She was—at last!—an actress; but she was none the less singularly discontented. In a very brief time she had travelled a great way from the Joan Thursby of East Seventy-sixth Street; a world of emotion and experience already dissociated them; but she seemed to have profited little by the journey. She felt sure that she had started the wrong way to prove her ability to act. And foreseeing nothing better than her present circumstances, she questioned gravely an inscrutable future.
Instinctively4 she felt uneasy about this intimate, daily relationship with Quard. She wasn't afraid of him, but she was a little afraid of herself—because she liked him. Though still she dwelt in secret longing5 upon the image, half real, half fanciful, of a lover gentle and strong and fine—such an one as John Matthias might prove—for all that, Charlie Quard had the power to stir her pulses with a casual look of admiration6, or with some careless note of tenderness in his accents.
The shower slashed7 viciously at the restaurant windows. At that hour there were few other patrons in the establishment, no lights to relieve the dismal8 greyness of the afternoon, and no sounds other than an infrequent clash of crockery, the muffled9 shuffling10 of waitresses' feet, and their subdued11 voices, the melancholy12 and incessant13 crepitation of the downpour.
Joan was sensible to the approach of an exquisite14 despondency; and in alarm, fearing to think too deeply, she arose, ran back to the theatre and on impulse paid her way in through the front, to watch the flickering15 phantasmagoria of the flying films and to sit in judgment16 on the antics of her fellows on the variety bill. She was in no hurry to return to the dressing-room, with its smells of grease-paint, scented17 powder, ordinary perfumes, sweat, stale cigarette-smoke, gin, and broken food. One of the clog-dancers claimed a tubercular tendency, for which she asserted gin to be a sovereign specific; but as the day ran on was even forgetting, at times, to cough by way of an overture18 to recourse to the bottle. The other, viewing this proceeding19 with public disfavour, had opened up an apparently20 inexhaustible and hopelessly monotonous21 store of reminiscence of the privations she had endured in consequence of "Fanny's weakness." Joan gathered that the two were forever being dropped from one bill after another because of Fanny's weakness.
And of this she had five more days to anticipate and to endure....
She crawled back to Forty-fifth Street at half-past eleven, that night, so dog-tired that she had neither the heart nor the strength to call on the Deans with her good news; this though there were sounds of discreet22 revelry audible through the door of the second-floor front....
Somehow the week wore out without misadventure. Joan walked through her part with increasing confidence. Quard left her very much to herself when they were off the stage; indeed, he spent no more time in the theatre than was absolutely necessary. What he did out of it she did not know, but from the frequency with which he played his part with an alcoholic23 breath, she surmised24 that he was solacing25 himself in conventional manner for his degradation26 to "the four-a-day."
On the third day the clog-dancers were dispensed27 with for the reason forecast, their place being taken by two female acrobats28 of a family troupe29, who lolled about for eleven hours at a stretch in their grimy pink tights and had little to say either to Joan or to the matronly lady with the robust30 voice and the knitting. But the change was a wholesome31 one for the dressing-room.
The following week Charles D'Arcy & Company played at another house of equal unpretentiousness, on the East Side, and the week after that was divided between two other theatres. And on Wednesday of the fourth week—they were then in Harlem—what Joan had vaguely32 foreseen and hoped against, happened.
Quard turned up in the morning with red-rimmed eyes, a flushed face and a thick tongue blatantly33 advertising34 a night of sleepless35 drunkenness. By sheer force of an admirable physique and the instinct of a trained actor, he contrived36 to play the first turn without mishap37, snatched a little sleep in his dressing-room, and seemed almost his everyday self at the next repetition. But after that he left the theatre to drug his jangling nerves with more whiskey; and appeared at the final repetition so stupefied that he would not have been permitted to go on the stage but for remissness38 on the part of the stage-manager. Before he had been five minutes on view he was hooted39 off and the curtain was rung down amid an uproar40.
