The state of Legs’ affections, I am bound to add, aggravated8 the sultriness of the weather, and made me feel exactly 350 (three hundred and fifty) years old. To take it at its best, he was embarked9 on a violent flirtation10 with a dreadful girl; to take it at its worst, he was falling in love with her. She is the daughter of a neighbouring minute squire11, who owns three turnip-fields, and calls it shooting. Legs shot over it the other day, and after walking over the whole estate twice, got back to The Grange in time for lunch. This was before I returned from Scotland, or I should have tried to prevent it. Probably I should not have succeeded.
The neighbouring squire’s name is Ampthump. I know quite well that it is not his fault, but that, wedded13 to what he is and a German wife, makes me unable to like him. His wife makes incredible quantities of jam, which, again, is an innocent pursuit; and Charlotte, the daughter, talks German to Legs, who I wish was more like Goethe. The whole family, in fact, as may have been already perceived, appear to me to be simply intolerable.
The attachment14 also has already led to{89} equivocation15 on the part of Legs. He pretends that he talks to Charlotte because it is so good for his German. He knows that it is not so, and I know it is not so, and I think he knows that I know it is not so. But it really looks at the moment that unless they marry each other there will be a broken or, at any rate, a cracked heart. I only hope it will not be Legs’. I don’t care the least what happens to Charlotte’s heart. It may, however, be only a flirtation, in which case there probably will not even be a crack. Legs will wake up one morning, and after handling some precious withered16 flowers will wonder what on earth they ever meant to him, and throw them in the fire. Or Charlotte will do something equally desperate. That is my hope; my fear is that they are falling in love with each other.
This narrative17, it should be understood, is the gist18 of what I have been saying fragmentarily to Helen. She considers it a cynical19 view, which alarms me, since I hold the creed20 that all cynics are properly and irretrievably damned. To-night Legs went to bed early, with dishevelled hair, a wakeful eye, and a gale21 of sighs, and I came{90} upstairs to talk to Helen about it all while she brushed her hair.
‘You are quite ridiculous about it,’ she said. ‘Because you happen not to like the Ampses (we have agreed on that abbreviation), you think that they are unlovable. Legs has proved the contrary. Besides, what on earth does her name matter, if she is going to change it?’
I groaned22 intentionally23, and in a graveyard24 manner.
‘Do you mean that you think Legs is in love with her?’ I asked.
‘Yes; at least, I hope so. He had a long talk with me to-day. He said he felt it was time he settled down. What a darling! Just twenty! I wish I was.’
Most of this was irrelevant25. I tried to pick out pieces that were not.
‘Of course, her name doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘Her name might be—— Well, you can’t do worse than Ampthump, and it does happen to be exactly that. But her face is like a ham——’
‘That is superficial,’ said Helen. ‘Beside, it isn’t. It’s oval.{91}’
‘So is a ham. And she’s a prig. Ampthump! Good Lord!’
I am afraid I shouted this, because she said: ‘Hush! Legs will hear.’
‘Not he. Or if he does, he will think it is only the wind whispering the beloved name.’
‘Yes, but you didn’t whisper it. Oh, do take the brush. You made me send my maid away, so you must do it yourself. I can’t brush from here, because my arms are in front.’
Now in my heart I pity everybody who has not seen Helen with her hair down. All such folk, in all their millions, lead impoverished26 existences. There is a wave in it that is like the big unbroken billows which succeed a storm, when the clouds have passed and the sun shines. It is lit from within, even as they seem to be irradiated from the depths. Those billows must go over a sandy foreshore, for they are yellow, and the sun—I know not how—must be foggy, for there is a little red light in them. And brushing, as I did now, I held my hand over them, and the hair rose to it with a tiny cracking sound. Her hair came to my hand, lifted towards it that unminted gold that framed her{92} face, and covered her ears. And for a little while it was no wonder that I forgot about Legs and his Charlotte.
