“I mean to be a minister,” said Colin, with a furious blush. His thoughts on the subject, if he could but have expressed them, were magnificent enough, but nothing was more impossible to the shy country lad, than to explain the ambition which glowed in his eager, visionary mind. He would have sacrificed a finger at any time, rather than talk of the vague but splendid intentions which were fermenting6 secretly in absolute silence within his reserved Scotch7 bosom8. His new friend looked with a little curiosity at the subdued9 brightness of the boy’s eyes, which spoke10 more emphatically than his words.
“They a’ mean to be ministers,” said Lauderdale, in his reflective way; “half of them would do far better to be cobblers; but nae fool could ever be persuaded. As for you, I think there’s something in you, or I wouldna have fashed my head about you and your gown. You’ve got a fair start, and nae drawbacks. I would like to see you go straight forward, and be good for something in your generation. You needna look{39} glum11 at me; I’ll never be good for much mysel’. You see I’ve learnt to be fond of talking,” he said, philosophically12; “and a man that takes up that line early in life seldom comes to much good; though I grant you there’s exceptions, like Macaulay, for example. I was just entered at college, when my father died,” he continued, falling into a historical strain, “I was only a laddie like yoursel’, but I had to give up that thought, and work to help the rest. Now they are all scattered13, and my mother dead, and I’m my own master. No that I’m much the better for that; but, you see, after I got this situation”——
“What situation?” said Colin, quickly.
“Oh, an honourable14 occupation,” said his tall friend, with a gradually brightening smile. “There’s ane of the same trade mentioned with commendation in the Acts of the Apostles. Him and St. Paul were great friends. But you see I’m free for the most part of the day; and, it being a fixed15 idea in my mind that I was to go to the college some time or other, it was but natural that I should enter mysel’ as soon as I was able. I may go forward, and I may not; it depends on the world more than on me. So your name’s Colin Campbell?—the same as Sir Colin; but, if you’re to be a minister, you can never be anything mair than a minister. In any other line of life a lad can rise if he likes, but there’s nae promotion16 possible to that. If I were you, and fifteen, I would choose another trade.”
“To this Colin answered nothing; the suggestion staggered him considerably17, and he was not prepared with anything to say. He looked round the shabby room, and watched the shabby tavern-waiter carrying his dinner to some other customer; and Colin’s new and unaccustomed eyes saw something imposing18 even in the aspect of this poor place. He thought of the great world which seemed to surge outside in a ceaseless roar, coming and going—the world in which all sorts of honours and powers seemed to go begging, seeking owners worthy19 to possess them: and he was pursuing this splendid chain of possibilities, when Lauderdale resumed his monologue:—
“The Kirk’s in a queer kind of condition a’thegither,” said the tall student; “so are most Kirks. Whenever you hit upon a man that kens20 what he wants, all’s well; but that happens seldom. It’s no my case for one. And as for you, you’re no at the age to trouble your head about doctrine22. You’re a young prince at your years—you don’t know your privileges; you believe everything you’ve been brought up to believe, and are far more sure in your own mind what’s false and what’s true{40} than a college of doctors. I would rather be you than a’ the philosophers in the world.”
“I’m no a fool to believe everything,” said Colin, angrily, rousing himself up from his dreams.
“No,” said his companion, “far from a fool; it’s true wisdom if you could but keep it. But the present temper of the world,” said the philosopher calmly, “is to conclude that there’s nothing a’thegither false, and few things particularly true. When you’re tired of the dinners in Donaldson’s Land,” he continued, without any change of tone, “and from the looks of the honest woman I would not say much for the cookery, you can come and get your dinner here. In the meantime, I’ll take ye up to Buchanan Street, if you like. It’s five o’clock, and the shop-windows are lighted by this time. I’m very fond of the lights in the shop-windows mysel’. When I’ve been a poor laddie about the streets, the lights aye looked friendly, which is more than the folk within do when you’ve no siller. Come along; it’s no trouble to me, and I like to have somebody to talk to,” said Lauderdale.