Once back in her dressing-room (where she was alone, since their act was the last on the bill and the rest of the performers had already left the theatre) Joan gave way to a semi-hysterical tempest of tears. It was her first experience at close quarters with a man in hopeless intoxication41, and while Quard's surrender was too abject43 to terrify, she was faint with disgust of him and incensed44 beyond measure with him for having subjected her to those terrible five minutes before a howling audience. With this, she was poignantly45 aware that henceforth their offering was "cold": by morning Quard's name would be upon the black-list and further booking impossible to secure. She might as well count herself once more out of work, and now in even less hopeful circumstances than when first she had struck out for herself; for then she had been buoyed46 up by the fatuous47 confidence of complete inexperience, and then she had been comparatively affluent48 in the possession of twenty-two dollars. Now she knew how desperately49 hard was the way she must climb, and she had less than five dollars. What little she had been able to set aside out of her weekly wage had gone to purchase some sorely needed supplements to her meagre wardrobe.
It was some time before she could collect herself enough to dabble50 her swollen51 eyes with cold water, scrub off her make-up, and change for the street.
She stole away presently across an empty and desolate52 stage and through the blind, black alley53 leading from the stage-door to One-hundred-and-twenty-fifth Street. She felt somewhat relieved and comforted by the clean night air and the multitude of lights—the sense of normal life fluent in its accustomed, orderly channels. It seemed, in her excited fancy, like escaping from the foul54, choking atmosphere of a madhouse....
The theatre was near Third Avenue, toward which Joan hurried, meaning to board a southbound car and transfer to Forty-second Street. But as she neared the corner she checked sharply, and (simple curiosity proving stronger than her impulse to fly across the street) went more slowly—only a few yards behind a figure that she knew too well—a swaying figure with weaving feet.
Vastly different from the carefully overdressed, dandified person he had been at their first meeting, Quard stumbled on, his hands deep in pockets, head low between his shoulders, a straw hat jammed down over his eyes. Obviously he was without definite notion of either his where-abouts or his destination. Passers-by gave him a wide berth55.
He seemed so broken and helpless that pity replaced horror and indignation in the heart of the girl. After all, he hadn't been unkind to her; but for him she would long since have gone to the wall; and ever since their clash on the day of the try-out, he had treated her with a studied respect which had pleased her, apprehensive56 though she had remained of a renewal57 of his advances.
Suddenly, and quite without premeditation, she darted58 forward and plucked Quard by the sleeve just as he was on the point of staggering through the swinging doors of a corner saloon. If her impulse had been at all articulate, she would have said that this was, in such extremity59, the least she could do—to try to save him from himself.
"Charlie!" she cried. "No, Charlie—don't be a fool!"
The man halted and, turning, reeled against the door-post. "Wasmasr?" he asked thickly. Then recognition stirred in his bemused brain. "Why, it's lil Joan Thursh'y...."
"Come away," she insisted nervously60. "Don't be a fool. Don't go in there. Go home."
He moved his head waggishly61. "Thash where 'm goin'—home—soon's I brace62 up a bit."
"Come away!" Joan repeated sharply, dragging at his cuff63. "Do you hear? Come away. A walk'll straighten you out better'n anything else."
"Walk, eh?" Quard lifted his chin and lurched away from the door-post. "Y' wanna take walk with me? All right"—indulgently—"I'll walk with you, lil one, 's far's y' like."
"Come, then!" she persisted. "Hurry—it's late."
He yielded peaceably, with a sodden64 chuckle65; but as he turned the lights of the saloon illumined his face vividly66 for an instant, and provided Joan with a fresh and appalling67 problem. The man had forgotten to remove his make-up; his mouth and jaws68 were plastered with a coat of bluish-grey paint, to suggest a week's growth of beard when viewed across footlights; there were wide blue rings round his eyes, and splashes of some silvery mixture on his dark hair. His face was a burlesque69 mask, so extravagant70 that it could not well escape observation in any steady light. It was impossible for Joan to be seen publicly with him—in a street-car, for instance. But now that she had taken charge of him, she couldn't gain her own consent to abandon the man to the potentially fatal whims71 of his condition. For a moment aghast and hesitant, in another she recognized how unavoidable was the necessity of adopting the suggestion his stupefied wits had twisted out of her pleadings: she would have to walk with him a little way, at least until he could recover to some slight extent.