I suppose every one knows the sensation of being lost. You can be lost all by yourself, as I was once, as I have said, in the western desert of Egypt, on which occasion the bray28 of a donkey was to me the trumpet29 of the Seraphin. That was a dreadful experience, since it implied being out of touch with life. But I should be glad to know if there is anything the world holds which is more enraptured30 than the sense of being lost with one other person, to feel the world swim away, and be dissolved, so that you and the comrade you are with are quite alone. To feel that there is no existence except the existence of her who is lost with you.... It was Helen’s hair.
‘That’s the world’s side; there’s the wonder!’ That lover understood. Everyone saw Helen’s hair.
‘“But the best is when I glide31 from out them,
Cross a step or two of dubious32 moonshine,
Come out on the other side....”’
{93}
I never could quote correctly. The point is that the beloved has another face, the face she turns to her lover. No one else sees it; it is ‘blind to Keats, him even.’
A moment ago I thought that no one but me must see Helen’s hair. Now let them all see it, the waves of the sunlit sea, not breaking, unless the break be where I put my hand an inch above them.
‘Thanks, dear,’ she said soon. ‘You brush it much better than my maid. Now shall we talk for five minutes? Then I must go to bed.’
I had hideous33 accumulations of various fag-ends of work to do, and at the end of the five minutes, or it might be ten, I went downstairs again, to begin at any rate this dreadful patchwork34 of odds35 and ends. It was still, I was almost sorry to observe, only just eleven, and since I had with both eyes open deliberately36 and firmly wasted all the hours of the day, my uneasy Conscience told me that I had better, if it was to have the ease it craved37, not think of leaving my chair for a couple of hours at least. I argued this point with it, and lost some{94} minutes, for I told it that it was extremely bad for me to work at night; that it took more out of one than work in the day; that work done under these circumstances was never good work; that doctors recommended one never to work at night, but go peacefully to bed before the evening fever—whatever that might be—set in. Then there ensued a short spirited dialogue.
‘Most sensible,’ said Conscience. ‘Give me your word that you will get up at six to-morrow, then, and work for two hours before breakfast, and you have my leave to go to bed now.’
‘But I shan’t wake at six,’ said I, ‘and the servants have gone to bed.’
‘I will wake you,’ said Conscience. (Conscience is quite capable of the odious38 feat39.)
‘But I can’t work before breakfast,’ I said. ‘It makes me feel’—I could not think of the word for the moment—‘oh yes, faint.’
‘Well, feel faint, then,’ said Conscience.
‘But I would sooner not; it implies weakness of the heart.’
‘Not to do your work implies weakness of character.’
‘Shut up,’ said I, ‘and let me begin, then.{95}’
And I could swear that my Conscience gave a self-satisfied chuckle40.
For an hour I waded41 wearily, knee-deep only, so to speak, in work, like a man who wants to swim, but has to trudge43 out over level sands. Most people, I fancy, even the laziest of us, like working, when we get up to our necks, or, better even, out of our depths, in it, but the wading44 is weary work. The worst of it was that the fact that I had to wade42 so far was entirely45 my own fault, for the whole of the last week I had never taken the trouble to finish up any one job, and now there waited for me several bills to pay, since a few mornings ago I had sat down to pay bills, and had paid them all except two or three; several letters to write, all of which had to begin either falsely (i.e., ‘I have just found your letter of the 17th) or apologetically (i.e. ‘I haven’t answered your letter before because——’). Then there was a half-corrected proof of an unfinished article, badly written originally, and, what is more, written without conviction. It was on a subject that did not particularly interest me, and I had only written it because the misguided editor of a magazine had offered me ￡25 for it,{96} and I very much wished to buy a seal-top spoon which cost exactly that sum, and which I knew perfectly46 well I had no right to buy. So, saying to myself that I would write this article (which I should not otherwise have done), I had bought it, and here was the dismal47 price that I had to pay for it—namely, that this wretched article was a piece of literary dishonesty. I had to fudge and vamp over it, trying to conceal48 the nakedness of the land by ornamental49 expressions. That was brought home to me now. It was all bad cheap stuff, and though most of us are continually turning out bad cheap stuff, not knowing it is bad and cheap, such manufactures become criminal when we do know it. As long as work is honest from the workman’s point of view, it is only his misfortune when he does not know its valuelessness; but when he does know its valuelessness, he sins by intention, and is a forger50. I was one, and by my forgery51 I had bought a seal-top that was not. I thought that when I tacitly agreed to work for two hours to-night, my tiresome52 Conscience would put its head under its wing, and leave me alone; but I found now that it was broad awake again, and chirping54 like a canary.{97}
‘What are you going to do?’ it chirped55. ‘Are you going to send out a rotten forgery which everybody who knows anything will detect? or are you going to tear it up, and be left with a purchase that you know you can’t really afford? Remember that you must get a new dining-room carpet too; you promised Helen you would. Chirp53, chirp, chirp!’
