“This is a red-letter day for Wagner,” he remarked. “What do you do with pipes when they get leprous, Teddy?” he asked, looking dubiously10 at the meerschaum bowl.
“I sit down and do Herodotus,” remarked a slightly irritated voice from the window-seat, behind the lamp.
“I don’t think that’s any use,” said Tom.
“Perhaps you’ve never tried it. I wish to goodness you’d sit quiet for ten minutes, and let me work!”
Tom walked up to the lamp, and examined the pipe more closely.
“It is as spotted and ringstraked as Jacob’s oxen,” he remarked. “Teddy, do stop working! It’s after eleven, and you said you’d stop at eleven.”
“And if you inquire what the reason for——” murmured Teddy.
“I never inquired the reason,” interrupted Tom. “I don’t want to know. Do stop! You’re awfully11 unsociable!”
“Five minutes more,” said Ted4 inexorably.
Tom took a turn up and down the room, and whistled a few bars of a popular tune13. Then he took up a book, yawned prodigiously14, and read for the{3} space of a minute and a quarter, lying back in a long basket-chair.
“What the use of my learning classics is, I don’t know,” he remarked. “I’m not going to be a schoolmaster or a frowsy don.”
“No, we can’t all be schoolmasters or frowsy dons, any more than we can all be sculptors,” said the voice from the window-seat vindictively16.
Tom laughed.
“Dear old boy, I mean no reflection on you. You’ll be a capital don, if you succeed in getting a fellowship, and it will always be a consolation17 to you to know that you probably won’t be as frowsy as some of your colleagues. I can’t think how you can possibly contemplate18 teaching Latin prose to a lot of silly oafs like me for the remainder of your mortal life.”
“You must remember that all undergraduates aren’t such fools as you.”
“That’s quite true; but some are much more unpleasant. They are, really; it’s no use denying it.”
Ted shut his books, and looked meditatively19 out on to the court through the intervening flower-box, filling his pipe the while, and Tom, finding he got no answer, continued—
“And I suppose, in course of time, they’ll make you a dean. That’s a jolly occupation! Eight a.m. on a winter’s morning. And the warming apparatus20 of the chapel21 is defective22. Furthermore, you must remember that those are the dizzy heights to which you will rise, if you are successful; if not, you will have spent the six best years of your life in writing{4} about the deliberative subjunctive, and, at the end, have the consolation of being told that the electors considered your dissertation23 very promising24, but unfortunately there was no vacancy25 for you. They will also recommend you to publish it, and it will be cut up in the Classical Review, by a Dead Sea ape with bleary eyes and a bald head, who will say you are an ignoramus, and had better read his grammar before you write one of your own. Oh, it’s a sweet prospect26! It is grammar you do, isn’t it?”
“No; but it doesn’t matter,” said Ted. “Go on.”
“How a sensible man can contemplate spending his life in a place like this, I cannot conceive,” said Tom. “It’s the duty of every man to knock about a bit, and learn that the outer darkness does not begin at Cambridge Station. There is a place called London, and there are other places called Europe, Asia, Africa, and America.”
“And Australia. Do you propose to go to them all?” asked Ted. “It’s a new idea, isn’t it? Yesterday you said that, as soon as you went down, you were going to bury yourself at home for five years, and work. Why is Applethorpe so much better than Cambridge?”
“Why?” said Tom. “The difference lies in me. I shall continue to be aware of the existence of other countries, and other interests. Great heavens! I asked Marshall to-day, in an unreflective moment, if he knew Thomas Hardy27, and he said, ‘No; when did he come up?’ And Marshall is a successful,{5} valuable man, according to their lights here. He’s a tutor, and he collects postmarks. That’s what you may become some day. My hat, what a brute28 you will be!”
Ted Markham left the window-seat, and came and stood on the hearth-rug.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “It’s not necessary to vegetate29 because you live here, and it’s not necessary to be unaware30 of the existence of Hardy because you know Thucydides. I don’t want fame in the way you want it in the least. I haven’t the least desire to make a splash, as you call it. It seems to me that one can become educated, in your sense of the word, simply by living and seeing people. It doesn’t really help you to live in a big town, and have five hundred acquaintances instead of fifty.”
“No, I know,” said Tom, “but as a matter of experience, of men who settle down here, a larger proportion are vegetables than should be. They want to be the authorities on gerunds, or Thucydides, or supines in -um, or binomial theorems, or acid radicals31, and they get to care for nothing else. If there were only a dozen fellowships reserved for men who didn’t mean to work at anything, it would be all right, but when every one cares for his own line more than anything else, you get a want of proportion. Collectively they care for nothing but lines, individually each for his own line. And, after all, lines are a very small part of life. What difference would it make to any one if there was no such thing as the deliberative subjunctive?{6}”
Markham did not reply for a moment.