Indeed, even had she desired to, she would probably have found it difficult to get rid of him just then; for in an attempt to steady himself, Quard grasped her arm just above the elbow; and this grip he maintained firmly without Joan's daring to resent it openly. She was to that extent afraid of his drunkenness, afraid of his uncertain temper.
Submissively, then, she piloted him to the south side of the street, where with fewer lighted shop-windows there was consequently less publicity72, and to Lexington Avenue, turning south and then west through the comparative obscurity of One-hundred-and-twenty-fourth Street. Neither spoke73 until they had traversed a considerable distance and turned south again on Lenox Avenue. The streets were quiet, peopled with few wayfarers74; and these few hurried past them with brief, incurious glances if not with that blind indifference75 which is largely characteristic of the people of New York. Quard suffered himself to be led with a docility76 as grateful as it had been unexpected. It was apparent to the girl that he was making, subconsciously77 at least, a strong effort to control his erratic78 feet. He retained her arm, however, until they were near One-hundred-and-sixteenth Street: when, noticing the lights of a corner drug-store, the girl held back.
A swift glance roundabout discovered nobody near.
"Where's your handkerchief, Charlie?" she demanded.
"Where's whash? Whashmasser?"
"I say," she repeated impatiently, "where's your handkerchief? Get it out and scrub some of that paint off your face. Do you hear? You look like a fool."
"'M a fool," Quard admitted gravely, fumbling79 through his pockets.
"Well, I won't be seen with you looking like that. Hurry up!"
Her peremptory80 accents roused him a little. He found his handkerchief and began laboriously81 and ineffectually to smear82 his face with it, with the sole result of spreading the colour instead of removing it. In this occupation, he released her arm. With a testy83 exclamation84, Joan snatched the handkerchief from him and began to scour85 his cheeks and jaws, heedless whether he liked it or not. To this treatment he resigned himself without protest—with, in fact, almost ludicrous complaisance86, lowering his head and thrusting it forward as if eager for the scrubbing.
For all her willingness she could accomplish little without cold cream. When at length she gave it up, his jowls were only a few shades lighter87. She shrugged88 with despair, and threw away the greasy89 handkerchief.
"It's no use," she said. "It just won't come off! You'll have to go as you are."
"Whash that? Go where?"
"Now listen, Charlie," she said imperatively90: "see that drug-store on the corner? You go in there and ask the man to give you something to straighten you out."
Quard nodded solemnly, fixed91 the lighted show-window with a steadfast92 glare, and repeated: "So'thin' to straighten m' out."
"That's it. Go on, now. I'll wait here."
He wagged a playful forefinger93 at her. "Min' y' do," he mumbled94, and wandered off.
"And—Charlie!—get him to let you wash your face," she called after the man.
Waiting in the friendly shadow of a tree, she watched him anxiously through the window; saw him turn to the soda-fountain and make his wants known to the clerk, who with a nod of comprehension and a smile of contempt began at once to juggle95 bottles and a glass.
Singularly enough, it never occurred to the girl to seize this chance to escape. She was now accepting the situation without question or resentment96. Quard seemed to her little better than an overgrown, irresponsible child, requiring no less care. Somebody had to serve him instead of his aberrant97 wits. To leave him to himself would be sheer inhumanity.... But she reasoned about his case far less than she felt, and for the most part acted in obedience98 to simple instinct.
She saw him drain a long draught99 of some whitish, foaming100 mixture, pay and reel out of the store. He had, of course, forgotten (if he had heard) her plea to remove the remainder of his make-up. She was angry with him on that account, as angry as she might have been with a heedless youngster. But she did not let this appear. She moved quickly to his side.
"Come on," she said quietly, turning southward; "you've got to walk a lot more."
He checked, mumbled inarticulately, staring at her with glazed101 eyes, but in the end yielded passively. In silence they continued to One-hundred-and-tenth Street, Joan watching him furtively102 but narrowly. The drug worked more slowly than she had hoped. Primarily, in fact, it seemed only to thicken the cloud that befogged his wits. But by the time they had gained the last-named street, she noticed that he was beginning to walk with some little more confidence.
