze, lifted momentarily toward Kate, strayed beyond her to vacancy60. She rose to her full height and made a forward step, then stood, fumbling61 confusedly at her beads62, and with trembling, half-opened lips.
“’T is not in me power,” she stammered63, slowly and with difficulty. “There—there was something—I’ve not thought of it for so long—I’m forgetting strangely—”
She broke off abruptly, threw up her withered64 hands in a gesture of despair, and then, never looking at the girl, turned and with bowed head left the room.
Kate still stood staring in mingled65 amazement66 and apprehension67 at the arched casement68 through which Mother Agnes had vanished, when the oak door was pushed open again, and Sister Blanaid, a smaller and younger woman, yet bent69 and half-palsied under the weight of years, showed herself in the aperture70. She bore in her arms, shoving the door aside with it as she feebly advanced, a square wooden box, dust-begrimed and covered in part with reddish cow-skin.
“Take it away!” she mumbled71. “’T is the mother-supayrior’s desire you should take it from here. ’T is an evil day that’s on us! Go fling this haythen box into the bay and thin pray for yourself and for her, who’s taken that grief for ye she’s at death’s door!”
The door closed again, and Kate found herself mechanically bearing this box in her arms and making her way out through the darkened hallways to the outer air. Only when she stood on the steps of the porch, and set down her burden to adjust her hat, did she recognize it. Then, with a murmuring cry of delight, she stooped and snatched it up again. It was the cathach which The O’Mahony had given her to keep.
On the instant, as she looked out across the open green upon the harbor, the bay, the distant peninsula of Kilcrohane peacefully gathering72 to itself the shadows of the falling twilight—how it all came back to her! On the day of his departure—that memorable73 black-letter day in her life—he had turned over this rude little chest to her; he had told her it was his luck, his talisman74, and now should be hers. She had carried it, not to her mother’s home, but to the tiny school-room in the old convent, for safekeeping. She recalled now that she had told the nuns, or Mother Agnes, at least, what it was. But then—then there came a blank in her memory. She could not force her mind to remember when she ceased to think about it—when it made its way into the lumber-room where it had apparently75 lain so long.
But, at all events, she had it now again. She bent her head to touch with her lips one of the rough strips of skin nailed irregularly upon it; then, with a shining face, bearing the box, like some sanctified shrine76, against her breast, she moved across the village-common toward the wharf77 and the water.
The injunction of quavering old Blanaid to cast it into the bay drifted uppermost in her thoughts, and she smiled to herself. She had been bidden, also, to pray; and reflection upon this chased the smile away. Truly, there was need for prayer. Her perplexed78 mind called up, one by one, in disheartening array, the miseries79 of her position, and drew new unhappiness from the confusion of right and wrong which they presented. How could she pray to be delivered from what Mother Agnes held up as the duties of piety80? And, on the other hand, what sincerity81 could there be in any other kind of spiritual petition?
She wandered along the shore-sands under the cliffs, the box tightly clasped in her arms, her eyes musingly83 bent upon the brown reaches of drenched84 seaweed which lay at play with the receding85 tide.
Her mind conjured86 up the image of a smiling and ruddy young face, sun-burned and thatched with crisp, curly brown hair—the face of that curious young O’Mahony from Houghton County. His blue eye looked at her half quizzically, half beseeching87, but Kate resolutely88 drove the image away. He was only the merest trifle less mortal than the others.
So musing82, she strolled onward89. Suddenly she stopped, and lifted her head triumphantly90; the smile had flashed forth again upon her face, and the dark eyes were all aglow91. A thought had come to her—so convincing, so unanswerable, so joyously92 uplifting, that she paused to marvel93 at having been blind to it so long. Clear as noon sunlight on Mount Gabriel was it what she should pray for.
What could it ever have been, this one crowning object of prayer, but the return of The O’Mahony?
As her mental vision adapted itself to the radiance of this revelation, the abstracted glance which she had allowed to wander over the bay was arrested by a concrete object. Two hundred yards from the water’s edge a strange vessel94 had heaved to, and was casting anchor. Kate could hear the chain rattling95 out from the capstan, even as she looked.
The sight sent all prayerful thoughts scurrying96 out of her head. The presence of vessels97 of the size of the new-comer was in itself most unusual at Muirisc. But Kate’s practiced eye noticed a strange novelty. The craft, though thick of beam and ungainly in line, carried the staight running bowsprit of a cutter, and in addition to its cutter sheets had a jigger lug-sail. The girl watched these eccentric sails as they were dropped and reefed, with a curious sense of having seen them somewhere before—as if in a vision or some old picture-book of childhood. Confused memories stirred within her as she gazed, and held her mind in daydream99 captivity100. A figure she seemed vaguely101 to know, stood now at the gunwale.
The spell was rudely broken by a wild shout from the cliff close above her. On the instant, amid a clatter102 of falling stones and a veritable landslide103 of sand, rocks and turf, a human figure came rolling, clambering and tumbling down the declivity104, and ran toward her, its arms stretched and waving with frantic105 gestures, and emitting inarticulate cries and groans106 as it came.
The astonished girl instinctively107 raised the box in her hands, to use it as a missile. But, lo, it was old Murphy who, half stumbling to his knees at her feet, fiercely clutched her skirts, and pointed108 in a frenzy109 of excitement seaward!
“Wid yer own eyes look at it—it, Miss Katie!” he screamed. “Ye can see it yerself! It’s not dr’aming I am!”
“It’s drunk ye are instead, thin, Murphy,” said the girl, sharply, though in great wonderment.
“Wid joy! Wid joy I’m drunk!” the old man shouted, dancing on the sands and slippery sea-litter like one possessed110, and whirling his arms about his head.
“Murphy, man! What ails98 ye? In the name of the Lord—what—”
The browned, wild-eyed, ragged old madman had started at a headlong pace across the wet waste of weeds, and plunged111 now through the breakers, wading112 with long strides—knee-deep, then immersed to the waist. He turned for an instant to shout back: “I’ll swim to him if I drown for it! ’Tis the master come back!”
The girl fell to her knees on the sand, then reverently113 bowed her head till it rested upon the box before her.
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1
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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conditional
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| adj.条件的，带有条件的 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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capes
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| 碎谷； 斗篷( cape的名词复数 )； 披肩； 海角； 岬 | |
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ransacking
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的现在分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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implicating
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| vt.牵涉，涉及（implicate的现在分词形式） | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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mellowing
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| 软化，醇化 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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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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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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51
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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52
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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53
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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54
fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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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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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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71
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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82
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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83
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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84
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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94
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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daydream
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| v.做白日梦，幻想 | |
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100
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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101
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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102
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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103
landslide
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| n.(竞选中)压倒多数的选票；一面倒的胜利 | |
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104
declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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105
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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106
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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107
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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108
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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109
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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110
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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111
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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112
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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113
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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