I am bound to say that this enraged56 me.
‘What’s the use of making that row?’ I said. ‘It’s you, Conscience, who has to settle.’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ said Conscience. ‘It’s your fault; you wouldn’t listen to me when I told you that you had no right to accept ￡25 for your dreadful article.’
‘You didn’t say it so loud, then,’ said I.
‘No, but you heard all right,’ said Conscience.
‘I hardly heard,’ said I. ‘You spoke57 so indistinctly.’
‘Yes, but you did hear,’ it chirped, with a sort of devilish cheerfulness. ‘You knew quite well what I meant. Now you suffer for it. Hurrah58!’
I wonder if I am cursed in this matter of Conscience beyond the majority of mankind. Often and often (I will swear to this in the House of{98} Lords if necessary) my Conscience is hardly audible at all at the time when I do anything which I ought not to do, or omit to do anything which I ought. To continue the simile59 of the canary, which really fits the case, when the actual choice comes, it is as if the canary had a thick green-baize cover round its cage, and only hoarse60 and muffled61 notes reach me. Very often, indeed, I am sorry to say, I don’t attend to them, or say it is only the cat, and in consequence do what I should not. Then the moment it is done the baize cover is whisked off, and the infernal and cheerful chirping, or so it sounds, succeeds to the wrong choice or the weak omission62. And the burden of the chirping is always the same.
‘I told you so; I told you so. Now you are in a mess! What are you going to do now? Chirp, chirp, chirp!’
And a hurricane of dry and deafening63 notes follows.
I sat there with this column of stupid twaddle in my hands, and Conscience watched me with its bright bird-like eye. Much as I like birds,{99} I hate their eyes, because they remind me of Conscience. They are beady and absolutely unsympathetic, frightfully quick to see, and without a particle of pity in them. Conscience never pities one at all; it is the foe64 that is of a man’s household. It always gloats over one’s mistakes, and things that are more than mistakes, and only says:
‘Here comes the master with the whip. A new lash65, I see, this time. And what a thin shirt you have got on!’
Nor, when the whipping is over, does Conscience sympathize.
‘I told you so; I told you so,’ it says. ‘No, there is no soothing66 ointment67 of any kind in the house. I ate it all up. Wasn’t that a beautiful new lash?’
Well, I tore that dreadful nonsense up, and wrote another apologetic letter. I am getting quite good at them. But to-morrow—this is what makes Conscience mad—I shall tell Helen about it. The telling is not pleasant; it never is. But as soon as Helen knows, Conscience has simply to retire. It does not understand why it{100} suddenly becomes so unimportant, and that gives it a fit of impotent rage. Nor do I quite understand, though I am nearer to the explanation than Conscience is. But she understands. At least, I suppose so, or else she would not be able to put the green-baize cover on again.
And then, what with apologetic letters, and the drawing of two or three cheques, and the stupid attempts, in this matter of the dishonest article, to produce something out of nothing, by covering up the nothingness by more ornamental expressions, and the eventual68 destruction of it all, I found that the two hours were gone, and that I had kept my promise to the idiotic69 canary. It had ceased chirping from experience when I told it I was going to confess to Helen.