He now seemed quite ignorant of her company—strode on without a word or glance aside. They crossed to Central Park and, entering, began to thread a winding103 path up the wooded rises of its northwestern face. Momentarily, now, there was an increasing assurance apparent in the movements of the man. He trudged104 along steadily105, but with evident effort, like one embarrassed by a heavy weariness. His breathing was quick and stertorous106.
The park seemed very quiet. Joan wondered at this, until she remembered that it must have been nearly midnight when they stopped at the drug-store. She had noticed idly that the clerk had interrupted preparations to close in order to wait on Quard.
They met nobody afoot, not even a policeman; but here and there, upon benches protected by umbrageous107 foliage108, figures were vaguely discernible; men and women, a pair to a bench, sitting very near to one another when not locked in bold embraces. Joan heard their voices, gentle, murmurous109, fond. These sights and sounds, the intimations they distilled110, would at a previous time have moved the girl either to derision or to envy; now she felt only a profoundly sympathetic compassion111, new and strange to her, quite inexplicable112.
Near the top of the hill they found a bench set in the stark113 glare of an arc-light, and therefore unoccupied. Upon this Quard threw himself as if exhausted114. He said nothing, seemed wholly oblivious115 of his companion. Immediately he was seated his chin dropped forward on his chest, his hat fell off, his arms and legs dangled116 inertly117. He appeared to sink at once into impregnable slumber118; yet Joan was somehow intuitively aware that he wasn't asleep.
She herself was very weary, but she couldn't leave him now, at the mercy of any prowling vagabond of the park. Picking up his hat, she sat down beside him with it in her lap, glad of the chance to rest. She was at once and incongruously not sleepy and thoughtless. Convinced that Quard was coming to himself, she was no longer troubled by solicitude119; her wits wandered in a vast vacuity120, sensitive only to dull impressions. She felt the immense hush121 that brooded over the park, a hush that was rendered emphatic122 by the muffled but audible and fast drumming of the man's over-stimulated heart, straining its utmost to pump and cleanse123 away the toxic42 stuff in his blood; the infrequent rumble124 and grinding of a surface-car on Central Park West seemed a little noise in comparison. Now and again a long thin line of glimmering125 car-windows would wind snakily round the lofty curve of the Elevated structure at One-hundred-and-tenth Street. Beyond, the great bulk of the unfinished cathedral on Morningside Heights loomed126 black against a broken sky of clouds.
At one time a policeman passed them, strolling lazily, helmet in hand while he mopped his brow. His stare was curious for the two silent and ill-assorted figures on the bench. Joan returned it with insolent127 and aggressive interest, as if to demand what business it was of his. He grinned indulgently, and passed on.
She had lost track of time entirely128 when Quard stirred, sighed, lifted his head and sat up with a gesture of deep despondency. The movement roused her from a dull, lethargic129, waking dream.
"Feeling better, Charlie?" she asked with assumed lightness.
He nodded and groaned130, without looking at her.
"Able to go home yet?"
"In a minute," he said drearily131.
"Where do you live?" she persisted.
He waved a hand indifferently westward132. "Over there—Ninety-sixth Street."
"Think you'll be able to walk it?"
"Oh, I'm all right now." He groaned again, and leaned forward, elbow on knee, forehead in his hand. "I feel like hell," he muttered.
"The best thing for you is to get to bed and get some sleep," said the girl, stirring restlessly.
He snapped crossly: "Wait a minute, can't you?"
She subsided133.
"I guess you know I've gummed this thing all up, don't you?" he asked at length.
"Yes, I guess you have," she replied, listless.
"And, of course"—bitterly—"it's all my fault...."
To this she answered nothing.
"Well, I'm sorry," he pursued in a sullen134 voice. "I guess I can't say any more'n that."
She sighed: "I guess it can't be helped."
He leaned back again, explored a pocket, brought to light a roll of money, with shaking hands stripped off four bills. "Well, anyway, there's your bit."
