"Say, Dering, it ain't twelve o'clock yet. You'll give me half an hour in the billiard-room before going to roost?"
Percy Osmond was the speaker. He was getting out of the brougham which had brought the three gentlemen back from Pincote, where they had been dining. His voice was thick, and his gait unsteady. It was evident that he had been indulging too freely in Squire2 Culpepper's old port.
"You've surely had enough billiards3 for one night," said Lionel, good-humouredly. "I should have thought that the thrashing you gave young Cope would have satisfied you till to-morrow morning."
"I want to thrash you as I thrashed him."
"You shall thrash me as much as you like in the morning."
"This is what they call country hospitality!" said Osmond, turning to Kester. "Condemned4 to go to bed at eleven-thirty, like so many virtuous5 peasants in an opera. No more brandy, no more cigars, no more billiards. Nothing but everlasting6 bed. How very good we are in the country!"
Kester laughed. "I told you that you would soon grow tired of the rural districts," he said.
"The rural districts themselves are all very nice and proper. I've nothing to say against them," said Mr. Osmond, as he sat down deliberately7 on the stairs, for they were all in the house by this time. "It's the people who live in them that I complain of. To send your guests to bed at eleven-thirty against their will, and to decline a simple game of billiards with one of them because you're afraid to acknowledge that he's the better player of the two--can this be your old English hospitality?"
"My dear Osmond, I will play you a game of billiards with pleasure, if your mind is so set on it," said Lionel. "I had no idea that you were so entêté in the matter. Come along. I dare say the lamps are still alight."
"Spoken like a nobleman," said Osmond, with tipsy gravity. "I accept your apology. Just order up some brandy and seltzer, there's a good fellow. St. George, you'll come and mark for us?"
"With pleasure," said Kester. "I'll join you in two minutes." He left them at the top of the stairs, they going towards the billiard-room. He was anxious to know whether Pierre had got back from London.
Yes, there sat Pierre in the dressing-room, quiet, watchful9, and alert as ever. "Everything gone off all right?" said Mr. St. George.
"Everything has gone off quite right, sir," said Pierre.
"There will be no hitch10 as regards the telegram to-morrow morning, eh?"
"None whatever, sir."
"You need not sit up for me."
"Very well, sir."
"And yet--on second thoughts--you had perhaps better do so."
"Yes, sir."
Kester took off his dress-coat, put on an old shooting-jacket and a smoking-cap, and then went off to the billiard-room.
"Monsieur St. George means mischief11 to-night," said Pierre, smiling to himself, and rubbing his hands slowly. "It is not very often I see that light in his eye. When I do see it, I know it means no good to somebody."
Kester found the two men chalking their cues. A servant was mixing a tumbler of brandy-and-seltzer for Osmond.
"I'll play you one game, a hundred up," said Osmond, as soon as the servant had left the room; "and I'll back my own play for ten pounds."
"You know that I never bet," said Lionel.
"I wouldn't give the snuff of a candle for a fellow who hasn't the pluck to back his own play, or his own opinion," said Osmond, with a sneer12.
"I don't mind taking you," said Kester, quickly.
"Done!" said Osmond.
Lionel could not repress a movement of annoyance13.
Both he and Osmond were good billiard-players, but he was the better of the two.
This however was a point which Osmond, who was proud of his ability with the cue, would never concede. With Lionel billiard-playing was an easy, natural gift; with Osmond it was the result of intense study and application.
With the former it seemed the easiest thing in the world to play well--with the latter one of the most difficult. They had played much together during Osmond's visit to Park Newton, but Osmond could never lose with equanimity14. He became disagreeable and quarrelsome the moment the game began to go against him, and, rather than have a scene under his own roof, Lionel would often play carelessly and allow his opponent to win game after game. Such had been his intention in the present case till Kester foolishly accepted Osmond's bet. After that, to have lost the game would have been to lose Kester's money also; and, foolish as was the bet, Lionel did not feel disposed to let Osmond benefit by it. Besides, to win Osmond's money was to touch him in his only vulnerable point, and it seemed to Lionel that he fully15 deserved to be made to smart.
