When the Helstonleigh College boys resolved upon what they were pleased to term a “lark”—and, to do them justice, they regarded this, their prospective7 night’s work, in no graver light—they carried it out artistically8, with a completeness, a skill, worthy9 of a better cause. Several days had they been hatching this, laying their plans, arranging the details; it would be their own bungling10 fault if it miscarried. But the college boys were not bunglers.
Stripped of its details, the bare plot was to exhibit a “ghost” in the cloisters12, and to get Charley Channing to pass through them. The seniors knew nothing of the project. Huntley—it was the day following his promotion—would have stopped it at once, careless as he was. Tom Channing would have stopped it. Gerald Yorke might or might not; but Tod had taken care not to tell Gerald. And Griffin, who was burning to exercise in any way his newly acquired power, would certainly have stopped it. They had been too wise to allow it to come to the knowledge of the seniors. The most difficult part of the business had been old Ketch; but that was managed.
The moonlight shone peacefully on the Boundaries, and the conspirators14 were stealing up, by ones and twos, to their place of meeting, round the dark trunks of the elm trees. Fine as it was overhead, it was less so under-foot. The previous day, you may remember, had been a wet one, the night had been wet, and also the morning of the present day. Schoolboys are not particularly given to reticence15, and a few more than the original conspirators had been taken into the plot. They were winding16 up now, in the weird17 moonlight, for the hour was approaching.
Once more we must pay a visit to Mr. Ketch in his lodge18, at his supper hour. Mr. Ketch had changed his hour for that important meal. Growing old with age or with lumbago, he found early rest congenial to his bones, as he informed his friends: so he supped at seven, and retired19 betimes. Since the trick played him in the summer, he had taken to have his pint20 of ale brought to him; deeming it more prudent21 not to leave his lodge and the keys, to fetch it. This was known to the boys, and it rendered their plans a little more difficult.
Mr. Ketch, I say, sat in his lodge, having locked up the cloisters about an hour before, sneezing and wheezing22, for he was suffering from a cold, caught the previous day in the wet. He was spelling over a weekly twopenny newspaper, borrowed from the public-house, by the help of a flaring23 tallow candle, and a pair of spectacles, of which one glass was out. Cynically24 severe was he over everything he read, as you know it was in the nature of Mr. Ketch to be. As the three-quarters past six chimed out from the cathedral clock, his door was suddenly opened, and a voice called out, “Beer!” Mr. Ketch’s ale had arrived.
But the arrival did not give that gentleman pleasure, and he started up in what, but for the respect we bear him, we might call a fury. Dashing his one-eyed glasses on the table, he attacked the man.
“What d’ye mean with your ‘beer’ at this time o’ night? It wants a quarter to seven! Haven’t you no ears? haven’t you no clock at your place? D’ye think I shall take it in now?”
“Well, it just comes to this,” said the man, who was the brewer25 at the public-house, and made himself useful at odd jobs in his spare time: “if you don’t like to take it in now, you can’t have it at all, of my bringing. I’m going up to t’other end of the town, and shan’t be back this side of ten.”
Mr. Ketch, with much groaning26 and grumbling27, took the ale and poured it into a jug28 of his own—a handsome jug, that had been in the wars and lost its spout29 and handle—giving back the other jug to the man. “You serve me such a imperant trick again, as to bring my ale a quarter of a hour aforehand, that’s all!” snarled30 he.
The man received the jug, and went off whistling; he had the pleasure of knowing Mr. Ketch and his temper well. That gentleman closed his door with a bang, and proceeded to take out his customary bread and cheese. Not that he had any great love for a bread-and-cheese supper as a matter of fancy: he would very much have preferred something more dainty; only, dainties and Mr. Ketch’s pocket did not agree.
“They want to be took down a notch31, that public—sending out a man’s beer a quarter afore seven, when it ain’t ordered to come till seven strikes. Much they care if it stops a waiting and flattening32! Be I a slave, that I should be forced to swallow my supper afore I want it, just to please them? They have a sight too much custom, that’s what it is.”
He took a slight draught33 of the offending ale, and was critically surveying the loaf, before applying to it that green-handled knife of his, whose elegance34 you have heard of, when a second summons was heard at the door—a very timid one this time.
Mr. Ketch flung down the bread and the knife. “What’s the reason I can’t get a meal in quiet? Who is it?”
