I look back now upon the week which followed this home-coming as a season of much dejection and unhappiness. Perhaps at the time it was not all unmixed tribulation2. There was a great deal to do, naturally, and occupation to a healthful and vigorous young man is of itself a sovereign barrier against undue4 gloom. Yet I think of it now as all sadness.
Mr. Stewart had really grown aged5 and feeble. For the first time, too, there was a petulant6 vein7 in his attitude toward me. Heretofore he had treated my failure to grow up into his precise ideal of a gentleman with affectionate philosophy, being at pains to conceal8 from me whatever disappointment he felt, and, indeed, I think, honestly trying to persuade himself that it was all for the best.
But these five months had created a certain change in the social conditions of the Valley. For years the gulf9 had been insensibly widening, here under our noses, between the workers and the idlers; during my absence there had come, as it were, a landslide10, and the chasm11 was now manifest to us all. Something of this was true all over the Colonies: no doubt what I noticed was but a phase of the general movement, part social, part religious, part political, now carrying us along with a perceptible glide12 toward the crisis of revolution. But here in the Valley, more than elsewhere, this broadening fissure13 of division ran through farms, through houses, ay, even through the group gathered in front of the family fire-place--separating servants from employers, sons from fathers, husbands from wives. And, alas14! when I realized now for the first time the existence of this abyss, it was to discover that my dearest friend, the man to whom I most owed duty and esteem15 and love, stood on one side of it and I on the other.
This was made clear to me by his comments--and even more by his manner--when I told him next day of the great offer which Mr. Cross had made. Not unnaturally16 I expected that he would be gratified by this proof of the confidence I had inspired, even if he did not favor my acceptance of the proffered18 post. Instead, the whole matter seemed to vex19 him. When I ventured to press him for a decision, he spoke20 unjustly and impatiently to me, for the first time.
"Oh, ay! that will serve as well as anything else, I suppose," he said. "If you are resolute21 and stubborn to insist upon leaving me, and tossing aside the career it has been my pleasure to plan for you, by all means go to Albany with the other Dutchmen, and barter23 and cheapen to your heart's content. You know it's no choice of mine, but please yourself!"
This was so gratuitously24 unfair and unlike him, and so utterly25 at variance26 with the reception I had expected for my tidings, that I stood astounded27, looking at him. He went on:
"What the need is for your going off and mixing yourself up with these people, I fail for the life of me to see. I suppose it is in the blood. Any other young man but a Dutchman, reared and educated as you have been, given the society and friendship of gentlefolk from boyhood, and placed, by Heaven! as you are here, with a home and an estate to inherit, and people about you to respect and love--I say nothing of obeying them--would have appreciated his fortune, and asked no more. But no! You must, forsooth, pine and languish28 to be off tricking drunken Indians out of their peltry, and charging some other Dutchman a shilling for fourpence worth of goods!"
What could I say? What could I do but go away sorrowfully, and with a heavy heart take up farm affairs where I had left them? It was very hard to realize that these rough words, still rasping my ears, had issued from Mr. Stewart's lips. I said to myself that he must have had causes for irritation29 of which I knew nothing, and that he must unconsciously have visited upon me the peevishness30 which the actions of others had engendered31. All the same, it was not easy to bear.
Daily contact with Daisy showed changes, too, in her which disturbed me. Little shades of formalism had crept here and there into her manner, even toward me. She was more distant, I fancied, and mistress-like, toward my poor old aunt. She rose later, and spent more of her leisure time up-stairs in her rooms alone. Her dress was notably32 more careful and elegant, now, and she habitually33 wore her hair twisted upon the crown of her head, instead of in a simple braid as of old.
If she was not the Daisy I had so learned to love in my months of absence, it seemed that my heart went out in even greater measure to this new Daisy. She was more beautiful than ever, and she was very gentle and soft with me. A sense of tender pity vaguely34 colored my devotion, for the dear girl seemed to my watchful35 solicitude36 to be secretly unhappy. Once or twice I strove to so shape our conversation that she would be impelled37 to confide17 in me--to throw herself upon my old brotherly fondness, if she suspected no deeper passion. But she either saw through my clumsy devices, or else in her innocence38 evaded39 them; for she hugged the sorrow closer to her heart, and was only pensively40 pleasant with me.
I may explain now, in advance of my story, what I came to learn long afterward41; namely, that the poor little maiden42 was truly in sore distress43 at this time--torn by the conflict between her inclination44 and her judgment45, between her heart and her head. She was, in fact, hesitating between the glamour46 which the young Englishman and Lady Berenicia, with their polished ways, their glistening47 surfaces, and their attractive, idlers' views of existence, had thrown over her, and her own innate48, womanly repugnance49 to the shallowness and indulgence, not to say license50, beneath it all. It was this battle the progress of which I unwittingly watched. Had I but known what emotions were fighting for mastery behind those sweetly grave hazel eyes--had I but realized how slight a pressure might have tipped the scales my way--how much would have been different!
But I, slow Frisian that I was, comprehended nothing of it all, and so was by turns futilely52 compassionate--and sulky.
For again, at intervals53, she would be as gay and bright as a June rose, tripping up and down through the house with a song on her lips, and the old laugh rippling54 like sunbeams about her. Then she would deftly55 perch56 herself on the arm of Mr. Stewart's chair, and dazzle us both with the joyous57 merriment of her talk, and the sparkle in her eyes--or sing for us of an evening, up-stairs, playing the while upon the lute22 (which young Cross had given her) instead of the discarded piano. Then she would wear a bunch of flowers--I never suspecting whence they came--upon her breast, and an extra ribbon in her hair. And then I would be wretched, and gloomily say to myself that I preferred her unhappy, and next morning, when the cloud had gathered afresh upon her face, would long again to see her cheerful once more.
And so the week went by miserably58, and I did not tell my love.
One morning, after breakfast, Mr. Stewart asked Daisy to what conclusion she had come about our accepting Philip Cross's invitation to join a luncheon-party on his estate that day. I had heard this gathering59 mentioned several times before, as a forthcoming event of great promise, and I did not quite understand either the reluctance61 with which Daisy seemed to regard the thought of going, or the old gentleman's mingled62 insistence63 and deference64 to her wishes in the matter.
To be sure, I had almost given up in weary heart-sickness the attempt to understand his new moods. Since his harsh words to me, I had had nothing but amiable65 civility from him--now and then coming very near to his old-time fond cordiality--but it was none the less grievously apparent to me that our relations would never again be on the same footing. I could no longer anticipate his wishes, I found, or foresee what he would think or say upon matters as they came up. We two were wholly out of chord, be the fault whose it might. And so, I say, I was rather puzzled than surprised to see how much stress was laid between them upon the question whether or not Daisy would go that day to Cairncross, as the place was to be called.
Finally, without definitely having said "yes," she appeared dressed for the walk, and put on a mock air of surprise at not finding us also ready. She blushed, I remember, as she did so. There was no disposition66 on my part to make one of the party, but when I pleaded that I had not been invited, and that there was occupation for me at home, Mr. Stewart seemed so much annoyed that I hastened to join them.
It was a perfect autumn day, with the sweet scent67 of burning leaves in the air, and the foliage68 above the forest path putting on its first pale changes toward scarlet69 and gold. Here and there, when the tortuous70 way approached half-clearings, we caught glimpses of the round sun, opaquely71 red through the smoky haze51.
Our road was the old familiar trail northward72 over which Mr. Stewart and I, in the happy days, had so often walked to reach our favorite haunt the gulf. The path was wider and more worn now--almost a thoroughfare, in fact. It came to the creek73 at the very head of the chasm, skirting the mysterious circle of sacred stones, then crossing the swift water on a new bridge of logs, then climbing the farther side of the ravine by a steep zigzag74 course which hung dangerously close to the precipitous wall of dark rocks. I remarked at the time, as we made our way up, that there ought to be a chain, or outer guard of some sort, for safety. Mr. Stewart said he would speak to Philip about it, and added the information that this side of the gulf was Philip's property.
"It is rough enough land," he went on to say, "and would never be worth clearing. He has some plan of keeping it in all its wildness, and building a little summer-house down below by the bridge, within full sound of the waterfall. No doubt we shall arrange to share the enterprise together. You know I have bought on the other side straight to the creek."
Once the road at the top was gained, Cairncross was but a pleasant walking measure, over paths well smoothed and made. Of the mansion75 in process of erection, which, like Johnson Hall, was to be of wood, not much except the skeleton framework met the eye, but this promised a massive and imposing76 edifice77. A host of masons, carpenters, and laborers78, sufficient to have quite depopulated Johnstown during the daylight hours, were hammering, hewing79, or clinking the chimney-bricks with their trowels, within and about the structure.
At a sufficient distance from this tumult80 of construction, and on a level, high plot of lawn, was a pretty marquee tent. Here the guests were assembled, and thither81 we bent82 our steps.
Young Cross came forth60 eagerly to greet us--or, rather, my companions--with outstretched hands and a glowing face. He was bareheaded, and very beautifully, though not garishly83 clad. In the reddish, dimmed sunlight, with his yellow hair and his fresh, beaming face, he certainly was handsome.