The game began and went on with varying success. Osmond had drank far too much wine to play well, and Lionel, in a mood of utter indifference16, missed stroke after stroke in a way that made Kester groan17 inwardly with vexation. Lionel, in truth, was disgusted with himself and disgusted with his opponent. "I'd far sooner follow the plough all my life on Gatehouse Farm, than be condemned to associate very much with men like this one," he said to himself. "And yet the world calls him a gentleman."
"Call the game, St. George," cried Osmond, in his most insolent18 tone.
"Seventy-five--fifty-two, and your royal highness to play," said Kester.
"None of your sneers," said Osmond. "Seventy-five--fifty-two, eh?--Well, put me on three more--and three more--very carefully. A miss, by Jove! Ought to have had that middle pocket."
"Fifty-two--eighty-one," called St. George. "How does your ten pounds look now, eh?" asked Osmond, with a chuckle19.
"Not very rosy20, I must confess," said Kester, with a shrug21 of his shoulders, and an appealing glance at his cousin.
"I hope you are prepared to pay up if you lose," said Osmond, insolently22.
Kester started to his feet, but Lionel laid a hand on his shoulder.
"The game is not lost yet, Mr. Osmond," he said, coldly, but courteously23.
"I guess it's in a dying state as far as you're concerned," said Osmond, coughing his little effeminate cough.
Lionel played and made a brilliant break of thirty.
"Eighty-one--eighty-two," called Kester, and there was a triumphant24 ring in his voice as he did so.
Osmond, white with the rage he could not hide, said nothing. He laid down his cigar, chalked his cue carefully, played, and missed.
"Just like my luck!" he cried, with an oath. "Dering, you might give a fellow something decent to smoke," he added, as he flung his cigar into the grate.
"The cigars are good ones. I smoke them myself," said Lionel, quietly.
"Anyhow, they are not fit to offer to a gentleman,"
"I did not offer them to a gentleman. You helped yourself."
"Of course I did," he answered, not comprehending the irony25 of Lionel's remark. "And deuced bad smokes they are."
Lionel played and ran his score up to ninety-eight.
"Two more will make you game," said Kester.
"Two more would not have made him game if he hadn't played with my ball instead of his own," said Osmond, his lips livid with rage.
"I have not played with your ball instead of my own, Mr. Osmond."
"I repeat that you have. After the second cannon26 in your last break, you played with the wrong ball. You cannoned27 again, and then resumed play with your own ball."
"You are mistaken--indeed you are," said Lionel, earnestly.
"Oh, of course!" sneered28 Osmond. "It's not to be expected that you would say anything else."
"Did you see the stroke, Kester?" appealed Lionel.
"Certainly I did. You played with your own ball and not with Mr. Osmond's."
"Of course, Kester is bound to back up all we say! Our bankrupt relation can't afford to do otherwise. He has ten pounds on the game, and----"
"By Heaven, Osmond!" burst out Mr. St. George. Lionel again laid his hand on his cousin's shoulder.
"Mr. Osmond is my guest," he said, impressively. "In a moment of temper he has made use of certain expressions which he will be the first to regret to-morrow. Let us look upon the game as a drawn29 one, and, if need be, discuss it fully over breakfast in the morning."
"You have an uncommonly30 nice way of slipping out of a difficulty, Dering, I must confess. But it won't wash with me. The moment I find a man's not acting31 on the square, I brand him before the world as a cheat and a blackleg."
"Your language is very strong, Mr. Osmond."
"Not stronger than the case demands."
"I assure you again, on my word of honour, that you are mistaken in saying that I played with the wrong ball."
"And I assure you, on my word of honour, that I am not mistaken."
"Even granting for a moment that, in mistake, I did play the wrong ball, you cannot suppose that I would knowingly attempt to cheat you for the sake of a paltry32 ten pounds."
"But I can and do suppose it," said Osmond, vehemently33. "The fact of your being a rich man has nothing to do with it. I have known a marquis cheat at cards for the sake of half a sovereign. Why shouldn't you try to cheat me out of ten pounds?"
"Your experience of the world, Mr. Osmond, seems to have been a very unfortunate one," said Lionel, coldly.
"Perhaps it has, and perhaps it hasn't," said Osmond, savagely34. "Anyhow it has taught me to be on the look-out for rogues35."