The night was intensely hot, and through the long open windows of the room in which I had been working no breeze entered. Though September had but a quarter more of its course to run, it was like some sultry July midnight, portending70 storm, for when I went out to take the night-breath the sky was thickly overcast71, so that no direct ray either of moonlight or of starshine, came earthwards. The serrated out{101}line of the elms at the end of the lawn was scarce distinguishable against the scape of the clouds, and the low land of the water-meadows was blanketed in a mist that was only just visible by its whiteness against the black blot72 of the hills behind. Fifi, who had very sensibly decided73 to sleep on the veranda74, did not stir when I came out, though I heard the instinctive75 thump12 of her short tail on the tiles, the natural politeness of the dear dog, though she really could not stand on ceremony with me to the length of getting up. So, maliciously76, I am afraid, since I thought this slightly cavalier conduct, I said ‘Puss,’ though there was no Puss of any sort, as far as I was aware. But my malice77 was again thwarted78, for Fifi just tapped again with her tail, in courteous79 recognition of a stale old joke, just to show that she appreciated my intention, but she made not the smallest further effort towards activity.
So she was half asleep, and all the world, this dear, blessed world, which is so full of merriness and simple, innocent pleasure, despite the fulminations of fashionable priests, was {102}quite asleep, not stirring, scarcely breathing, just sleeping, sleeping. It was not yet the hour when, just before the hold of the night begins to tremble and be weakened in the sky, all living things wake for a moment—that mysterious moment, when sheep take a bite of grass and cows twitch80 their grave ears, and horses stand up for a minute before they settle down to the light morning sleep which dissolves with day, and when even indoors, if you sleep with a dog in your room, and happen yourself to be awake, you will hear a stretching of limbs on your bed or on the carpet, and a long sigh breathed into the blankets. Plants and flowers, so I truly believe, feel the same thing; and though there may be no wind perceptible to you if you are abroad, as sometimes I am, at that hour, you will hear, just at the moment when cattle move and sheep take their bite of grass, a stir go through the trees, and a hushed whisper lisp in the flower-beds. At that moment, too (you need not credit this, though it is absolutely true), though it has rained all night till then, and will rain thereafter, steadily81, soakingly till morning, the rain ceases, as suddenly as if a tap was turned off. Time and again I have tested that.{103}
But, as I have said, that mysterious moment was not due yet. It was still two hours short of it, and everything was still asleep. Even in the last minute or two Fifi had fallen fast asleep, too, after I had sat down in a wicker chair on the veranda, for when I called her there was no tap of response. To-night, too, the sleep of the world seemed to me (feeling it as one does by that sixth sense, which still exists dormant82 in us, and is most awake at night) to be extraordinarily83 deep. It was the sleep of a world that was very tired with this long hot summer. There seemed no pulse stirring in it at all, as you may find it stir in the light sleep in which Nature indulges in June, or still more in the dark, wet nights of spring, when the secret boiling up of life begins again from hidden root to budding tendril, so that if you lay your ear to the trunk of a tree it seems that the effervescence of the young year is audible, and sings within it, even as the telegraph poles are resonant84 with the wind that hums in the wires. Nor could I hear, when I rose and walked across the lawn, even though the dew was heavy on the grass, the hiss85 of startled worms,{104} withdrawing from the approaching footfall. Black, too, and lifeless, was the oblong of the house except where the lights burned in the room in which I had been trying to be honest. The long herbaceous hedge was black, the lawn was black, Helen’s windows and Legs’ were black.
I went back to the seat I had just left, and lit a cigarette, meaning to go upstairs to bed when I had smoked it. Fifi still lay motionless, though generally any excursion into the garden at any time of day or night sets her scampering86. And then, quite suddenly, quite unexpectedly, for nothing was further from my thoughts, I became aware that, though the physical world was asleep, there was some enormous stir and activity going on in the occult world which surrounds and permeates87 us. Yet that is perhaps a wrong expression, for the same activity and stir always goes on in that unsleeping realm; and I must express it more accurately88 by saying that the part of me which was able to perceive it was suddenly quickened. It is possible, of course, since I confess to being able to go to sleep whenever I choose,{105} and often without delay, when I do not, that at that moment I fell asleep. But whether I fell asleep or not, does not make the slightest difference, for there was clearly some part of my brain awake, and it made my eyes think that they saw, and my ears think that they heard, that which immediately followed.