He bowed ceremoniously to Mr. Stewart, and then took him warmly by the hand. Then with a frank gesture, as if to gayly confess that the real delight was at hand, he bent low before Daisy and touched her fingers with his lips.
"You make me your slave, your very happy slave, dear lady, by coming," he murmured, loud enough for me to hear. She blushed, and smiled with pleasure at him.
To me our young host was civil enough. He called me "Morrison," it is true, without any "Mr.," but he shook hands with me, and said affably that he was glad to see me back safe and sound. Thereafter he paid no attention whatsoever84 to me, but hung by Daisy's side in the cheerful circle outside the tent.
Sir William was there, and Lady Berenicia, of course, and a dozen others. By all I was welcomed home with cordiality--by all save the Lady, who was distant, not to say supercilious85 in her manner, and Sir John Johnson, who took the trouble only to nod at me.
Inquiring after Mr. Jonathan Cross, I learned that my late companion was confined to the Hall, if not to his room, by a sprained86 ankle. There being nothing to attract me at the gathering, save, indeed, the girl who was monopolized87 by my host, and the spectacle of this affording me more discomfort88 than satisfaction, the condition of my friend at the Hall occurred to me as a pretext89 for absenting myself. I mentioned it to Mr. Stewart, who had been this hour or so in great spirits, and who now was chuckling90 with the Lady and one or two others over some tale she was telling.
"Quite right," he said, without turning his head; and so, beckoning91 to Tulp to follow me, I started.
It was a brisk hour's walk to the Hall, and I strode along at a pace which forced my companion now and again into a trot92. I took rather a savage93 comfort in this, as one likes to bite hard on an aching tooth; for I had a profound friendship for this poor black boy, and to put a hardship upon him was to suffer myself even more than he did. Tulp had come up misshapen and undersized from his long siege with the small-pox, and with very rickety and unstable94 legs. I could scarcely have sold him for a hundred dollars, and would not have parted with him for ten thousand, if for no other reason than his deep and dog-like devotion to me. Hence, when I made this poor fellow run and pant, I must have been possessed95 of an unusually resolute desire to be disagreeable to myself. And in truth I was.
Mr. Jonathan Cross made me very welcome. His accident had befallen on the very day following his return, and he had seen nobody save the inmates96 of the Hall since that time. We had many things to talk about--among others, of my going to Albany to take the agency. I told him that this had not been quite decided97 as yet, but avoided giving reasons. I could not well tell this born-and-bred merchant that my guardian98 thought I ought to feel above trade. His calm eyes permitted themselves a solitary99 twinkle as I stumbled over the subject, but he said nothing.
He did express some interest, however, when I told him whence I had come, and what company I had quitted to visit him.
"So Mistress Daisy is there with the rest, is she?" he said, with more vigor3 in his voice than I had ever heard there before. "So, so! The apple has fallen with less shaking than I thought for."
I do not think that I made any remark in reply. If I did, it must have been inconsequential in the extreme, for my impression is of a long, heart-aching silence, during which I stared at my companion, and saw nothing.
At last I know that he said to me--I recall the very tone to this day:
"You ought to be told, I think. Yes, you ought to know. Philip Cross asked her to be his wife a fortnight ago. She gave no decided answer. From what Philip and Lady Berenicia have said to each other here, since, I know it was understood that if she went to him to-day it meant 'yes.'"
This time I know I kept silence for a long time.
I found myself finally holding the hand he had extended to me, and saying, in a voice which sounded like a stranger's:
"I will go to Albany whenever you like."
I left the Hall somehow, kicking the drunken Enoch Wade100 fiercely out of my path, I remember, and walking straight ahead as if blindfolded101.