"Osmond, are you mad, or drunk, or both?" cried Kester.
"A little of both," said Lionel, sternly. "If he were not under my roof, I would horsewhip him till he went down on his knees and proclaimed himself the liar1 and bully36 he really is."
Osmond was in the act of lifting a glass of brandy-and-seltzer to his lips as Lionel spoke8. He waited, without drinking, till Lionel had done. "You called me a liar, did you?" he said. "Then, take that!" and as he spoke, he flung the remaining contents of the glass into Lionel's face, and sent the glass itself crashing to the other side of the room.
Another instant and Dering's terrible fingers were closed round Osmond's throat. This last insult was more than he could bear. His self-control was flung to the winds. Osmond's nerveless frame quivered and shook helplessly in the strong man's grasp. He was as powerless to help himself as any child would have been. His eyes were starting from his head, and his face beginning to turn livid, when Kester started forward.
"Don't choke him, Li," he said. "Don't kill the beggar quite."
"You mean, contemptible37 hound!" said Dering, as he loosened his grasp and flung Osmond away: who staggered and fell to the ground, gasping38 for breath, and hardly knowing for the moment what had befallen him.
With a few wild gasps39 and a tug40 or two at his cravat41, he seemed to partially42 recover himself. Raising himself on his left elbow, he put his right hand deep down inside his waistcoat, and from some secret pocket there he drew out what looked like a toy pistol, but which was a deadly weapon enough in competent hands. Before either Kester or Lionel knew what he was about, he had taken pointblank aim at the latter, and fired. But drink had made his hand unsteady, and the bullet intended for Lionel's brain passed harmlessly through his hair, and lodged43 in the panelling behind.
Kester sprang at him, wrenched44 the pistol from his hand, and flung it to the other end of the room. As he did so, the thought passed through his mind: "If that bullet had only been aimed two inches lower, what a difference it would have made to me!" "Osmond, are you going to turn assassin?" he said. "You must come with me." He helped him up from the ground, took his right arm firmly within his, and led him towards the door.
"That is the way we serve those who insult us out in the West," said Osmond. "Only: for once, I missed my aim. But I'll fight it out with him to-morrow, anyhow he likes."
"To-morrow we will settle our little differences as gentlemen of honour should settle such things," said Kester, soothingly45. And with these words he led him from the room.
Lionel sank back on a chair, sick, weary, and disgusted; and so sat without moving till Kester came back, some ten minutes later.
"What have you done with Osmond?" he said.
"I have given him in charge of my man, who won't leave him till he has seen him safely in bed. He would insist on having more brandy. In ten minutes he will be sleeping the sleep of the drunken."
Lionel rose with a look of pain, and pressed one hand to the side of his head.
"Got one of your bad head aches?" asked Kester.
"Yes: about the worst that I ever remember to have had."
"Is their no cure for them?"
"None but patience."
"But, surely, they may be alleviated46?"
"I have tried remedies without end, but to no purpose."
"Will you let me make you up a mixture from a prescription47 of my own? I have all the materials at hand. If I make it up, will you promise to take it? I don't say that it will cure your headache, but I do believe that it will give you relief."
There was a strangely anxious, almost haggard look on his face as he spoke thus, and yet his eyes were never once bent48 on Lionel. He had picked up one of the cues, and seemed to be busily examining it. When he had done speaking, he waited for his cousin's answer with parted lips, in a sort of breathless hush49.
Lionel laughed a rather dismal50 laugh.
"Well, if you have any faith in your mixture, I don't mind trying it," he said. "It can't make the pain worse, and there is just a faint chance that it may ease it a bit--or that I may fancy that it does, which is pretty much the same thing."
The cue dropped from Kester's fingers and rattled51 on the floor. "What was that?" he said, suddenly, looking round with a shiver. "I could have sworn that somebody touched me on the shoulder."
"There is no one here but ourselves," said Lionel, languidly. The pain was almost more than he could bear up against.
Kester recovered his equanimity after an impatient "Pish" at his folly52, and the two men went slowly out of the billiard-room together. Outside the door Kester whispered in his cousin's ear, "I will go and fetch the mixture, and be back again in two minutes." Lionel nodded, and Kester was gone.