“No one supposes it would,” he said, after a pause, “but you must remember that grammar is not necessarily uninteresting because it doesn’t interest you. In any case let’s walk down to the bridge.”
“All right. Where are my shoes, and my coat? Ah, I’m sitting on it!”
Tom’s rooms were on the ground floor on the side of the court facing the chapel. The moon had risen in a soft blue sky, and as they stepped into the open air they paused a moment.
The side of the chapel opposite them was bathed in whitest light, cast obliquely32 on to it, and buttresses33 and pinnacles34 were outlined with shadows. The great shield-bearing dragons perched high above the little side-chapels stood out clear-lined and fantastic from their backgrounds, and the great crowned roses and portcullis beneath them looked as if they were cut in ivory and ebony. The moon caught a hundred uneven35 points in the windows, giving almost the impression that the chapel was lighted inside. To the east and west rose the four pinnacles dreamlike into the vault36 of the sky. In front of them stretched the level close-cut lawn looking black beneath the moonlight, and from the centre came the gentle metallic37 drip of the fountain into its stone basin. Towards the town the gas-lit streets shot a reddish glare through the white light, and now and then a late cab rattled38 across the stone-lined rails of the tramway. From the left there came from the rooms of some musically minded undergraduate the sound of a rich, fruity voice, singing,{7} “I want no star in heaven to guide me,” followed by “a confused noise within,” exactly as if some one had sat down on the piano.
Tom murmured, “I want no songs by Mr. Tosti,” drew his hand through Markham’s arm, and they strolled down together towards the river.
“Of course I don’t mean that you’ll become like Marshall,” he said, “but it does make me wild to think of the lives some of these people lead. They don’t care for anything they should care about, and even if they do care about it, they never let you know it, or talk of it. Oh, Teddy, don’t become a vegetable!”
“And yet when I came up,” said Markham, “my father used to write me letters, asking me about my new impressions, and this fresh world that was opening round me, and there really wasn’t any fresh world opening round me, and I didn’t have any new impressions of any sort. It seemed to me like any other place—and I was expected to feel the bustle39 and the stir, and the active thought, and temptations, and I don’t know what beside.”
“O Lord!” sighed Tom. “I know just the sort of thing. I don’t know if there is any bustle and stir, and active thought, but I certainly never came across them. Doesn’t the Cambridge Review call itself the ‘Journal of University Life and Thought?’ Meditate40 on that a moment. As for temptations, the only temptations I know of are not to be dressed by eight, not to go to Sunday morning chapel, and not to work from nine till two. But I’ve been acquainted with all those temptations all my life, except that{8} one had to be up by 7.30 at Eton. The temptations, in fact, are less severe here.”
“I don’t know how it is,” said Ted, “but whenever people write books about Cambridge, they make the bad undergraduates go to gambling41 hells on the Chesterton Road, and the good ones be filled with ennobling thoughts when they contemplate their stately chapel. Did you ever go to a gambling hell on the Chesterton Road, Tom?”
“No; do you ever have ennobling thoughts when you look at the stately chapel? Of course you don’t. You think it’s deuced pretty, and so do I, and we both play whist with threepenny points; and as a matter of fact we don’t fall in love with each other’s cousins at the May races, nor do we sport deans into their rooms, nor do deans marry bedmakers. Oh, we are very ordinary!”
“I feel a temptation to walk across the grass,” said Ted.
“Yes, you’re the wicked B.A. who leads the fresh, bright undergraduate—that’s me—into all sorts of snares42. What fools people are!”
Tom sat on the balustrade of the bridge and lit a pipe. The match burned steadily43 in the still night air.
“Now, Teddy, listen,” he said, and he dropped it over into the black water. There was a moment’s silence as it fell through the air; then a sudden subdued44 hiss45 as the red-hot dottel was quenched46.
“I wonder if you know how nice that is,” said Tom. “I don’t believe you enjoy that sort of thing a bit.{9}”
“Dropping matches into the river?” asked Markham. “No, I don’t know that I care for it very much.”
“Oh, it’s awfully nice,” said Tom. “Here goes another. There—that little hiss after the silence. Fusees would be even better. No; you haven’t got an artistic47 soul. Never mind; it would be dreadfully in your way up here. Teddy, stop up here till the end of the month, and then come and stay with us a bit. You needn’t shoot unless you like.”