As far as I am aware, in any case, I sat down again in a rather creaky basket-chair and lit a cigarette. The match with which I lit it, I threw on to the gravel89 path in front of me, and, since I required it no further, it proceeded to burn prosperously. By its light I could see Fifi with her nose between her paws. I saw, also, that my shoe-lace was untied90.
And then I heard my name called from the garden, in a voice that was perfectly familiar to me, though for the moment I could not say, so elusive91 is the ear, whose voice it was that called. It was not Helen’s, it was not Legs’, it was not ... and then I remembered whose voice it was. It called me by name, once only, in the voice that had said, ‘It is from the cross that He smiles at us all.’
I do not think I was frightened, but simply{106} for the purely92 personal reason, that to me there was nothing to be frightened at. The match still burned on the gravel path, so short had been the measurement of this in the world of time, and I could still see Fifi’s nose buried between her paws. Then she raised it, looked out into the garden with terrified scrutinizing93 eyes, focussing them on something, invisible to me, and gave one long howl. But there was no moon. It was at something else she howled.
Then, I confess, as if some bomb had burst within me, terror flooded my whole mind, submerging it, and I sprang up. Simultaneously94 I heard a sort of strangled scream from the room above, and the scurry95 of unshod feet overhead. Next moment the sound of an opening door came to my ears, and a quick stumbling tread on the stairs. I ran indoors, and reached the door leading from my room into the hall, just as the handle was seized and shaken by someone on the other side of it, and Legs burst into the room, his hair all tumbled and erect96, and his face wearing such a mask of terror that for the moment I recognized him only because it must be he.{107}
‘Who is that in the garden?’ he said. ‘Someone in white, who looked up at my window? And Fifi howled at her.’
This would never do. Nerves, terror are the most infectious things in the world, and unless I took steps, there would, I knew, be standing97 here two babbling98 lunatics.
‘I was dozing99 in the veranda,’ I said, ‘and Fifi woke me by howling. She woke you, too! Legs, don’t be an ass27! Pull yourself together. If there had been anything, I should have seen it.’
Legs was as white as a sheet. The whiteness somehow showed through his freckled100 sun-tanned skin. He was swaying to and fro on his feet, as if he would fall, and I put my arm around him, and deposited him in a chair. Then I poured out a wineglassful of neat whisky.
‘Don’t speak another word till you have drunk that,’ I said. ‘Then I shall count ten slowly, and then you may speak.’
Fifi had followed me in, and sat close to the door whimpering. With my heart in my mouth and a perspiring101 forehead, I went across to the{108} window as I counted, shut and locked it, and pulled down the blind.
‘Nine, ten,’ I said.
A little colour had begun to come back to Leg’s face. He had drunk the whisky, a beverage102 which he detested103, like water, and the frozen fear of his eyes was less biting. And then, as suddenly as it had come on, my terror left me. Whatever it was that I had heard, whatever it was that Legs had seen and Fifi perceived, there was nothing to terrify. Besides, within myself, now that the cowardly disorder104 of my nerves had passed, I believed I knew what it was that had made its presence so strangely perceived by us all. The mortal suffering of a dear friend was over. Already I was ashamed of having told Legs that I had been asleep and had neither seen nor heard anything.
‘Legs, I lied just now,’ I said. ‘I heard my name called from the garden in Margaret’s voice.’
‘You mean she is dead?’ asked he gently. ‘The last accounts had been better, I thought.’
‘I’m sure she is.{109}’
Then for a moment, like a sudden squall, the white terror passed over Legs’ face again.
