His musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in," he called out mechanically; and in there came, almost without, a sound, Dobbs, body-servant to Kester St. George.
"Oh, Dobbs, is that you?" said Lionel, a little wearily, as he turned his head and saw who it was.
"Yes, sir, I have made bold to intrude10 upon you for a few seconds," said Dobbs, with the utmost deference11, as he slowly advanced into the room, rubbing the long lean fingers of one hand softly with the palm of the other. "My master has not yet got back from Duxley, and there's nobody about just now."
"Quite right, Dobbs," said Lionel. "Anything fresh to report?"
"Nothing particularly fresh, sir, but I thought that you might perhaps like to see me."
"Very considerate of you, Dobbs, but I am not aware that I have anything of consequence to say to you to-night."
"Thank you, sir," said Dobbs, with a faint smile and an extra rub of his fingers. "Master's still very queer, sir. No appetite worth speaking about. Obliged to screw himself up with brandy in a morning before he can finish his toilet. Mutters and moans a good deal in his sleep, sir."
"Mutters in his sleep, does he?" said Lionel. "Have you any idea, Dobbs, what it is that he talks about?"
"I've tried my best to ascertain12, sir, but without much success. I have listened and listened for hours, and very cold work it is, sir; but there's never more than a word now and a word then that one can make out. Nothing connected--nothing worth recollecting13."
"Does Mr. St. George still walk in his sleep?"
"He does, sir, but not very often--not more than two or three times a month."
"Keep your eyes open, Dobbs, and the very next time your master walks in his sleep come to me at once--never mind what hour it may be--and tell me."
"I won't fail to do so, sir."
"In these sleep-walking rambles14 does Mr. St. George always confine himself to the house, or does he ever venture out into the park or grounds?"
"He generally goes out of doors, sir, at such times. Three times out of four he goes as far as the Wizard's Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk, stops there for a minute or two, and then walks back home. I have watched him several times."
"The Wizard's Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk! What should take him there?"
"Then you know the place, sir?"
"I know it well."
"Can't say what fancy takes him there, sir. Perhaps he doesn't know hisself."
"In any case, let me know when he next walks in his sleep. I have no further instructions for you to-night, Dobbs."
"Thank you, sir. I have the honour to wish you a very good night, sir."
"Good-night, Dobbs. Keep your eyes open, and report everything to me."
"Yes, sir, yes. You may trust me for doing that, sir." And Dobbs the obsequious15 bowed himself out.
In his cousin's valet Lionel had found an instrument ready to his hand, but it was not till after long hesitation16 and doubt that he made up his mind to avail himself of it. The necessities of the case at length decided17 him to do so. No one appreciated the value of a bribe18 better than Dobbs, or worked harder or more conscientiously19 to deserve one. There was a crooked20 element in his character which made whatever money he might earn by indirect means, or by tortuous21 working, seem far sweeter to him than the honest wages of everyday life. Kester St. George was not the kind of man ever to try to attach his inferiors to himself by any tie of gratitude22 or kindness. At different times and in various ways he suffered for this indifference23, although the present could hardly be considered as a case in point, seeing that it was not in the nature of Dobbs to resist a bribe in whatever shape it might offer itself, and that gratitude was one of those virtues24 which had altogether been omitted from his composition.
Late one afternoon, a few days after the interview between Lionel and Dobbs, Kester St. George had his horse brought round, and rode out unattended, and without leaving word in what direction he was going, or at what hour he might be expected back. The day was dull and lowering, with fitful puffs25 of wind, that blew first from one point and then from another, and seemed the forerunners26 of a coming storm. Buried in his own thoughts, Kester paid no heed27 to the weather, but rode quickly forward till several miles of country had been crossed. By-and-by he diverged28 from the main road, and turned his horse's head into a tortuous and muddy lane, which, after half an hour's bad travelling, landed him on the verge29 of a wide stretch of brown treeless moor30, than which no place could well have looked more desolate31 and cheerless under the gray monotony of the darkening February afternoon. Kester halted for awhile at the end of the lane to give his horse breathing time. Far as the eye could see, looking forward from the point where he was standing32, all was bare and treeless, without one single sign of habitation or life.