“Yes, I shall stop up till the end, but I don’t know whether I can come home with you. I ought to work.”
“What rot it is!” said Tom angrily. “You’ve been working for six months quite continuously, and you think you can’t spare a week to be sociable12 in. What on earth does your wretched work matter, if you do nothing else? What is the good of a man who only works?”
“More good than a man who never works. But I agree with you, really.”
“Well, but you behave as if you didn’t think so,” said Tom. “The other day you said you sympathized with that wretched grammarian in Browning, who spent his whole life in settling the question of the Enclitic ?ν, or some folly48 of that sort, and caught a cold on his chest in consequence, and had integral calculus49 and tussis, and a hundred other things. Very right and proper. Have you got any syphons? I wish for whisky. Well, will you come home with me or not? I’m not going to press you.”
“No, I don’t want pressing. Yes, I’ll come. I{10} should like to very much. You leave one alone, which is the first quality of a host.”
They strolled up again, as the clock began to strike twelve.
“I’m sure I’ve done you much more good than you’d have got in an hour out of your Herodotus,” said Tom. “There is one really good point about you, and that is that if you are told something you think about it. I shouldn’t wonder if I found you dropping matches into the Cam some night soon.”
“It’s quite possible. Let’s see, what is the point of it?—the sudden splash at the end of the silence, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is like so many things. It’s like a mole50 burrowing52 silently in the earth, and then suddenly coming out at a different place. You needn’t examine that analogy. It’s like what I am going to do. I’m going to work very hard and quite silently for several years, and then suddenly I’m going to make a splash.”
“But are you going out immediately afterwards—like the match?”
“I don’t know; perhaps I shall—who knows?”
“Tom, are you aware that we are talking exactly like the people in books about Cambridge—the two friends, you know, who walk about on moonlight nights, and meditate on life and being?”
“God forbid!” said Tom piously53. “But we’d better go indoors, just to be safe. Those people are so ridiculous only because they are always the same. Of course we all do meditate a little on life and being, but we do other things besides. But they come out{11} in the evening like rabbits out of their burrow51, and disappear again till the next evening. I’m going to play cricket to-morrow. They never do that.”
“And drink whisky now. They never do that.”
“No. To drink whisky is next door to going to the gambling hell on the Chesterton Road. Don’t go to bed yet. Come to my room.”
“I thought you wanted a syphon.”
“Yes; go and get one, will you, and bring it round.”
“Any more orders?” asked Markham.
“Oh yes,” said Tom—“some tobacco. I’ve run out.”
The Long Vacation Term was, so Tom thought, a really admirable institution, and it might have been invented exclusively for him. None of the colleges are more than half full, there are no lectures, and no need of wearing caps and gowns. The usual things go on as usual, but in a less emphatic54 manner. Those who wish to work do so, but not with any sense of being ill-used if they are interrupted; college matches take place, but they are not matters of first-class importance, or of first-class cricket. There is a country-house atmosphere about the place, an atmosphere of flannel trousers in the morning, of never being in a hurry, of a good deal of slackly played lawn tennis, and going on the river in canoes. This suited Tom very well, for he was more than anything else an ambitious loafer, who might turn out a loafer without ambition or an ambitious man. Successful loafing is not a gift to be despised; it requires a certain amount of ability, for{12} the successful loafer must never be bored with doing nothing. Tom had quite enough ability to be thoroughly55 successful in this line; he was clever, artistic, original, and full of many interests, and in consequence he loafed from year’s end to year’s end without ever wishing to do anything else, though he meant to do other things often enough. He played games well, but amateurishly56, not taking them seriously enough to be pre-eminent in anything from rowing down to chess, but finding amusement in them, often playing a good innings at cricket when it was not wanted, and given to slog at dangerous balls when it was particularly important that he should keep his wicket up. “College matches in the Long,” as he explained, were about his form.
He was for ever coming into harmless little collisions with the arm of the academic law, being found in the streets after dark without cap or gown, not from any wish to transgress57 the regulations which the accumulated wisdom of generations had framed, but from considering in a genial58 way, on each particular occasion, that it was a matter of no importance. In the same way, if he more frequently walked across the hallowed grass than he went round by the path, or if Mr. Carlingford’s name was more often conspicuous59 by its absence than its presence from the boards that told how many undergraduates attended lectures, he evinced such frank surprise when the matter was brought home to him, was so ready to express regret for what had happened, and so identified himself with his tutor’s wish that it should not occur again, that the offence seemed at once to{13} appear in an almost wholly unobjectionable light. He was now at the end of his second year at Cambridge, and the prospects60 of his getting through a Tripos with any credit either to himself or his teachers were small. His teachers regretted this more probably than Tom himself, for they were quite aware of his ability, or at least his power to do better than badly, while Tom was supremely61 unconscious of it. He had been told that a Tripos was a test of merit, and he accepted the fact cheerfully, even when coupled with the assurance that he would probably only get a third. Tom drew the inference that he was therefore a fool, and neither wished to dispute it nor disprove it. He was, perhaps, conscious of a feeling that a great many men who seemed to him to be extraordinarily62 dull took brilliant degrees, and supposed that he was wrong in thinking them dull, or at any rate that the abilities which ensured good degrees were compatible in the same man with the extremes of social deficiencies. Meantime he made admirable little sketches63 of his friends in the margin64 of his books, and on sheets of paper during lecture hours; settled down to the belief that his mission was to be a sculptor15, and was almost surprised that the hour had passed so soon. For the rest he was a young man of twenty-one, of rather more than medium height, with an extraordinarily pleasant face and a pair of honest brown eyes, which looked quite straight at you, and always seemed to be glad to see you. He looked intensely English, and pre-eminently clean among that race of clean men. Even Mr. Marshall, about whom Tom has already hazarded{14} an opinion, had been heard to say that Carlingford was an uncommonly65 pleasant fellow, though he hardly ever came to have his Latin prose looked over.
It was nearer ten o’clock than nine when Tom emerged half dressed from his bedroom next morning, to find two or three cold pieces of bacon waiting for him, which he inspected with an air of slight but resigned curiosity. It really seemed so odd that this world should contain things so undesirable66 as pieces of cold crinkled bacon; the reasons for their existence were as unintelligible67 as the causes which produced centipedes or deliberative subjunctives. Markham came in at this moment, for Tom had said he was coming to work with him at half-past nine, but his face expressed no surprise.
“Come in, old man,” said Tom. “I hate people who say ‘old man,’ don’t you? Have you come to breakfast? That’s right. Sit down, and help yourself. I’ve breakfasted ages ago, and I’m afraid the tea’s quite cold. Never mind, I’ll make some more. You may think I’m foolish, but it’s not so. As a matter of fact, I didn’t wake till half-past nine. Make tea, Teddy; I’ll be ready in a minute.”
“I didn’t come here to make tea for you, but to work,” said Markham, lighting68 the spirit-lamp.
“Well, you’re late, then,” said Tom; “you said you’d be here at half-past nine, and it’s close on ten. And I wish it was eleven.”
“Why?”
“Because I should have shaved, and have eaten a little cold crinkled bacon. Also perhaps have done a little work. But about that I can’t say.{15} By the way,” he called out from his bedroom, “Teddy!”
“Well?”
“I’m going to study the antique this morning in the Cast Museum. Come too?”
“Rot!”
“What?”
“Rot!”
“Oh! This is rather a brilliant conversation, isn’t it? Well, I’m going there really. Do come. You’ll see some pretty things. I wish I’d done the Discobolus. I should have, if some one hadn’t thought of it first. I shall do a man shying a cricket-ball. Pull the string and the model will work.”
Tom emerged from his bedroom and sat down to the cold bacon.
“I shall complain of the cook,” he remarked. “This bacon is cold. I didn’t order cold bacon. I’m not a hedger and ditcher. What are hedgers and ditchers? Anyhow, they eat cold bacon in hedges and ditches. I’ve seen them myself.”
“Perhaps you didn’t order your breakfast at three minutes to ten.”
“Don’t be snappy, Ted. But you’re quite right. I don’t know what they mean by it. Was it you who came in here about half-past eight, and knocked at my door?”
“No. I shouldn’t have stopped there. But I thought you said you didn’t awake till after nine.”
“Oh, that was afterwards. I didn’t awake that time till after nine. You see it was quite an accident that some one came in here at half-past eight, and{16} I couldn’t conscientiously69 count that. I’m sure you must see that no one with any sense of honour could have taken advantage of that.”
“No, it would have been hardly fair, would it?” said Markham dryly. “A tricky70 sort of thing to do. Where did you say you were going to spend the morning?”
“At the Arch?ological Museum. I went there yesterday for the first time. They’ve got no end of casts. All the best Greek things, you know.”
“It won’t help you much in your Tripos, will it?”
“No, of course it won’t,” shouted Tom. “Good heavens, to hear you talk, one would think that a man’s place in heaven was decided71 by his Tripos, not to mention his place on earth! I’m not going to be a don or a schoolmaster, as I told you last night——”
“Frowsy don,” said Markham.