"Why need he have whispered to me?" asked Lionel of himself. "There was no one to overhear him. There's something queer about him to-night. A little touch of the blues53, perhaps; and yet he never seems to drink very hard."
Lionel went off to his rooms--a bedroom and sitting-room54 en suite55, next to the rooms occupied by Osmond. He took off his coat and tie, and unbuttoned his waistcoat, and then sat down with his feet on the fender, waiting for Kester.
Lionel Dering had been troubled with occasional headaches of a very distressing56 kind ever since he could remember any thing, and he had quite made up his mind that he must be so troubled till the end of the chapter. He had no faith in his cousin's proposed remedy, but he would take it simply to oblige Kester.
Kester was not long away. He entered the room presently, carrying a small silver tankard in his hand.
"I can't tell you bow sorry I feel for this night's work," said Lionel.
"What have you done that you should feel sorry for?" asked Kester, as he put down the tankard on the table.
"I ought to have left the billiard-room instead of flying at poor little Osmond in the brutal57 way I did. He was half drunk to-night, and didn't know what he was about. He would have apologised in the morning, and then everything would have come right."
"Considering the provocation58 you received I think that you acted throughout with the greatest forbearance. Osmond, to say the least of it, is not worthy59 of any serious consideration."
"But you will see him in the morning, won't you, and act as peacemaker between us, if it be possible to do so?"
"Certainly, if you wish it."
"I do wish it. The brawl60 was an utterly61 disreputable piece of business. I ought not to have let my temper overmaster me. I ought, under no circumstances, to have forgotten that Percy Osmond was my guest."
"Well, never mind all that now. We can discuss the affair fully in the morning. See, I have brought you the mixture I spoke of for your head. I think you will find that it will do you good."
He held out the tankard as he spoke. His pale face looked paler than ever to-night--his black moustache blacker than ever; but his restless eyes seemed to fix themselves anywhere rather than on his cousin's face. Lionel took the tankard from Kester's hand, and drank off the contents at a draught62. Then he wiped his lips with his pocket handkerchief, and having no coat on, he stuffed the handkerchief carelessly under his braces63 for the time being.
"And now I'll leave you to sweet slumber64 and happy dreams," said Kester, as he took back the empty tankard. "Your head will be better by morning, I do not doubt. Good night."
"Good night," responded Lionel, languidly, from his chair by the fire.
Kester went softly out, and closed the door lightly behind him.
Ten minutes passed away, and then Lionel awoke with a start to find that he had unconsciously fallen into a doze65 over the fire. The pain in his head certainly seemed a little better already. But when he rose to his feet, he found that he could hardly stand. His limbs seemed too weak to support him, and he was overcome with a dull heavy drowsiness66 such as he had never felt before. The room and everything in it began to rock slowly up and down like the cabin of a ship at sea. There were only two candles on the table, but Lionel seemed to see a dozen. Sleep--sleep of the deepest--seemed to be numbing67 both his heart and his brain. Consciousness was fast leaving him. He staggered rather than walked to the couch on the opposite side of the room. He reached it. He had just sense enough left to fling himself on it, and then he remembered nothing more.
He remembered nothing more till he awoke next morning. It was broad daylight when he opened his eyes. He had to gather his wits together and to think for a minute or two before he could call to mind how and why it was that he found himself lying there, on his dressing-room couch, instead of in his bed as usual. Then all the events of the evening flashed across his mind in a moment: the quarrel in the billiard-room; the pistol-shot; the pain in his head; the draught given him by his cousin, and the strange effect it had upon him. "It must have been a very powerful narcotic," said Lionel to himself. "But, at all events, it has cured my headache."
By turning his head he could see the timepiece on the bureau. It was nine o'clock, an hour and a half past his usual time for rising. But, late as it was, he felt a strange disinclination for getting up. He felt as if he could lie there all day without moving. His mind was perfectly68 clear; the pain had left his head; but his limbs seemed heavy, useless, inert69. He would stay there for just ten minutes longer, he said to himself, and then he would positively70 get up. Kester would be waiting breakfast for him, and he was anxious to know how Osmond was this morning, and what recollection he retained of the fracas71 overnight.