There was no response to this, beyond a second faint tapping. “Come in!” roared out he. “Pull the string o’ the latch35.”
But nobody came in, in spite of this lucid36 direction; and the timid tapping, which seemed to proceed from very small knuckles37, was repeated again. Mr. Ketch was fain to go and open it.
A young damsel of eight or so, in a tattered38 tippet, and a large bonnet—probably her mother’s—stood there, curtseying. “Please, sir, Mr. Ketch is wanted.”
Mr. Ketch was rather taken to at this strange address, and surveyed the messenger in astonishment39. “Who be you? and who wants him?” growled40 he.
“Please, sir, it’s a gentleman as is waiting at the big green gates,” was the reply. “Mr. Ketch is to go to him this minute; he told me to come and say so, and if you didn’t make haste he should be gone.”
“Can’t you speak plain?” snarled Ketch. “Who is the gentleman?”
“Please, sir, I think it’s the bishop41.”
This put Ketch in a flutter. The “big green gates” could only have reference to the private entrance to the bishop’s garden, which entrance his lordship used when attending the cathedral. That the bishop was in Helstonleigh, Ketch knew: he had arrived that day, after a short absence: what on earth could he want with him? Never doubting, in his hurry, the genuineness of the message, Ketch pulled his door to, and stepped off, the young messenger having already decamped. The green gates were not one minute’s walk from the lodge—though a projecting buttress42 of the cathedral prevented the one from being in sight of the other—and old Ketch gained them, and looked around.
Where was the bishop? The iron gates, the garden, the white stones at his feet, the towering cathedral, all lay cold and calm in the moonlight, but of human sight or sound there was none. The gates were locked when he came to try them, and he could not see the bishop anywhere.
He was not likely to see him. Stephen Bywater, who took upon himself much of the plot’s performance—of which, to give him his due, he was boldly capable—had been on the watch in the street, near the cathedral, for a messenger that would suit his purpose. Seeing this young damsel hurrying along with a jug in her hand, possibly to buy beer for her home supper, he waylaid43 her.
“Little ninepins, would you like to get threepence?” asked he. “You shall have it, if you’ll carry a message for me close by.”
“Little ninepins” had probably never had a whole threepence to herself in her young life. She caught at the tempting44 suggestion, and Bywater drilled into her his instructions, finding her excessively stupid in the process. Perhaps that was all the better. “Now you mind, you are not to say who wants Mr. Ketch, unless he asks,” repeated he for about the fifth time, as she was departing to do the errand. “If he asks, say you think it’s the bishop.”
So she went, and delivered it. But had old Ketch’s temper allowed him to go into a little more questioning, he might have discovered the trick. Bywater stealthily followed the child near to the lodge, screening himself from observation; and, as soon as old Ketch hobbled out of it, he popped in, snatched the cloister11 keys from their nail, and deposited a piece of paper, folded as a note, on Ketch’s table. Then he made off.
Back came Ketch, after a while. He did not know quite what to make of it, but rather inclined to the opinion that the bishop had not waited for him. “He might have wanted me to take a errand round to the deanery,” soliloquized he. And this thought had caused him to tarry about the gates, so that he was absent from his lodge quite ten minutes. The first thing he saw, on entering, was the bit of paper on his table. He seized and opened it, grumbling aloud that folks used his house just as they pleased, going in and out without reference to his presence or his absence. The note, written in pencil, purported45 to be from Joseph Jenkins. It ran as follows:—
My old father is coming up to our place to-night, to eat a bit of supper, and he says he should like you to join him, which I and Mrs. J. shall be happy if you will, at seven o’clock. It’s tripe46 and onions. Yours,
“J. JENKINS.”
Now, if there was one delicacy47, known to this world, more delicious to old Ketch’s palate than another, it was tripe, seasoned with onions. His mouth watered as he read. He was aware that it was—to use the phraseology of Helstonleigh—“tripe night.” On two nights in the week, tripe was sold in the town ready dressed. This was one of them, and Ketch anticipated a glorious treat. In too great a hurry to cast so much as a glance round his lodge (crafty Bywater had been deep), not stopping even to put up the bread and cheese, away hobbled Ketch as fast as his lumbago would allow him, locking safely his door, and not having observed the absence of the keys.