‘It was not her I saw,’ he said hoarsely105; ‘it was Death. I thought she had come for me. Fifi saw her too.’
I sat down on the arm of his chair.
‘Yes, old boy,’ I said, ‘I think that you and Fifi both saw some manifestation106 of what I heard. But there is nothing to be frightened at. But how was it you were at your window? You had gone to bed hours ago.’
‘I know, but I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and sat by the window.’
We sat there for some time after that, and by degrees Legs recovered from his collapse107, and soon, instead of terror, mere6 sleepiness invaded his face. Once or twice he stifled108 a yawn, and at length he got up.
‘I am dead sleepy,’ he said. ‘I think I shall go to bed.’
‘You are not frightened any longer, are you?’ I asked.
Legs looked at me out of drooping109 eyelids110, and he seemed puzzled.{110}
‘Frightened? What about?’ he said. ‘Good-night.’
I was very late down next morning, and found that Helen and Legs had nearly finished breakfast. As I came in he jumped up.
‘Ah, here he is!’ he cried. ‘Now, did you sit up very late last night?’
When he asked that I began to have some suspicion of what was coming next.
‘Yes, very. Why?’
‘Well, were you talking to yourself? Helen and I both woke in the night, and heard talking in your room. I had had some dream that frightened me, and I nearly came downstairs for human companionship.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I was too sleepy. But—were you talking?’
‘No. You were dreaming. So was Helen. I may have groaned now and then over proofs, but not more than that.’
Legs nodded at Helen.
‘I told you it was ghosts,’ he said.
‘And you heard voices too?’ I asked Helen.{111}
‘Yes; at least, I thought so. But I was very sleepy. I thought also I heard Fifi howl.’
So, you see, there is no corroboration111 of my story, and if I dreamed it at all, or made it up, there is no one to whom I can appeal for confirmation112 of its verity113. But there is just this little bit of evidence—namely, that though Legs had finished breakfast, he went on drinking cup after cup of tea. When Helen left us he explained this to me.
‘I woke with a mouth like a lime-kiln,’ he said—‘just as if I had been drinking that dreadful whisky of yours. I drank most of my jug114, too, and they had to bring me more water to wash in.’
What happened last night, then, had been wiped clean off Legs’ brain again. Whatever it was that he had seen, that which made him stumble white-faced downstairs, had gone. But an hour or two later, while we were out playing croquet in the garden, some faint echo of it, I think, crossed him again. A telegram was brought out for me, which contained what I knew it would contain, and I handed it to him when I had read it. Then we went quietly indoors.
Just as we got into my room again, he said:
‘How odd that sensation is of feeling that something has happened before! When you handed me the telegram, I felt I knew what was in it. And during the last week she had been rather better, had she not?’
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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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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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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6
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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improperly
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| 不正确地，不适当地 | |
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aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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equivocation
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| n.模棱两可的话，含糊话 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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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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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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24
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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27
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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28
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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29
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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30
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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32
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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33
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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34
patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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35
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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37
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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38
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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39
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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40
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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41
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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43
trudge
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| v.步履艰难地走；n.跋涉，费力艰难的步行 | |
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44
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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45
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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46
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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47
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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49
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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50
forger
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| v.伪造；n.（钱、文件等的）伪造者 | |
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51
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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52
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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53
chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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54
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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55
chirped
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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57
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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58
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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62
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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eventual
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| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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portending
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| v.预示( portend的现在分词 )；预兆；给…以警告；预告 | |
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overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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72
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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74
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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75
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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77
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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78
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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79
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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80
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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81
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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82
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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83
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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84
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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85
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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86
scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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87
permeates
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| 弥漫( permeate的第三人称单数 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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88
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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89
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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90
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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91
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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93
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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94
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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95
scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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96
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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97
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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98
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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99
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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100
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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102
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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103
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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105
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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106
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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107
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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108
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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109
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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110
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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111
corroboration
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| n.进一步的证实，进一步的证据 | |
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112
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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113
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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114
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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