But Osmond was up already. He could hear him moving about the next room. So far all was well. But what would be the result of their quarrel? Osmond must leave Park Newton, and at once. No other course was---- Now that he listened more particularly, he could hear the footsteps of more than one person in the next room--of more than two--of several. And there were footsteps in the corridor, passing to and fro as if in a hurry. There was a whispering, too, as if close outside his door; then the hurried muttering of many voices in Osmond's room; then the clash of two doors far away in the opposite wing of the house.
What could it all mean? Was Osmond ill? Or was he simply having his luggage packed, with the view of leaving for London by the forenoon train? Lionel sprang to his feet without another moment's delay. The sudden change of position made him dizzy. He pressed his fingers over both his eyes for a moment or two while he recovered himself. Again there was a noise of whispering in the corridor outside. Lionel made a step or two forward towards the door, and then came to a dead stop--horror-stricken by something which he now saw for the first time. The pocket-handkerchief which he had stuffed carelessly under his braces overnight had fallen to the ground when he sprang from the couch. As he stooped to pick it up, he saw that it was stained with blood. But whose blood? It could not be his own--there was nothing the matter with him. But if not his, whose?
Now that he looked at himself more closely, there were crimson72 streaks73 on the front of his shirt where the handkerchief had rested against it--and on his wristbands there were other streaks of the same ominous74 colour.
He had picked up the handkerchief, and was gazing at it in a sort of maze75 of dread76 and perplexity, when there came a sudden imperative77 knocking at his dressing-room door. Next moment the door was opened, and, lifting up his bewildered eyes, Lionel saw clustered in the doorway78 the frightened faces of five or six of his own servants.
"What is the matter?" he asked, and his voice sounded strangely unfamiliar79 both to himself and others.
"Oh, if you please, sir--Mr. Osmond--the gentleman in the next room!" gasped80 Pearce the butler.
"What is the matter with Mr. Osmond?"
"He has been murdered in the dead of night!"
Lionel caught at the edge of a table for support. His brain reeled--all the pulses of his being seemed to stand still in awful dread.
"Murdered! Percy Osmond murdered!" He breathed the words rather than spoke them aloud. Then for the first time he saw that all those frightened eyes clustered in the doorway were fixed81, not on him, but on the terrible token which he was still holding in his hand. He dropped it with a shudders82 and strode forward towards the door. They all shrank back as though he were stricken with the plague.
"Great Heaven! they cannot suspect that I have done the deed!" he whispered to himself. "We must see to this at once," he said aloud.
No one spoke. There was a dead, ominous silence. The crimson stains on his shirt were visible, and every eye was now fixed on them. Lionel paused for a moment at the threshold to gather nerve.
As he stood thus, Pierre Janvard came quickly out of Osmond's room, carrying some small article between the thumb and finger of his right hand. His face was paler than usual, and his half-closed eyes had a sort of feline83 expression in them which was not pleasant to look upon.
"If you please, sir, is this your property?" he said, addressing himself to Lionel, and displaying a small jet stud set in filigree84 gold.
Lionel's fingers went up instinctively85 to his shirt front in search of the missing stud.
"Yes, that is my property," he said. "Where did you find it?"
"I found it just now, sir, clutched in the hand of Mr. Percy Osmond, who lies murdered in the next room."
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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mischief
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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insolent
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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rosy
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shrug
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insolently
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courteously
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triumphant
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irony
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cannon
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cannoned
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| vi.与…猛撞（cannon的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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drawn
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uncommonly
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acting
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paltry
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vehemently
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savagely
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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36
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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37
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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38
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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40
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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41
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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42
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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43
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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44
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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45
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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alleviated
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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48
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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49
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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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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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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53
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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54
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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63
braces
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| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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numbing
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| adj.使麻木的，使失去感觉的v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的现在分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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fracas
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| n.打架；吵闹 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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76
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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79
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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80
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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81
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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82
shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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83
feline
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| adj.猫科的 | |
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84
filigree
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| n.金银丝做的工艺品；v.用金银细丝饰品装饰；用华而不实的饰品装饰；adj.金银细丝工艺的 | |
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85
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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