“He ain’t a bad sort, that Joe Jenkins,” allowed he, conciliated beyond everything at the prospect6 the invitation held out, and talking to himself as he limped away towards the street. “He don’t write a bad hand, neither! It’s a plain un; not one o’ them new-fangled scrawls48 that you can’t read. Him and his wife have held up their heads a cut above me—oh yes, they have, though, for all Joe’s humbleness—but the grand folks be a coming to. Old Jenkins has always said we’d have a supper together some night, him and me; I suppose this is it. I wonder what made him take and have it at Joe’s? If Joe don’t soon get better than he have looked lately—”
The first chime of the cathedral clock giving notice of the hour, seven! Old Ketch broke out into a heat, and tried to hobble along more quickly. Seven o’clock! What if, through being late, his share of supper should be eaten!
Peering out every now and then from the deep shade, cast by one of the angles of the cathedral, and as swiftly and cautiously drawn49 back again, was a trencher apparently50 watching Ketch. As soon as that functionary51 was fairly launched on his way, the trencher came out completely, and went flying at a swift pace round the college to the Boundaries.
It was not worn by Bywater. Bywater, by the help of the stolen keys, was safe in the cloisters, absorbed with his companions in preparations for the grand event of the night. In point of fact, they were getting up Pierce senior. Their precise mode of doing that need not be given. They had requisites52 in abundance, having disputed among themselves which should be at the honour of the contribution, and the result was an undue53 prodigality54 of material.
“There’s seven!” exclaimed Bywater in an agony, as the clock struck. “Make haste, Pierce! the young one was to come out at a quarter past. If you’re not ready, it will ruin all.”
“I shall be ready and waiting, if you don’t bother,” was the response of Pierce. “I wonder if old Ketch is safely off?”
“What a stunning55 fright Ketch would be in, if he came in here and met the ghost!” exclaimed Hurst. “He’d never think it was anything less than the Old Gentleman come for him.”
A chorus of laughter, which Hurst himself hushed. It would not do for noise to be heard in the cloisters at that hour.
There was nothing to which poor Charley Channing was more sensitive, than to ridicule56 on the subject of his unhappy failing—his propensity57 to fear; and there is no failing to which schoolboys are more intolerant. Of moral courage—that is, of courage in the cause of right—Charles had plenty; of physical courage, little. Apart from the misfortune of having had supernatural terror implanted in him in childhood, he would never have been physically59 brave. Schoolboys cannot understand that this shrinking from danger (I speak of palpable danger), which they call cowardice60, nearly always emanates61 from a superior intellect. Where the mental powers are of a high order, the imagination unusually awakened62, danger is sure to be keenly perceived, and sensitively shrunk from. In proportion will be the shrinking dread63 of ridicule. Charles Channing possessed64 this dread in a remarkable65 degree; you may therefore judge how he felt, when he found it mockingly alluded66 to by Bywater.
On this very day that we are writing of, Bywater caught Charles, and imparted to him in profound confidence an important secret; a choice few of the boys were about to play old Ketch a trick, obtain the keys, and have a game in the cloisters by moonlight. A place in the game, he said, had been assigned to Charles. Charles hesitated. Not because it might be wrong so to cheat Ketch—Ketch was the common enemy of the boys, of Charley as of the rest—but because he had plenty of lessons to do. This was Bywater’s opportunity; he chose to interpret the hesitation67 differently.
“So you are afraid, Miss Charley! Ho! ho! Do you think the cloisters will be dark? that the moon won’t keep the ghosts away? I say, it can’t be true, what I heard the other day—that you dare not be in the dark, lest ghosts should come and run away with you!”
“Nonsense, Bywater!” returned Charley, changing colour like a conscious girl.
“Well, if you are not afraid, you’ll come and join us,” sarcastically68 returned Bywater. “We shall have stunning good sport. There’ll be about a dozen of us. Rubbish to your lessons! you need not be away from them more than an hour. It won’t be dark, Miss Channing.”
After this, fearing their ridicule, nothing would have kept Charley away. He promised faithfully to be in the cloisters at a quarter past seven.
Accordingly, the instant tea was over, he got to his lessons; Tom at one side of the table—who had more, in proportion, to do than Charles—he at the other. Thus were they engaged when Hamish entered.