Taking the bills, she examined them carefully. "That's a whole week," she said, surprised.
"All right; it's coming to you."
With neither thanks nor further protest, she put the money away in her pocket-book.
"You've acted like a brick to me," he continued.
"Don't let's talk about that now—"
"I don't want you should think I don't appreciate it. If it hadn't been for you, I don't know when I'd've got home—chances are, not till tomorrow night, anyway. The old woman'd've been half crazy."
Joan kept silence.
"My mother," he amended135, with a sidelong glance. "There's only the two of us."
"Well," said the girl rising, "if that's so, you'd better get home to her; she won't be any too happy until she sees you—and not then."
Reluctantly he got to his feet. "She thinks I'm a great actor," he observed bitterly; "and I'm nothing but a damn' drunken—"
Joan interrupted roughly: "Ah, can that bunk136: it'll keep till tomorrow—and maybe you'll mean it then."
He subsided into silence, whether offended or penitent137 she neither knew nor cared. She gave him his hat, avoiding his look, and without further speech they found their way out to the gate at One-hundred-and-third Street. Here Joan paused to await an Eighth Avenue car.
"You'd better walk all the way home, even if you don't feel like it," she advised Quard brusquely. "It won't do you any harm, and that mop of yours is a sight."
"All right," he assented138. He moved tentatively a foot or so away, checked, turned back. "I suppose this is good-bye—?" he said, offering his hand.
"I guess it is," she agreed without emotion. Barely touching139 his clammy and tremulous fingers, she hastily withdrew her own.
A southbound car was swinging down to them, not a block distant. Quard eyed it with morose140 disfavour.
"At that," he said suddenly, "maybe this wouldn't've happened if you hadn't been so stand-offish. I only wanted to be friends—"
In her exasperation141 Joan gave an excellent imitation of Miss May Dean's favourite ejaculation. "My Gawd!" she said scornfully—"if you can't think of any better excuse for being a souse than to blame it on me.... Good night!"
The car pulled up for her. She climbed aboard—left him staring.
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1
scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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7
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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11
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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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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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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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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solacing
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的现在分词 ) | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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acrobats
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| n.杂技演员( acrobat的名词复数 )；立场观点善变的人，主张、政见等变化无常的人 | |
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troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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blatantly
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| ad.公开地 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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remissness
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| n.玩忽职守；马虎；怠慢；不小心 | |
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hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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41
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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42
toxic
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| adj.有毒的，因中毒引起的 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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45
poignantly
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46
buoyed
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| v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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47
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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48
affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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49
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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50
dabble
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| v.涉足，浅赏 | |
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51
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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52
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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53
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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54
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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55
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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56
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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57
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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58
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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59
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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60
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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61
waggishly
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| adv.waggish（滑稽的，诙谐的）的变形 | |
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62
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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63
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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64
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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65
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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66
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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67
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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68
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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69
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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70
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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71
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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72
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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73
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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74
wayfarers
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| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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75
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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76
docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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77
subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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78
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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79
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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80
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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81
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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82
smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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83
testy
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| adj.易怒的；暴躁的 | |
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84
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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85
scour
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| v.搜索；擦，洗，腹泻，冲刷 | |
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86
complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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87
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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88
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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89
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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90
imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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91
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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92
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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93
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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94
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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95
juggle
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| v.变戏法，纂改，欺骗，同时做；n.玩杂耍，纂改，花招 | |
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96
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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97
aberrant
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| adj.畸变的，异常的，脱离常轨的 | |
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98
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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99
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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100
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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101
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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102
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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103
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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104
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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105
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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106
stertorous
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| adj.打鼾的 | |
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107
umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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108
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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109
murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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110
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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111
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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112
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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113
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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114
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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115
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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116
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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117
inertly
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| adv.不活泼地，无生气地 | |
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118
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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119
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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120
vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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121
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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122
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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123
cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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124
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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125
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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126
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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127
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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128
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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129
lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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130
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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131
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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132
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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133
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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134
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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135
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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136
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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137
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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138
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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140
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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141
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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