"Whatever else may be changed, either with me or the world," he muttered, "the old moor remains33 just as it was the first day that I can remember it. It was horrible to me at first, but I learned to like it--to love it even, before I left it; and I love it now--to-day--with all its dreariness34 and monotony. It is like the face of an old friend. You may go away for twenty years, and when you come back you know that you will find on it just the same look that it wore when you went away. Not that I have ever cared to cultivate such friendships," he added, half regretfully. "Well, the next best thing to having a good friend is to have a good enemy, and I can thank heaven for granting me several such."
He touched his horse with the spur, and rode slowly forward, taking a narrow bridle35 path that led in an oblique36 direction across the moor. "This ought to be the road if my memory serves me aright," he muttered, "but they are all so much alike, and intersect each other so frequently, that it's far more easy to lose one's way than to know where one is."
"I suppose I shall have the rough side of Mother Mim's tongue when I do find her," he went on. "I've neglected her shamefully37, without a doubt. But such ties as the one between her and me become tiresome38 in the long run. She ought to have died off long ago, but she's as tough as leather. Poor devils in this part of the country, that haven't a penny to bless themselves with, think nothing of living till they're a hundred. Is it a superfluity of ozone39, or a want of brains, that keeps them alive so long?"
He rode steadily40 forward till he had nearly crossed one angle of the moor. At length, but not without some difficulty, he found the place he had come in search of. It was a rudely-built hut--cottage it could hardly be called--composed of mud, and turf, and great boulders41 all unhewn. Its roof of coarsest thatch42 was frayed43 and worn with the wind and rain of many winters. Its solitary44 door of old planks45, roughly nailed together, opened full on to the moor.
At the back was a patch of garden-ground, which was supposed to grow potatoes in the season, but which had never yet been known to grow any that were fit to eat. Mr. St. George looked round with a sneer47 as he dismounted.
"And it was in this wretched den46 that I spent the first eight years of my existence!" he muttered. "And the woman whom this place calls its mistress was the first being whom I learned to love! And, faith, I'm rather doubtful whether I've ever loved anybody half so well since."
Putting his horse's bridle over a convenient hook, and dispensing48 with the ceremony of knocking, Kester St. George lifted the latch49, pushed open the door, stooped his head, and went in. Inside the hut everything was in semi-darkness, and Kester stood for a minute with the door in his hand, striving to make out the objects before him.
"Come in and shut the door: I expected you," said a hollow voice from one corner of the room; and the one room, such as it was, comprised the whole hut.
"Is that you, Mother Mim?" asked Kester.
"Ay--who else should it be?" answered the voice. "But come in and shut the door. That cold wind gives me the shivers."
Kester did as he was told, and then made his way to a wretched pallet at the other end of the hut. Of furniture there was hardly any, and the aspect of the whole place was miserable50 in the extreme. Over the ashes of a wood fire crouched51 a girl of sixteen, ragged52 and unkempt, who stared at him with black, glittering eyes as he passed her. Next moment he was standing by the side of a ragged pallet, on which lay the figure of a woman who looked ill almost unto death.
"Why, mother, whatever has been the matter with you?" asked Kester. "A little bit out of sorts, eh? But you'll soon be all right again now."
"Yes, I shall soon be all right now--soon be quite well," answered the woman grimly. "A black box and six feet of earth cure everything."
"You mustn't talk in that way, mother," said Kester, as he sat down on the only chair in the place, and took one of the woman's lean, hot hands in his. "You will live to plague us for many a year to come."
"Kester St. George, this is the last time you and I will meet in this world."
"I hope not, with all my heart," said Kester, feelingly.
"I know what I know, and I know that what I say is true," answered Mother Mim. "You would not have come now if I had not worked a spell strong enough to bring you here even against your will. I worked it four nights ago, at midnight, when that young viper53 there"--pointing a finger at the girl, who was still cowering54 over the ashes--"was fast asleep, and there were no eyes to see but those of the cold stars. Ah! but it was horrible! and if it had not been that I felt I must see you before I died, I could never have gone through with it." She paused for a moment, as though overcome by some dreadful recollection. "Then, when it was over, I crept back to bed, and waited quietly, knowing that now you could not choose but come."
"I ought to have come and seen you long ago--I know it--I feel it," said Kester. "But let bygones be bygones, and I give you my solemn promise never to neglect you again. I am rich now, mother, and you shall never want for anything as long as you live."
"Too late--too late!" sighed the woman. "Yes, you're rich now, rich enough to bury me, and that's all I ask you to do."
"Don't talk like that, mother," said Kester.
"If you had only come to see me!" said the woman. "That was all I wanted. Just to see your face, and squeeze your hand, and have you to talk to me for a little while. I wanted none of your money--no, not a single shilling of it. It was only you I wanted."
Kester began to feel slightly bored. He squeezed Mother Mim's hand, and then dropped it, but he did not speak.
"But you didn't come," moaned the woman, "and you wouldn't have come now if I hadn't worked a charm to bring you."
"There you wrong me," said Kester, decisively. "Your charm, or spell, or whatever it may have been, had no effect in bringing me here. I came of my own free will."
"Self-conceited, as you always were and always will be," muttered the woman. Then, half raising herself in bed, and addressing the girl, she cried: "Nell, you hussy, just you hook it for a quarter of an hour. The gent and I have something to talk about."
The girl rose sullenly56, went slowly out, and banged the door behind her.
Kester wondered what was coming next. He had dropped the woman's hand, but she now held it out for him to take again. He took it, and she pressed his hand passionately57 to her lips three or four times.
"If the great secret of my life is to be told at all on this side the grave, the time to tell it is now come. I always thought to die without revealing it, but somehow of late everything has seemed different to me, and I feel now as if I couldn't die easy without telling you." She paused for a minute, exhausted58. There was some brandy on the chimney-piece, and Kester gave her a little. Again she took his hand and kissed it passionately.
"You will, perhaps, curse me for what I am about to tell you," she went on, "but whether you do so or not, so may Heaven help me if it is anything more than the simple truth! Kester St. George, you have no right to the name you bear--to the name the world knows you by!"
Kester was so startled that for a moment or two he sat like one suddenly stricken dumb. "Go on," he said at last. "There's more to follow. I like boldness in lying as in everything else."
"Again I swear that I am telling you no more than the solemn truth."
"If I am not Kester St. George," he said with a sneer, "perhaps you will kindly59 inform me who I really am."
"You are my son!"
He flung the woman's hand savagely60 from him, and sprang to his feet with an oath. "Your son!" he said. "Ha! ha! ha! Your son, indeed! Since when have your senses quite left you, Mother Mim? A dark cell in Bedlam61 and a strait waistcoat would be your best physic."
"I am rightly punished," moaned the woman--"rightly punished. I ought to have told you years ago--ay--before you ever grew to be a man. But I loved you so, and had such pride in you, that I couldn't bear the thought of telling you, and it's only now when I'm on my deathbed that the secret forces itself from me. But it will go no farther, never you fear that. No living soul but you will ever hear it from my lips; and you have only got to keep your own lips tightly shut, and you will live and die as Kester St. George."
She sank back with the exhaustion62 of speaking. Mechanically, and almost without knowing what he was doing, Kester again gave her a little brandy. Then he sat down; and Mother Mim, finding his hand close by, took possession of it again. He shuddered63 slightly, but did not withdraw it.
Although Mother Mim had advanced no proofs in support of the strange story she had just told him, there was something in her tone which carried conviction to his inmost heart.
"I must know more of this," he said, after a little while, speaking almost in a whisper.
"How well I remember everything about it! It seems only like yesterday that it all happened," sighed the woman. "You--my own child, and he--the other one that was sent to me to nurse, were born within a few hours of one another. His father broke a blood-vessel about six weeks after the child was brought to me. The mother went with her husband to Italy to take care of him, and the child was left with me. A week or two afterwards he was taken suddenly ill, and died. Then the devil tempted64 me to put my own boy into the place of the lost heir. When Mrs. St. George came back from Italy she came to see her child, and you were shown to her as that child. She accepted you without a moment's suspicion. They let you stay with me till you were eight years old, and then they took you away and sent you to school. My husband and my sister were the only two beside myself who knew what had been done, and they both died years ago without saying a word. I shall join them in a few days, and then you alone will be the keeper of the secret. With you it will die, and on your tombstone they will write: 'Here lies the body of Kester St. George.'"
She had told her story with great difficulty, and with frequent interruptions to gather strength and breath to finish it. She now lay back, utterly65 exhausted. Her eyes closed, her hand relaxed its hold on Kester's, her jaw66 dropped slightly, the thin white face grew thinner and whiter: it seemed as if Death, passing that way, had looked in unexpectedly, and had beckoned67 her to go with him. Kester rose quickly, and struck a match and lighted a fragment of candle that he found on the chimney-piece. His next impulse was to try and revive her with a little brandy, but he paused with the glass in his hand. Why try to revive her? Would it not be better for him, for her, for every one, if she were really dead? If such were the case, it would do away with all fear of her strange secret being ever divulged68 to any one else. Yes--in every way her death would be a welcome release.
It was not without a tremor69, it was not without a faster beating of the heart, that Kester took the bit of cracked looking-glass from the wall and held it to the woman's lips. His very life seemed to stand still for a moment or two while he waited for the result. It came. The glass clouded faintly. The woman was not dead. With a muttered curse Kester dashed the glass across the floor and put back the candle on the chimney-piece. Then he took up his hat. Where was the use of staying longer? She could tell him nothing more when she should have come to her senses than she had told him already: nothing, that is, of any consequence; and as for details, he did not want them--at least, not now. What he had been told already held food enough for thought for some time to come. He paused for a moment before going out. Was it really possible--was it really credible70, that that haggard, sharp-featured woman was his mother?--that his father had been a coarse, common labouring man, a mere71 hedger and ditcher, who had lived and died in that mean hut, and that he himself, instead of being the Kester St. George he had always believed himself to be, was no other than the son of those two--the boy whose supposed death he remembered to have heard about when little more than a mere child?
Fiercely and savagely he told himself again and again that such a thing could not be--that what Mother Mim had told him was nothing more than a pack of devil's lies--the invention of a brain weakened and distorted by illness and the clouds of coming death. It was high time to go. He put five sovereigns on the chimney-piece, went softly out, and shut the door behind him. The girl was sitting on the low mud-wall near the door, with the skirt of her dress drawn72 over her head as some protection from the bitter wind. Her black, glittering eyes took him in from head to foot as he walked up to her. "Go inside at once. She has fainted," said Kester. The girl nodded and went. Then Kester mounted his horse and rode slowly homeward through the chilly73 twilight74. Bitterest thoughts held him as with a vice75. When he came within sight of the chimneys of Park Newton, he gave a sigh of relief, and put spurs to his horse. "That is mine, and no power on earth shall take it from me," he muttered. "That and the money that comes with it. I am Kester St. George. Let those disprove who can!"
A few nights later, as Lionel Dering was sitting in his dressing-room, smoking a last cigar before turning in, there came three low, distinct taps at the door, which he recognized as the peculiar76 signal of Dobbs. It was nearly an hour past midnight, and in that early household every one had been long abed, or, at least, had retired77 long ago to their own rooms.
Lionel opened the door, and Dobbs slid softly in. Such visits were by no means infrequent, but they were usually paid at a somewhat earlier hour than on the present occasion.
"Come in, Dobbs," said Lionel. "You are later to-night than usual."
"Yes, sir, I am, and I must ask you to pardon me for intruding78 at such an hour; but, if you remember, sir, you told me, a little while ago, that I was to let you know without fail the very next time my master took to walking in his sleep."
"Quite right, Dobbs. I am glad that you have not forgotten my instructions."
"Well, sir, Mr. St. George left his rooms, a few minutes ago, fast asleep."
"In which direction did he go?"
"He went down the side staircase, and through the conservatory79, and let himself out through the little glass door into the garden."
"And then which way did he go?"
"I did not follow him any farther, but ran at once to tell you."
"Have you any idea as to what direction he would be most likely to take?"
"There is little doubt, sir, but that he has gone towards the Wizard's Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk. Three times already, that is the place to which he has gone."
"We must follow him, Dobbs."
"Yes, sir."
"We must watch him, but be careful not to disturb him."
"Yes, sir."
"I suppose there is little or no fear of his waking before he gets back to the house?"
"None whatever, sir, as far as my experience goes. As a rule, he goes quietly back to his own rooms, undresses himself as quietly and soberly as if he was wide awake, and gets into bed; and when he does really wake up in the morning, he never seems to know anything about what has happened over-night. But we must make haste, sir, if we wish to overtake him."
"I will be ready in one minute."
Lionel wrapped a warm furred cloak about him, and put a travelling-cap on his head. Three minutes later he and Dobbs stood together in the open air.
The night was clear, crisp, and cold. The moon was just rising above the tree-tops, bathing the upper part of the quaint80 old house in its white glory, but as yet the shrubbery and the garden-paths lay in deepest shadow. Nowhere could they discern the figure of the man whom they had come out to follow; but the Wizard's Fountain was a good half mile from the Hall, so they struck at once into the nearest footway that led towards it. A few minutes' quick walking took them there. Lionel knew the place well. It had been a favourite haunt of his when living at Park Newton during the few happy weeks that preceded the murder. Very weird81 and solemn the whole place looked, as seen by moonlight at that still hour of the night.
Although known as the Sycamore Walk, there were only two trees of that particular kind growing there, and they threw their antique shadows immediately over the fountain itself. The rest of the avenue consisted of beech82, and oak, and elm. But all the trees were huge, and old, and fantastic: untended and uncared for--growing together year after year, whispering their leafy secrets to each other with every spring that came round, and standing shoulder to shoulder against the winds of winter: a hoary83 brotherhood84 of forest sages85.
The fountain itself, whatever it might have been in years long gone by, was now nothing more than a confused heap of huge stones, overgrown with lichens86 and creepers. From the midst of them, and from what had doubtless at one time been a representation in marble of the head of a leopard87 or other forest animal, but which now was almost worn past recognition, trickled88 a thin stream of coldest water; which, falling into a broken basin below, over-brimmed itself there, and was lost among the cracks and interstices in the masses of broken masonry89 that lay scattered90 around.
"You had better, perhaps, wait here," said Lionel to Dobbs, as they halted for a moment at the entrance to the avenue.
Dobbs did as he was bidden, and Lionel advanced alone, keeping well within the shade of the trees. When within a dozen yards of the fountain, he halted and waited. The low, ceaseless monotone of the falling water was the only sound that broke the moonlit silence.
From out the dense91 shadow of the trees on the opposite side of the avenue, and as if he himself were part of that shadow, Kester St. George slowly emerged. In the middle of the avenue, and in the full light of the moon, he paused. His right hand was thrust into the bosom92 of his vest, as if he were hiding something there. Standing thus, he seemed, as it were, to shrink within himself. Still hugging that hidden something, he seemed to listen--to listen as if his very life depended on the act. Then, with a slow, creeping motion, as though his feet were weighted with lead, he stole towards the fountain. He reached it. He grasped the stonework with one hand, and then he turned to gaze, as though in dread55 of some hidden pursuer. Then slowly, almost reluctantly, he seemed to draw something from within his vest, and, while still gazing furtively93 around him, he thrust his arm, elbow deep, into a crevice94 in the masonry, let it rest there for a single moment, and then withdrew it. With the same furtively restless look, and ears that seemed to listen more intently than ever, he paused for an instant. Then he stole swiftly back across the moonlit avenue, and so vanished among the black shadows from whence he had come.
So natural had been his actions, so unstudied his every movement, that it seemed impossible to believe that he was indeed asleep.
Hardly had Kester St. George disappeared before Lionel Dering was by the fountain, on the very spot where his cousin had stood half a minute before. He had noted95 well the place. There, before him, was the very crevice into which Kester had thrust his arm. Into that same crevice was Lionel's arm now thrust--elbow deep--shoulder deep. His groping fingers soon laid hold of that which was hidden there. He drew out his arm quickly, and the something that he had found glittered steel-blue in the moonlight. With a cry of horror he dropped it, and it fell with a dull clash among the stones. Lionel Dering had recognized it in a moment as a dagger96 which he had last seen in the possession of Percy Osmond.
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unanimity
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| n.全体一致，一致同意 | |
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slippered
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| 穿拖鞋的 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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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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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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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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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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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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deference
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ascertain
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recollecting
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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hesitation
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decided
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bribe
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conscientiously
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crooked
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tortuous
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gratitude
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indifference
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virtues
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puffs
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forerunners
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heed
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diverged
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verge
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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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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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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ozone
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| n.臭氧，新鲜空气 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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41
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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42
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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47
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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49
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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50
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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53
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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divulged
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| v.吐露，泄露( divulge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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72
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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74
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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76
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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78
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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79
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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80
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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81
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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82
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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83
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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84
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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85
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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86
lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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87
leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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88
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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89
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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90
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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91
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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92
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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93
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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94
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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95
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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96
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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