“What sort of a night is it, Hamish?” asked Charles, thinking of the projected play.
“Fine,” replied Hamish. “Where are they all?”
“Constance is in the drawing-room, giving Annabel her music lesson. Arthur’s there too, I think, copying music.”
Silence was resumed. Hamish stood over the fire in thought. Tom and Charles went on with their studies. “Oh dear!” presently exclaimed the latter, in a tone of subdued69 impatience70.
Hamish turned his eyes upon him. He thought the bright young face looked unusually weary. “What is it, Charley, boy?”
“It’s this Latin, Hamish. I can’t make it come right. And Tom has no time to tell me.”
“Bring the Latin here.”
Charles carried his difficulties to Hamish. “It won’t come right,” repeated he.
“Like Mrs. Dora Copperfield’s figures, I expect, that wouldn’t add up,” said Hamish, as he cast his eyes over the exercise-book. “Halloa, young gentleman! what’s this! You have been cribbing.” He had seen in the past leaves certain exercises so excellently well done as to leave no doubt upon the point.
Charles turned crimson71. Cribs were particularly objectionable to Mr. Channing, who had forbidden their use, so far as his sons were concerned. “I could not help it, Hamish. I used the cribs for about a week. The desk made me.”
“Made you!”
“Well,” confessed Charley, “there has been a row about the cribbing. The rest had cribbed, and I had not, and somehow, through that, it came out to the second master. He asked me a lot of questions, and I was obliged to tell. It made the desk savage72, and they said I must do as they did.”
“Which you complied with! Nice young gentlemen, all of you!”
“Only for five or six days, Hamish. You may see that, if you look. I am doing my lessons on the square, now, as I did before.”
“And don’t go off the square again, if you please, sir,” repeated Hamish, “or you and I may quarrel. If Mr. Channing is not here, I am.”
“You don’t know how tyrannical the college boys are.”
“Don’t I!” said Hamish. “I was a college boy rather longer than you have yet been, Master Charley.”
He sat down to the table and so cleared Charley’s difficulties that the boy soon went on swimmingly, and Hamish left him. “How do you get on, Tom?” Hamish asked.
“Better than I need,” was Tom’s answer, delivered somewhat roughly. “After the injustice73 done me yesterday, it does not much matter how I get on.”
Hamish turned himself round to the fire, and said no more, neither attempting to console nor remonstrate74. Charles’s ears were listening for the quarter past seven, and, the moment it chimed out, he left his work, took his trencher from the hall, and departed, saying nothing to any one.
He went along whistling, past Dr. Gardner’s house, past the deanery; they and the cathedral tower, rising above them, looked grey in the moonlight. He picked up a stone and sent it right into one of the elm trees; some of the birds, disturbed from their roost, flew out, croaking76, over his head. In the old days of superstition77 it might have been looked upon as an evil omen75, coupled with what was to follow. Ah, Charley! if you could only foresee what is before you! If Mrs. Channing, from her far-off sojourn78, could but know what grievous ill is about to overtake her boy!
Poor Charley suspected nothing. He was whistling a merry tune58, laughing, boy-like, at the discomfiture79 of the rooks, and anticipating the stolen game he and his friends were about to enjoy on forbidden ground. Not a boy in the school loved play better than did Master Charles Channing.
A door on the opposite side of the Boundaries was suddenly opened, to give admittance to one who sprung out with a bound. It was Gerald Yorke: and Charley congratulated himself that they were on opposite sides; for he had been warned that this escapade was to be kept from the seniors.
At that moment he saw a boy come forth from the cloisters, and softly whistle to him, as if in token that he was being waited for. Charley answered the whistle, and set off at a run. Which of the boys it was he could not tell; the outline of the form and the college cap were visible enough in the moonlight; but not the face. When he gained the cloister entrance he could no longer see him, but supposed the boy had preceded him into the cloisters. On went Charley, groping his way down the narrow passage. “Where are you?” he called out.
There was no answer. Once in the cloisters, a faint light came in from the open windows overlooking the graveyard80. A very faint light, indeed, for the buildings all round it were so high, as almost to shut out any view of the sky: you must go quite to the window-frame before you could see it.
“I—s-a-a-y!” roared Charley again, at the top of his voice, “where are you all? Is nobody here?”