点击收听单词发音
1 awakening | |
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
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2 tribulation | |
n.苦难,灾难 | |
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3 vigor | |
n.活力,精力,元气 | |
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4 undue | |
adj.过分的;不适当的;未到期的 | |
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5 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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6 petulant | |
adj.性急的,暴躁的 | |
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7 vein | |
n.血管,静脉;叶脉,纹理;情绪;vt.使成脉络 | |
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8 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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9 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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10 landslide | |
n.(竞选中)压倒多数的选票;一面倒的胜利 | |
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11 chasm | |
n.深坑,断层,裂口,大分岐,利害冲突 | |
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12 glide | |
n./v.溜,滑行;(时间)消逝 | |
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13 fissure | |
n.裂缝;裂伤 | |
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14 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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15 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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16 unnaturally | |
adv.违反习俗地;不自然地;勉强地;不近人情地 | |
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17 confide | |
v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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18 proffered | |
v.提供,贡献,提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19 vex | |
vt.使烦恼,使苦恼 | |
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20 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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21 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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22 lute | |
n.琵琶,鲁特琴 | |
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23 barter | |
n.物物交换,以货易货,实物交易 | |
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24 gratuitously | |
平白 | |
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25 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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26 variance | |
n.矛盾,不同 | |
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27 astounded | |
v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词);愕然;愕;惊讶 | |
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28 languish | |
vi.变得衰弱无力,失去活力,(植物等)凋萎 | |
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29 irritation | |
n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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30 peevishness | |
脾气不好;爱发牢骚 | |
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31 engendered | |
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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32 notably | |
adv.值得注意地,显著地,尤其地,特别地 | |
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33 habitually | |
ad.习惯地,通常地 | |
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34 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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35 watchful | |
adj.注意的,警惕的 | |
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36 solicitude | |
n.焦虑 | |
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37 impelled | |
v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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39 evaded | |
逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 ); 避开; 回避; 想不出 | |
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40 pensively | |
adv.沉思地,焦虑地 | |
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41 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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42 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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43 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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44 inclination | |
n.倾斜;点头;弯腰;斜坡;倾度;倾向;爱好 | |
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45 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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46 glamour | |
n.魔力,魅力;vt.迷住 | |
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47 glistening | |
adj.闪耀的,反光的v.湿物闪耀,闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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48 innate | |
adj.天生的,固有的,天赋的 | |
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49 repugnance | |
n.嫌恶 | |
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50 license | |
n.执照,许可证,特许;v.许可,特许 | |
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51 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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52 futilely | |
futile(无用的)的变形; 干 | |
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53 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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54 rippling | |
起涟漪的,潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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55 deftly | |
adv.灵巧地,熟练地,敏捷地 | |
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56 perch | |
n.栖木,高位,杆;v.栖息,就位,位于 | |
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57 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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58 miserably | |
adv.痛苦地;悲惨地;糟糕地;极度地 | |
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59 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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60 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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61 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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62 mingled | |
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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63 insistence | |
n.坚持;强调;坚决主张 | |
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64 deference | |
n.尊重,顺从;敬意 | |
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65 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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66 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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67 scent | |
n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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68 foliage | |
n.叶子,树叶,簇叶 | |
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69 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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70 tortuous | |
adj.弯弯曲曲的,蜿蜒的 | |
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71 opaquely | |
adv.不透明地,无光泽地 | |
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72 northward | |
adv.向北;n.北方的地区 | |
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73 creek | |
n.小溪,小河,小湾 | |
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74 zigzag | |
n.曲折,之字形;adj.曲折的,锯齿形的;adv.曲折地,成锯齿形地;vt.使曲折;vi.曲折前行 | |
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75 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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76 imposing | |
adj.使人难忘的,壮丽的,堂皇的,雄伟的 | |
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77 edifice | |
n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿,教室) | |
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78 laborers | |
n.体力劳动者,工人( laborer的名词复数 );(熟练工人的)辅助工 | |
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79 hewing | |
v.(用斧、刀等)砍、劈( hew的现在分词 );砍成;劈出;开辟 | |
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80 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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81 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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82 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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83 garishly | |
adv.鲜艳夺目地,俗不可耐地;华丽地 | |
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84 whatsoever | |
adv.(用于否定句中以加强语气)任何;pron.无论什么 | |
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85 supercilious | |
adj.目中无人的,高傲的;adv.高傲地;n.高傲 | |
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86 sprained | |
v.&n. 扭伤 | |
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87 monopolized | |
v.垄断( monopolize的过去式和过去分词 );独占;专卖;专营 | |
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88 discomfort | |
n.不舒服,不安,难过,困难,不方便 | |
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89 pretext | |
n.借口,托词 | |
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90 chuckling | |
轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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91 beckoning | |
adj.引诱人的,令人心动的v.(用头或手的动作)示意,召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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92 trot | |
n.疾走,慢跑;n.老太婆;现成译本;(复数)trots:腹泻(与the 连用);v.小跑,快步走,赶紧 | |
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93 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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94 unstable | |
adj.不稳定的,易变的 | |
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95 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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96 inmates | |
n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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97 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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98 guardian | |
n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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99 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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100 wade | |
v.跋涉,涉水;n.跋涉 | |
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101 blindfolded | |
v.(尤指用布)挡住(某人)的视线( blindfold的过去式 );蒙住(某人)的眼睛;使不理解;蒙骗 | |
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