“All right, frowsy don, and I don’t care a blow whether I get ploughed or not. I don’t feel the least interest in any of the books I have to read, so why should I read them?”
“Then why do you ever read at all?”
“Because dons and other people, like you, for instance, make such a fuss if I don’t.”
Markham walked to the window and pulled up the blind, letting a great hot square of sunshine in upon the carpet.
“I wonder at your considering that sufficient reason. Of course I’m grateful for the compliment. Personally I should never think of doing a thing because you would make a fuss if I did not.{17}”
“Oh, go home, Teddy,” said Tom in cordial invitation. “You talk like pieces for Latin prose. Look here, I’m going to the museum for an hour, and then I shall come and work. This afternoon we play some college—John’s, I think—on our ground. You said you’d play. We shall begin at two sharp. Mind you work very hard all the morning, and try to finish the fifth book of Herodotus—or whatever it is—before lunch. I hope you always mark your book with a pencil, and if you find any difficulties, bring them to me.”
Tom laid a paternal72 hand on Markham’s shoulder, and blew a smoke-ring at him.
“And now I’m going to study the heathen antique. I wish you’d come. It would really do you good. For me of course it’s necessary, as I’m going to be a sculptor. Teddy, will you be my model for ‘The Academic Don’? I’m going to do a statue of the academic don, a mixture of you and Marshall and a few others—a type, you know, not an individual. That’s always going to be my plan. I shall do a pedimental group, ‘Typical Developments of Modern Dons.’ In the centre the don stands upright, looking more or less like an ordinary man: then you see him beginning to stoop, then sitting down, getting more and more like a vegetable at each stage, and in the corner there will be two large decayed cauliflowers, with fine caterpillars73 crawling all over them. In ten years you shall sit for the cauliflower. Good-bye.”
Tom banged the door after him and went off to his museum, and there was nothing left for Ted but to follow his advice and begin working, which he did{18} in a savage74 spirit. Like many rather silent, rather serious people, he found a great stimulus75 in the presence of some one who, like Tom, was hardly ever serious, and never silent. He made periodical attempts to take Tom in hand, but, like most people who had tried to do so, his efforts were not very successful. Tom had loafing in the blood, and his ambitions did not run in the lines of Triposes. At the same time it was owing to him that Tom had not at present failed very signally in college examinations, for Ted had succeeded in making him work, if not steadily, at least intermittently76. Tom’s fits of intermittent77 work had not, it is true, occurred very often, but when they did occur they lasted sometimes for a week, of eight-hour days, and left him idler than ever. But, from Ted’s point of view, a widely supported and seemingly rational one—that men came up to the university partly at least to work, and that examinations were the criterion whereby the success of nine terms of residence was judged—these intermittent fits were better than nothing, and when they were induced just before an examination they led to results which, though superficial, were, according to the standard he measured them by, tolerably satisfactory. Tom never professed78 to feel the least interest in what he was working at, but pressure would sometimes make him work; and a very vivid memory, though one of short range, enabled him to reproduce the results of his week’s cramming79.
But Tom’s influence over his friend was of a much more personal and vital kind. Ted looked on to the time when Tom should go down, and leave him, as he hoped, to a permanent university life, with blankness. He formed few friendships—and he had never been intimate with any one before. Tom’s healthy, out-of-door sort of mind, coupled with his artistic and picturesque80 ability, and his personal charm, had for him a unique attraction. You may see an even further development of the same phenomenon sometimes in the lower animals. A staid senior collie will often strike up an intimacy81 with a frisky82 young kitten, though it is hard to understand what the common ground between them is. The collie is not happy without the kitten, but unfortunately the kitten is quite happy without the collie—in fact, it would find the continuance of its exclusive society a little tedious.
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overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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3
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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guttering
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| n.用于建排水系统的材料；沟状切除术；开沟 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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11
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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vindictively
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| adv.恶毒地；报复地 | |
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17
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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dissertation
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| n.（博士学位）论文，学术演讲，专题论文 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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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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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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vegetate
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| v.无所事事地过活 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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calculus
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| n.微积分；结石 | |
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mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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burrowing
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的现在分词 )；翻寻 | |
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piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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amateurishly
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| adv.外行地，生手地 | |
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transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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caterpillars
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| n.毛虫( caterpillar的名词复数 )；履带 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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frisky
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| adj.活泼的，欢闹的；n.活泼，闹着玩；adv.活泼地，闹着玩地 | |
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