There came neither response nor sign of it. One faint sound certainly did seem to strike upon his ear from behind; it was like the click of a lock being turned. Charley looked sharply round, but all seemed still again. The low, dark, narrow passage was behind him; the dim cloisters were before him; he was standing81 at the corner formed by the east and south quadrangles, and the pale burial-ground in their midst, with its damp grass and its gravestones, looked cold and lonely in the moonlight.
The strange silence—it was not the silence of daylight—struck upon Charles with dismay. “You fellows there!” he called out again, in desperation. “What’s the good of playing up this nonsense?”
The tones of his voice died away in the echoes of the cloisters, but of other answer there was none. At that instant a rook, no doubt one of the birds he had disturbed, came diving down, and flapped its wings across the burial-ground. The sight of something, moving there, almost startled Charles out of his senses, and the matter was not much mended when he discovered it was only a bird. He turned, and flew down the passage to the entrance quicker than he had come up it; but, instead of passing out, he found the iron gate closed. What could have shut it? There was no wind. And if there had been ever so boisterous82 a wind, it could scarcely have moved that little low gate, for it opened inwards.
Charles seized it to pull it open. It resisted his efforts. He tried to shake it, but little came of that, for the gate was fastened firmly. Bit by bit stole the conviction over his mind that he was locked in.
Then terror seized him. He was locked in the ghostly cloisters, close to the graves of the dead; on the very spot where, as idle tales, went, the monks83 of bygone ages came out of those recording84 stones under his feet, and showed themselves at midnight. Not a step could he take, round the cloisters, but his foot must press those stones. To be locked in the cloisters had been nothing (from this point of view) for brave, grown, sensible men, such as the bishop, Jenkins, and Ketch—and they had been three in company, besides—but for many a boy it would have been a great deal; and for Charles Channing it was awful.
That he was alone, he never doubted. He believed—as fully13 as belief, or any other feeling could flash into his horrified85 mind—that Bywater had decoyed him into the cloisters and left him there, in return for his refusal to disclose what he knew of the suspicions bearing upon the damaged surplice. All the dread terrors of his childhood rose up before him. To say that he was mad in that moment might not be quite correct; but it is certain that his mind was not perfectly86 sane87. His whole body, his face, his hair, grew damp in an instant, as of one in mortal agony, and with a smothered88 cry, which was scarcely like that of a human being, he turned and fled through the cloisters, in the vague hope of finding the other gate open.
It may be difficult for some of you to understand this excessive terror, albeit89 the situation was not a particularly desirable one. A college boy, in these enlightened days, laughs at supernatural tales as the delusions90 of ignorance in past ages; but for those who have had the misfortune to be imbued91 in infancy92 with superstition, as was Charles Channing, the terror still exists, college boys though they may be. He could not have told (had he been collected enough to tell anything) what his precise dread was, as he flew through the cloisters. None can do so, at these moments. A sort of vampire93 rises in the mind, and they shrink from it, though they see not what its exact nature may be; but it is a vampire that can neither be faced nor borne.
Feeling as one about to die; feeling as if death, in that awful moment, might be a boon94, rather than the contrary, Charles sped down the east quadrangle, and turned into the north. At the extremity95 of the north side, forming the angle between it and the west, commenced the narrow passage similar to the one he had just traversed, which led to the west gate of entrance. A faint glimmering96 of the white flagged stones beyond this gate, gave promise that it was open. A half-uttered sound of thankfulness escaped him, and he sped on.
Ah! but what was that? What was it that he came upon in the middle of the north quadrangle, standing within the niches98? A towering white form, with a ghastly face, telling of the dead; a mysterious, supernatural-looking blue flame lighting it up round about. It came out of the niche97, and advanced slowly upon him. An awful cry escaped from his heart, and went ringing up to the roof of the cloisters. Oh! that the good dean, sitting in his deanery close to the chapter-house, could have heard that helpless cry of anguish99!—that Dr. Burrows100, still nearer, could have heard it, and gone forth into the cloisters with the succour of his presence! No, no; there could be no succour for a spot supposed to be empty and closed.
Back to the locked gate—with perhaps the apparition101 following him? or forward past IT to the open door? Which was it to be? In these moments there can be no reason to guide the course; but there is instinct; and instinct took that ill-fated child to the open door.