Colin got up very reluctantly, feeling himself unable to resist the strange personal fascination23 thus exercised over him. The idea of being only somebody to talk to mortified24 the boy’s pride, but he could not shake himself free from the influence which had taken possession of him. He was only fifteen, and his companion was thirty; and he had no power to enfranchise25 himself. He went after the tall figure into the street with very mingled26 feelings. The stream of talk, which kept flowing on above him, stimulated27 Colin’s mind into the most vigorous action. Such talk was not incomprehensible to a boy who had been trained at Ramore; but the philosophers of the Holy Loch were orthodox, and this specimen28 of impartial29 thoughtfulness roused all the fire of youthful polemics30 in Colin’s bosom. He set down his companion unhesitatingly, of course, as a “sceptic,” perhaps an infidel; and was already longing31 to rush in upon him, with arbitrary boyish zeal32 and disdain33, to make an end on the spot of his mistaken opinions. As for Colin himself, he was very sure of everything, as was natural to his years, and had never entertained any doubts that the Shorter Catechism was as infallible a standard of truth, as it was a terrible infliction34 upon the youthful memory. Colin went along the murky35 streets, by his companion’s side, thinking within himself that, perhaps, his own better arguments and higher reason might convert this mistaken man, and listened to{41} him eagerly as they proceeded together along the long line of the Trongate, much excited by his own intentions, and feeling somehow, in his boyish heart, that this universal stimulation36 of everything, within and without, was a real beginning of life. For everything was new to the country boy, who had never in his life before been out of doors at night, anywhere, save in the silent country roads, through darkness lighted by the moon, or, when there was no moon, by the pale glimmer37 of the loch. Now his eyes were dazzled by the lights, and all his senses kept in exercise by the necessity of holding his own way, and resisting the pressure of the human current which flowed past him; while Lauderdale kept talking of a hundred things which were opposed to his boyish belief, and which, amid all this unaccustomed hubbub38, he had to listen to with all his might lest he should lose the thread of the argument—a loose thread enough, certainly, but still with some coherence39 and connexion. All this made Colin’s heart thrill with a warmer consciousness of life. He was only in Glasgow, among floods of dusky craftsmen40 going home from their work; but it appeared to his young eyes that he had suddenly fallen upon the most frequented ways of life and into the heart of the vast world.
“I’m fond of a walk in the Trongate mysel’, especially when the lamps are lighted,” said Lauderdale; “I never heard of a philosopher but was. No that I am much of a philosopher, but—. It’s here ye see the real aspect of human affairs. Here, take the shopwindows, or take the passengers, there’s little to be seen but what’s necessary to life; but yonder,” said the reflective student, pointing over Colin’s head to the street they were approaching, “there’s nothing but luxury. We spend a great deal of siller in Glasgow—we’re terrible rich, some of us, and like the best of everything—but there’s no so much difference as you would think. I have no pleasure in that side of wealth for my part; there’s an awful suggestion of eating and drinking in everything about there. Even the grand furniture and the pictures have a kind of haze41 about them, as if ye could only see them through a dinner. I don’t pretend to have any knowledge for my own part of rich men’s feasts; but it’s no think pleasant to that Genius and Art, no to speak of a great deal of skilful42 workmanship, should be all subservient43 to a man’s pleasure in his dinner, and that that’s what they’re here for. Hallo, laddie, I thought you had no friends in Glasgow? there’s somebody yonder waving their hands to you. What do{42} you hang back for? it’s a lady in a carriage. Have you no respect for yoursel’ that you’re so slow to answer?” cried Colin’s monitor, indignantly. Colin would gladly have sunk through the pavement, or darted44 up a friendly dark alley45 which presented itself close by, but such an escape was not possible. It was Lady Frankland who was making signals to him out of the carriage-window, and with all his awkwardness, he was obliged to obey them.
As for Lauderdale, whose curiosity was considerably excited, he betook himself to the window of a printshop to await his protégé, not without some surprise in his mind. He knew pretty nearly as much about Colin by this time as the boy himself did, though Colin was quite unaware46 of having opened up his personal history to his new friend; but he had heard nothing about young Frankland, that being an episode in his life of which the country lad was not proud. Lauderdale stood at the printshop-window with a curious kind of half-pathetic egotism mingling47 with his kindly48 observation. No fair vision of women ever gleamed across his firmament49. He was just about shaking hands with youth, and no lady’s face had ever bent50 over him like a star out of the firmament, as the gracious countenance51 of the English lady was just then bending over the farmer’s son from Ramore. “It’s maybe the Duchess,” said Lauderdale to himself, thinking of the natural feudal52 princess of the lochs; and he looked with greater interest still, withdrawn53 out of hearing, but near enough to see all that passed. Colin for his part did not know in the least what to say or to do. He stood before the carriage looking sulky in the excess of his embarrassment55, and did not even take off his cap to salute56 the lady, as country politeness and his anxious mother had taught him. And, to aggravate57 the matter, there was a bewildering little girl in the carriage with Lady Frankland—a creature with glorious curls over her shoulders, and a wonderful perfection of juvenile58 toilette, which somehow dazzled Colin’s unused and ignorant eyes. In the midst of his awkwardness it occurred to the boy to note this little lady’s dress, which was a strange thing enough for him, who did not know one article of feminine attire59 from another. It was not her beauty so much as the delicacy60 of all her little equipments which amazed Colin, and prevented him from hearing what Lady Frankland had to say.
“So you have gone to the University?” said that gracious lady. “You are ever so much further advanced than Harry61, who is only a schoolboy as yet; but the Scotch are so clever.{43} You will be glad to hear that dear Harry is quite well, and enjoying himself very much at Eton,” continued Harry’s mother, who meant to be very kind to the boy who had saved her son’s life. Now the very name of Harry Frankland had, he could not have told how, a certain exasperating62 effect upon Colin. He said nothing in answer to this satisfactory intelligence, but unconsciously gave a little frown of natural opposition63, which Lady Frankland’s eyes were not sufficiently64 interested to see.
“He doesn’t care for Harry, aunt,” said the miniature woman by Lady Frankland’s side, darting65 out of the dusky twilight66 a sudden flash of perception, under which Colin stood convicted. She was about his own age, but a world in advance of him in every other respect. A little amusement and a little offence were in the voice, which seemed to Colin, with its high-bred accent and wonderful “English,” like the voice of another kind of creature from any he had encountered before. Was she a little witch, to know what he was thinking? And then a little laugh of triumph rounded off the sentence, and the unfortunate boy stood more speechless, more awkward, more incapable67 than before.
“Nonsense, Matty; when you know we owe Harry’s life to him,” said bland68 Lady Frankland. “You must come and dine with us to-morrow; indeed you must. Sir Thomas and I are both so anxious to know more of you. Sir Thomas would be so pleased to forward your views in any way; but the Scotch are so independent,” she said, with her most flattering smile. “Was that your tutor who was walking with you, that very tall man? I am sure we should be delighted to see him too. I suppose he is something in the University. Oh! here comes my husband. Sir Thomas, this is—Oh! I am sure I beg your pardon; I forget your name—the dear, brave, excellent boy who saved Harry’s life.”
Upon which Sir Thomas, coming out of one of the shops, in that radiance of cleanness and neatness, perfectly69 brushed whiskers, and fresh face, which distinguishes his class, shook hands heartily70 with the reluctant Colin.
“To be sure, he must dine with us to-morrow,” said the good-humoured baronet, “and bring his tutor if he likes; but I thought you had no tutors at the Scotch Universities. I want to know what you’re about, and what your ideas are on a great many subjects, my fine fellow. Your father is tremendously proud, and so are you, I suppose; but he’s a capital specimen of a man; and I hope you allow that I have a right to recollect{44} such an obligation. Good-bye, my boy,” said Sir Thomas. “Seven to-morrow—but I’ll probably be at your college and see you in the morning. And mind you bring the tutor,” he cried, as the carriage drove off. Lady Frankland shed a perfect blaze of smiles upon Colin, as she waved her hand to him, and the creature with the curls on the other side gave the boy a little nod in a friendly condescending71 way. He made a spring back into the shade the minute after, wonderfully glad to escape, but dazzled and excited in spite of himself; and, as he retired72 rapidly from the scene of this unexpected encounter, he came sharp up against Lauderdale, who was coming to meet him, with his curiosity largely excited.
“It was me he took for the tutor, I suppose?” said the strange Mentor73 who had thus taken possession of Colin; and the tall student laughed with a kind of quaint74 gratification. “And so I might have been if I had been bred up at Oxford75 or Cambridge,” he added, after a moment; “that is to say, if it had been my lot to be bred up anywhere; but they’ve a grand system in these English universities. That was not the Duke,” he said interrogatively, looking at Colin, whose blood of clansman boiled at the idea.
“That the Duke!” exclaimed the boy with great disdain; “no more than I am. It’s one of the English that are aye coming and making their jokes about the rain; as if anybody wanted them to come,” said Colin, with an outbreak of scorn; and then the boy remembered that Archie Candlish had just bought a house in expectation of such visitors, and stopped abruptly76 in full career. “I suppose the English are awfu’ fond of grouse77, or they wouldna’ come so far for two or three birds,” he continued, in a tone of milder sarcasm78. But his companion was not to be so easily diverted from his questions.
“Grouse is a grand institution, and helps in the good government of this country,” said Lauderdale, “and, through this country, of the world—which is a fine thought for a bit winged creature, if it had the sense to ken21. Yon’s another world,” he said, after a little pause, “no Paradise to be sure, but something as far removed from this as Heaven itself; farther, you might say, for there’s many a poor man down below here that’s hovering79 on the edge of heaven. And how came you to have such grand friends?” asked the self-constituted guardian80, stooping from his lofty height to look straight into Colin’s eyes. After a time, he extracted the baldest narrative81 that ever was uttered by a hero ashamed of his prowess from the half-indignant boy, and managed{45} to guess as clearly as the wonderful little lady in the carriage the nature of Colin’s sentiments towards the young antagonist82 and rival whom he had saved.
“I wouldna have let a dog drown,” said the aggrieved83 Colin; “there was nothing to make a work about. But you would have laughed to see that fellow, with his boots like a lassie’s and feared to wet his feet. He could swim, though,” added the boy, candidly84; “and I would like to beat him,” he said, after a moment; “I’d like to run races with him for something, and win the prize over his head.”
This was all Colin permitted himself to say; but the vehement85 sentiment thus recalled to his mind made him, for the moment, less attentive86 to Lauderdale, who, for his part, was considerably moved by his young companion’s excitement. “I’m not going to see your fine friends,” he said, as he parted from the boy at the “stairfoot” which led to Colin’s lodging87; “but there’s many a true word spoken in jest, and, my boy, you shall not want a tutor, though there’s no such thing in our Scotch colleges.”
When he had said so much, hastily, as a man does who is conscious of having shown a little emotion in his words, Colin’s new friend went away, disappearing through the misty88 night, gaunt and lean as another Quixote. “I should like to have something to do with the making of a new life,” he said to himself, muttering high up in the air over the ordinary passengers’ heads, as he mused89 on upon his way. And Colin and his story had struck the rock in the heart of the lonely man, and drawn54 forth90 fresh streams in that wilderness91. He was more moved in his imaginative, reflective soul, than he could have told any one, with, half-consciously to himself, a sense of contrast, which was natural enough, considering all things, and which coloured all his thoughts, more or less, for that night.
As for Colin—naturally, too—he thought no more of Lauderdale, nor of his parting words, and found himself in no need of any tutor or guide, but fell asleep in the midst of his Greek, as was to be expected, and dreamt of that creature with the curls nodding at him out of gorgeous Lord Mayor’s coaches, in endless procession. And it was with this wonderful little vision dancing about his fancy that the Scotch boy ended his first day at the University, knowing no more what was to come of it all than the saucy92 sparrow which woke him next morning by loud chirping93 in the Glasgow dialect at his quaint little attic94 window. The sparrow had his crumbs95, and Colin had another exciting day before him, and went out quite calmly to lay his innocent hands upon the edge-tools which were to carve out his life.
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ordained
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v.任命(某人)为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 );授予(某人)圣职;(上帝、法律等)命令;判定 | |
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whatsoever
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adv.(用于否定句中以加强语气)任何;pron.无论什么 | |
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homely
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adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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almighty
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adj.全能的,万能的;很大的,很强的 | |
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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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fermenting
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v.(使)发酵( ferment的现在分词 );(使)激动;骚动;骚扰 | |
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7
scotch
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n.伤口,刻痕;苏格兰威士忌酒;v.粉碎,消灭,阻止;adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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bosom
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n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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subdued
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adj. 屈服的,柔和的,减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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11
glum
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adj.闷闷不乐的,阴郁的 | |
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philosophically
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adv.哲学上;富有哲理性地;贤明地;冷静地 | |
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scattered
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adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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honourable
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adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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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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promotion
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n.提升,晋级;促销,宣传 | |
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considerably
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adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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imposing
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adj.使人难忘的,壮丽的,堂皇的,雄伟的 | |
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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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kens
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vt.知道(ken的第三人称单数形式) | |
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ken
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n.视野,知识领域 | |
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doctrine
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n.教义;主义;学说 | |
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fascination
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n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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mortified
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v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 );伤害(人的感情);克制;抑制(肉体、情感等) | |
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25
enfranchise
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v.给予选举权,解放 | |
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26
mingled
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混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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stimulated
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a.刺激的 | |
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specimen
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n.样本,标本 | |
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impartial
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adj.(in,to)公正的,无偏见的 | |
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polemics
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n.辩论术,辩论法;争论( polemic的名词复数 );辩论;辩论术;辩论法 | |
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longing
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n.(for)渴望 | |
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zeal
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n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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disdain
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n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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infliction
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n.(强加于人身的)痛苦,刑罚 | |
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murky
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adj.黑暗的,朦胧的;adv.阴暗地,混浊地;n.阴暗;昏暗 | |
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stimulation
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n.刺激,激励,鼓舞 | |
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glimmer
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v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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hubbub
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n.嘈杂;骚乱 | |
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coherence
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n.紧凑;连贯;一致性 | |
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craftsmen
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n. 技工 | |
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haze
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n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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skilful
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(=skillful)adj.灵巧的,熟练的 | |
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subservient
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adj.卑屈的,阿谀的 | |
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darted
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v.投掷,投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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alley
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n.小巷,胡同;小径,小路 | |
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unaware
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a.不知道的,未意识到的 | |
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47
mingling
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adj.混合的 | |
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48
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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49
firmament
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n.苍穹;最高层 | |
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50
bent
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n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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51
countenance
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n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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52
feudal
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adj.封建的,封地的,领地的 | |
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53
withdrawn
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vt.收回;使退出;vi.撤退,退出 | |
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drawn
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v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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55
embarrassment
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n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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56
salute
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vi.行礼,致意,问候,放礼炮;vt.向…致意,迎接,赞扬;n.招呼,敬礼,礼炮 | |
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57
aggravate
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vt.加重(剧),使恶化;激怒,使恼火 | |
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58
juvenile
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n.青少年,少年读物;adj.青少年的,幼稚的 | |
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59
attire
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v.穿衣,装扮[同]array;n.衣着;盛装 | |
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60
delicacy
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n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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harry
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vt.掠夺,蹂躏,使苦恼 | |
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exasperating
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adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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63
opposition
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n.反对,敌对 | |
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sufficiently
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adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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darting
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v.投掷,投射( dart的现在分词 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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twilight
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n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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incapable
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adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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68
bland
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adj.淡而无味的,温和的,无刺激性的 | |
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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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heartily
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adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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condescending
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adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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72
retired
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adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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73
mentor
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n.指导者,良师益友;v.指导 | |
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quaint
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adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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75
Oxford
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n.牛津(英国城市) | |
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abruptly
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adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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77
grouse
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n.松鸡;v.牢骚,诉苦 | |
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sarcasm
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n.讥讽,讽刺,嘲弄,反话 (adj.sarcastic) | |
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79
hovering
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鸟( hover的现在分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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80
guardian
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n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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81
narrative
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n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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82
antagonist
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n.敌人,对抗者,对手 | |
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83
aggrieved
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adj.愤愤不平的,受委屈的;悲痛的;(在合法权利方面)受侵害的v.令委屈,令苦恼,侵害( aggrieve的过去式);令委屈,令苦恼,侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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84
candidly
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adv.坦率地,直率而诚恳地 | |
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85
vehement
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adj.感情强烈的;热烈的;(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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86
attentive
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adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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87
lodging
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n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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88
misty
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adj.雾蒙蒙的,有雾的 | |
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89
mused
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v.沉思,冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 );沉思自语说(某事) | |
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forth
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adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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91
wilderness
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n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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92
saucy
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adj.无礼的;俊俏的;活泼的 | |
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93
chirping
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鸟叫,虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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attic
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n.顶楼,屋顶室 | |
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crumbs
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int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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