How he flew past the sight, it is impossible to tell. Had it been right in front of his path, he never would have passed it. But it had halted just beyond the niche, not coming out very far. With his poor hands stretched out, and his breath leaving him, Charles did get by, and made for the door, the ghost bringing up the rear with a yell, while those old cloister-niches, when he was fairly gone, grew living with moving figures, which came out of their dark corners, and shrieked102 aloud with laughter.
Away, he knew not whither—away, as one who is being pursued by an unearthly phantom—deep catchings of the breath, as will follow undue bodily exertion103, telling of something not right within; wild, low, abrupt104 sounds breaking from him at intervals—thus he flew, turning to the left, which led him towards the river. Anywhere from the dreaded105 cloisters; anywhere from the old, grey, ghostly edifice106; anywhere in his dread and agony. He dashed past the boat-house, down the steps, turning on to the river pathway, and—
Whether the light, hung at the boat-house, deceived his sight—whether the slippery mud caused him to lose his footing—whether he was running too quickly and could not stop himself in time—or whether, in his irrepressible fear, he threw himself unconsciously in, to escape what might be behind him, will never be known. Certain it is, that the unhappy boy went plunge107 into the river, another and a last wild cry escaping him as the waters closed over his head.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
lighting
|
|
| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
illuminating
|
|
| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
pinnacles
|
|
| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
ivy
|
|
| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
prospect
|
|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
prospective
|
|
| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
artistically
|
|
| adv.艺术性地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
bungling
|
|
| adj.笨拙的，粗劣的v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的现在分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
cloister
|
|
| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
cloisters
|
|
| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
conspirators
|
|
| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
reticence
|
|
| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
winding
|
|
| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
weird
|
|
| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
lodge
|
|
| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
pint
|
|
| n.品脱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
prudent
|
|
| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
wheezing
|
|
| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
flaring
|
|
| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
cynically
|
|
| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
brewer
|
|
| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
groaning
|
|
| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
grumbling
|
|
| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
jug
|
|
| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
spout
|
|
| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
snarled
|
|
| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
notch
|
|
| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
flattening
|
|
| n. 修平 动词flatten的现在分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
draught
|
|
| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
elegance
|
|
| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
latch
|
|
| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
lucid
|
|
| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
knuckles
|
|
| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
tattered
|
|
| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
astonishment
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
growled
|
|
| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
bishop
|
|
| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
buttress
|
|
| n.支撑物；v.支持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
waylaid
|
|
| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
tempting
|
|
| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
purported
|
|
| adj.传说的，谣传的v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
tripe
|
|
| n.废话，肚子, 内脏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
scrawls
|
|
| 潦草的笔迹( scrawl的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
functionary
|
|
| n.官员；公职人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
requisites
|
|
| n.必要的事物( requisite的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
undue
|
|
| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
prodigality
|
|
| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
stunning
|
|
| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
ridicule
|
|
| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
propensity
|
|
| n.倾向；习性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
tune
|
|
| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
physically
|
|
| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
cowardice
|
|
| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
emanates
|
|
| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的第三人称单数 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
awakened
|
|
| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
remarkable
|
|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
alluded
|
|
| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
hesitation
|
|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
sarcastically
|
|
| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
subdued
|
|
| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
impatience
|
|
| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
crimson
|
|
| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
savage
|
|
| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
injustice
|
|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
remonstrate
|
|
| v.抗议，规劝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
omen
|
|
| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
croaking
|
|
| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
superstition
|
|
| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
sojourn
|
|
| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
discomfiture
|
|
| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
graveyard
|
|
| n.坟场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
boisterous
|
|
| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
monks
|
|
| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
recording
|
|
| n.录音，记录 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
horrified
|
|
| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
sane
|
|
| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
smothered
|
|
| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
albeit
|
|
| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
delusions
|
|
| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
imbued
|
|
| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
infancy
|
|
| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
vampire
|
|
| n.吸血鬼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
boon
|
|
| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
extremity
|
|
| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
glimmering
|
|
| 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 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
niche
|
|
| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
niches
|
|
| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
burrows
|
|
| n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 )；翻寻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
apparition
|
|
| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
shrieked
|
|
| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
exertion
|
|
| n.尽力，努力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
abrupt
|
|
| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
dreaded
|
|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
edifice
|
|
| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
plunge
|
|
| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |