Staring out of the window, a neglected cigarette drooping1 between his lips, he was listening without attending to the faint strains of the Zouave band echoing from the Place du Gouvernement, drumming absently with his fingers on the table before him which was littered with maps and plans and scattered2 typewritten sheets. For the best part of two hours he had been repeating the story of his last journey, and the hardly won concession3 for the benefit of an interested and detail-loving representative of the Ministry4 of the Interior who was returning the next day to Paris after an extensive and carefully shepherded tour through the northern provinces of Algeria.
Carew’s mission successfully terminated and his report duly handed in to headquarters, he had had no wish to be further identified with the enterprise. He was glad to be of use to the Administration; anxious always, when opportunity offered, to assist in promoting a better understanding between the rulers of the country and its native part of his life’s work. He was not inclined to magnify the importance of what he did and he was actuated by no desire for personal gain or advantage. He was content to give his help when it was required and let others take the kudos5. He worked solely6 for love of the country and admiration7 of its administrators8. The Governor General and the Commander-in-Chief, both hard-working conscientious9 men who governed a difficult country with tact10 and discretion11, were his personal friends, and he considered himself amply rewarded if his own endeavors in any way eased the burden of their responsibilities.
But today, for the first time, he had yielded to the often expressed wish of General Sanois—who administered the particular part of the Sahara under discussion—that his really valuable aid should be more intimately known to the home authorities.
The interview had passed off successfully. The illustrious visitor had shown a wide knowledge of and a deep personal interest in the affairs of the country which had gone far to lessen12 the instinctive13 feeling of hostility14 with which the two men primarily responsible for its well-being15, had viewed his advent16. He had listened carefully to Carew’s story, gripping the major points of importance sanely17 and intelligently, and had been loud in his approval of the work done. With Gallic courtesy and enthusiasm he had congratulated all concerned, expressing his own and his country’s indebtedness to the three men he addressed in a felicitous18 little speech that hinted at much he did not say outright19, and, with a final interchange of compliments, had at last betaken himself to his waiting carriage whither the Governor and General Sanois had accompanied him.
And Carew, left for a few moments alone in the cool pleasant room, had fallen into a profound reverie that was in no way connected with the events of the afternoon.
The sound of approaching voices roused him and he turned reluctantly from the window as the stout20, smiling little Governor bustled21 in, followed by his tall, grave-faced army colleague, and a slim, delicate-looking youth who went silently to a desk in a far corner.
The Governor dropped into a chair with a little grunt22, mopped his heated forehead vigorously and beamed with evident satisfaction on his companions.
“That’s over,” he remarked in a tone of relief. “I usually have a crise de nerfs after these visits. But this one was better than most, Dieu merci! Some of them—oh, la! la!” He broke off with a comical grimace23, flourishing his handkerchief expressively24. Then with a shrug25 and a gay laugh he tapped Carew’s knee confidentially26 with a podgy forefinger27.
“Everything goes à merveille, my dear Carew. Our friend is charmed with all he has seen, has been pleased to compliment me on the state of the country, and has swallowed all the extravagant28 demands of our good Sanois here without turning a hair. Providing he remembers all he has promised, providing his interest is as great as he represents, there should be speedily allowed to us some alterations29 in administration we have long asked for in vain. Our hands have been tied too tightly, voyez-vous. He sees the necessity for loosening them somewhat. I am not expecting the millennium—I have lived too long to expect anything very much, particularly of politicians—but I am hopeful, decidedly hopeful. If it were not so exhausting I might even allow myself to become enthusiastic. But I gave up enthusiasms when I came to Algeria—so very detrimental31 to the nerves.” Again he demonstrated languidly with his handkerchief, and then patted his chest significantly. “And some little decorations will probably follow, hein? We need not attach too much importance to them, perhaps, but they are pleasant to receive, oh, yes, decidedly very pleasant to receive.”
The little Governor looked up at him with an expression of pained protest. “Ah, you soldiers—you and your guns! Brute33 force, brute force—that’s all you think of,” he murmured reprovingly. Then he smiled again, waving his hands as though dismissing the unpleasant idea his colleague’s words suggested.
“You will dine with me tonight,” he said genially35, “both of you? We must celebrate the occasion. And afterwards, perhaps, for an hour or two, the opera? Not very amusing but—” he shrugged36 whimsically and offered Carew his cigarette case.
For a few minutes longer they talked of the possibilities of the new régime in prospect37, and then the General rose to go with a vague reference to a mass of correspondence awaiting his attention.
“Are you coming my way?” he asked, turning to the Englishman. But Carew shook his head.
“I’ve an appointment in the Casbar this evening,” he said, shuffling38 some papers together and slipping them into his breast pocket.
Sanois laughed grimly and looked up from the sword-belt he was buckling39 with a suspicion of eagerness in his keen eyes. “It would be indiscreet to ask with whom, I presume? You know more about the Casbar than I do,” he said, almost grudgingly40. “You’ve friends everywhere, Carew. Some of them I’d like to lay my hands on,” he added meaningly.
Carew smiled faintly. “Possibly,” he said coolly, “but my ‘friends’ are useful. And until they let me down I can’t very well help you to any information you may want concerning them. That was agreed,” he added, his voice hardening slightly.
“Word of an Englishman, eh?” said the General with another grim laugh, and stalked off.
The Governor looked at the closing door with his smiling features puckered41 up disapprovingly43. “An excellent fellow, but blood thirsty—very blood thirsty,” he murmured, with the least little touch of regret in his voice as if he deprecated an attitude with which in reality he thoroughly44 concurred45.
But Carew’s thoughts were not concerned with the man who had just left the room.
Crossing to the open window he stood for some time without speaking, his hands plunged46 deep in his jacket pockets, scowling47 at the palms in the garden beneath. And accustomed to his frequent and protracted49 silences his host, pleasantly somnolent50 with the beat and tired with the excitement of the day, made no attempt to force conversation. Stretched comfortably in a capacious armchair he toyed idly with a cigarette and sipped51 the vermouth his guest had declined, thoroughly content with himself and the world at large, until Carew’s voice broke in suddenly on thoughts that were lightly alternating between the happy results of the afternoon’s interview and the gastronomic52 delights of the coming dinner.
“There is a compatriot of mine, a certain Viscount Geradine, who has de Granier’s villa53 this winter—can you tell me anything about him?”
The cherubic little Governor looked vaguely54 embarrassed. “Nothing of very much good, I am afraid,” he said slowly, “he is not, unfortunately, an ornament55 to your usually so distinguished56 aristocracy. I personally know very little of him. But one hears things—one hears things,” he repeated uncomfortably.
For a moment Carew hesitated, then:
“As—what?” he asked bluntly. Surprised at the question, the Frenchman shot him a look of undisguised astonishment57. It was unlike Carew to be curious about anybody, and in all the years he had known him he had never heard him even refer to a member of the English community.
“Patrice knows more about these things than I do,” he fenced, lighting58 a fresh cigarette with delicate precision. And turning to the pale youth in the corner who seemed absorbed in his secretarial duties, he raised his voice slightly.
“My good Patrice, can you tell us anything about the Englishman, Lord Geradine, who is living at the Villa des Ombres?”
The young man looked up quickly with a laugh which showed that his attention was not so wholly centered on his work as it appeared to be.
“I can tell you what happened chez Fatima last night, mon oncle,” he replied promptly59, with a boyish grin that was faintly malicious60. But the Governor raised a plump white hand in horrified61 protest. “I beg of you—no,” he said hurriedly. “Spare us the disgusting details, mon cher. Generalities will be amply sufficient, amply sufficient.”
His nephew shrugged acquiescence62. “As you will,” he said complacently63, “but it was amusing—oh, yes, distinctly amusing,” he mimicked64, with the assurance of a highly privileged individual. And for five minutes he sketched65 with racy frankness the character and failings of the man who had won for himself an unenviable reputation even in a not too straight-laced society. It was an unsavoury revelation that provoked little exclamations66 of disgust from the visibly distressed67 Governor, but Carew listened with apparent indifference68 to the delinquencies of his fellow-countryman. “—a drunkard and a bully,” concluded the attaché, ticking off the final accusations69 on his fingers as if he were tabulating70 them for a formal process. “And married,” he added with a burst of indignation, “married, imaginez-vous, to a beautiful young girl with the face of an angel—”
“Yes, yes, quite so,” interrupted his uncle dryly, “they usually are married, ces gens là, to a beautiful young girl with the face of an angel! But we are not discussing Lady Geradine, my good Patrice. Not a pleasant character, I fear,” he added, turning deprecatingly to Carew as if apologising for his nephew’s outspoken71 comments, “but rich, immensely rich, I understand. If it is the question of a horse, perhaps—” he suggested tentatively, as a probable reason for Carew’s inquiry73 suddenly occurred to him. But Carew shook his head with a curt74 gesture of disdain75.
“I value my horses too highly to sell them to a man of that type,” he said shortly, and took leave without vouchsafing76 any explanation of his curiosity.
Outside in the Place du Gouvernement he glanced at his watch as he turned his steps toward the native quarter. It was later than he had imagined. He would have to hurry to keep his appointment and get back to his own villa in time to dress for the dinner the Governor had planned so gleefully. Heedless of the traffic, too familiar with the varied78 types to even glance at the jostling crowd of cosmopolitan79 humanity about him, he strode through the busy streets with a heavy scowl48 on his face, immersed in his own thoughts. What on earth had made him ask the Governor that idiotic80 question? What on earth did the fellow matter to him! If the voluble young attaché’s story was true—and Patrice Lemaire was a social butterfly who knew everybody and everything in Algiers—he must be a pretty average blackguard. And if he were—what business was it of his? It mattered not one particle to him if the tenant82 of de Granier’s villa was a devil from hell or a saint from heaven. If the girl had married a scoundrel it was her own look-out. It was of no moment to him. He had no interest in either her or her husband. He had been forced to help her in her exigency83, but the affair was over and done with—thank heaven.
Finished as far as he was concerned when he had been fortunate enough to get her horse back, which he had done far sooner than he had expected. It had been a stroke of luck, that second chance meeting with Abdul el Dhib. Carew smiled despite himself as he remembered the wily horse stealer’s discomforted curses when he reluctantly surrendered the stolen stallion which he had already mentally disposed of at considerable profit to a Sheik in the south who paid well and asked no questions. But it had been touch and go, half-an-hour later and he would have missed him. With what result? Quite suddenly he seemed to be looking into a pair of wide, blue eyes, strained and dark with agonised terror, and he flung his shoulders back angrily, cursing the trick of memory that had brought the girl’s white face before him with vivid distinctness. For years he had never consciously looked at a woman. Why did this woman’s face haunt him so persistently84? He had no wish to remember her, he hoped never to see her again, but for the last three weeks the remembrance of her had been a nightmare. The tranquillity85 of mind he had won after years of mental struggle had been torn from him, first by the coming of Micky Meredith and then by the circumstance that had flung this unfortunate girl across his path. The quiet villa that for so long had been his haven86 of rest seemed now neither restful nor solitary87. It was peopled by shadowy figures that crowded day and night upon his thoughts, breaking habits that had become second nature and stirring him painfully to the recollection of emotions he had long since deliberately88 cut out of his life. He was in the grip of a tremendous revolt that acted equally on mind and body. He seemed, for the second time in his forty years, to be facing a crisis that was overwhelming. He tried to analyse dispassionately the agitation91 of mind that had taken so strong a hold on him, to probe honestly for the reason of the strange unrest that filled him. But self-analysis brought him no nearer to an understanding of his feelings, brought him no kind of alleviation92.
And yet, in reality, there was only one solution, he argued doggedly93 as he made his way through the narrow streets, a solution that was simple enough, ample enough in all conscience—if he had only sense enough to leave it at that. It was, it could only be, reaction from the sudden awakening94 of the old pain, the old memories he had thought done with forever. There was no other possible construction to put upon his state of mind—he would allow no other construction. And yet, the humiliation95 of it! That the chance meeting with an old friend should move him so strongly; that he should be fool enough, weak enough to permit himself to brood over the past he had buried so many years before. Had he not even yet conquered the moral cowardice96 that in the early days of his sorrow had driven him from England and made him avoid association with his fellow countrymen rather than face the scandal that would always be connected with his name. It had been rank cowardice. And he was a coward still, it appeared, too cowardly even to be honest with himself.
His face hardened as a wave of self-disgust passed over him. And wrenching97 his thoughts resolutely98 from the morbid99 introspection to which he had given way he forced his attention to the immediate100 matter in hand.
And as he plunged deeper into the heart of the Casbar he thought with a slight feeling of amusement of General Sanois’ parting words for the astute101 old Arab who awaited his coming was distinctly one of those “friends” the General yearned102 to lay his hands on.
Turning from the steep street he was ascending103, he entered a gloomy alley104 of squalid, sinister105-looking houses and walked slowly along the narrow footway, counting the closed doors carefully as he went.
The house before which he eventually halted was, if possible, more sinister, more wretched-looking than the rest, the cracked walls bulging106 ominously107 in places and stained with leperous-like patches where the plaster had fallen off, the twisted iron balcony that projected a few feet above his head clinging by what seemed a miracle to the crumbling108 fabric109 from which it threatened momentarily to detach itself. There was no knocker on the nail-studded door, and the tiny grille was closed, but Carew had not expected an open welcome and he was too well versed110 in the ways of the Casbar to advertise his presence by any noisy demonstration111. Though apparently112 deserted113, he knew that life was teeming114 behind the seemingly empty walls. The whole street bore the same abandoned tenantless115 appearance, but he was well aware that unseen peeping eyes had followed his leisurely116 progress from the moment he had set foot on the filthy117 cobble stones that were damp and reeking118 with undrained refuse. He knew that he was expected, but it was not his custom to make visits of ceremony to the Casbar in European dress, and, an unfamiliar119 figure, in all likelihood, some minutes would elapse before the door opened to receive him. It was probable that his coming was watched for from behind the close lattice-work of the forlornly drooping little balcony and he moved further out into the street that he might be more plainly seen, lighting a cigarette as he set himself to wait until the hidden watcher should satisfy himself of the visitor’s identity. And the cigarette was smoked through before he heard the dull clank of heavy bars being removed. Still with no show of haste he sauntered to the door that opened narrowly to admit him and passed into gloom that became absolute blackness as the faint light, filtering in from without, was shut off by the closing of the entrance. Again he heard the rattle121 of formidable bolts, then a hand touched his sleeve and he was led along an interminable passage that curved and twisted tortuously122. It was impossible in the darkness to form any idea of the way he was being conducted and with the frequent turnings he speedily lost all sense of bearing. He only knew that the house he had entered was certainly not the one in which he would eventually find himself. That the passage occasionally widened into rooms was apparent for he could feel the difference in the atmosphere, and his hand outstretched to the dank wall beside him met from time to time with only space. But his silent guide moved forward unhesitatingly with a sure step that made Carew wonder suddenly if he was blind.
Dumb also, it would appear, for he made no answer to the one remark addressed to him.
A doorkeeper who was a deaf mute and blind, a mysterious building which was approached by devious123 ways and secret passages—Carew’s lips twitched124 with amusement. To him the situation was sufficiently125 ludicrous, though to one less sure of his welcome, less acquainted with the way of the people, there might have been more than a suggestion of unpleasantness in this curious reception. It was all so typically eastern, so fraught126 with childish intrigue127 and suspicion. The wily old Arab who, after years of absence, had ventured into Algiers again for cogent128 reasons of his own was evidently taking no chances of a surprise visit from the authorities who were presumably unaware129 of his return. That he had come himself directly from the Palace and from the company of General Sanois was a humorous coincidence that made Carew smile again.
His eyes were just beginning to become accustomed to the darkness when the guide’s fingers pressing on his arm brought him to a sudden stop and he waited without moving while more bolts were removed and a tiny door swung inward revealing a narrow winding130 staircase which was lit by a solitary earthenware131 lamp placed in a niche132 in the wall. Seen by the dim light his conductor proved to be a powerful negro of gigantic height, blind as he had thought. And feeling more than ever that he had stepped into an episode from the Arabian Nights, Carew followed him up the staircase to a door that was covered with a curtain of matchless embroidery133. He was ushered134 into a room which, for sumptuousness135 of furnishing and barbaric splendour, he had never seen equalled. The rugs and hangings were priceless, the divans136 and mats gorgeous with vivid colourings, and the many lamps of beaten silver, lit already, for the daylight was excluded by thick curtains, were finer even than those which hung in the mauresque hall of his own villa. The atmosphere was stifling137 and heavy with the sweet pungent138 scent139 of incense140.
Blinking at the sudden light he hesitated on the threshold for an instant and then went forward to meet the superbly-dressed Arab who rose quickly from a heap of cushions to greet him with unusually demonstrative expressions of pleasure.
Their last meeting had been under very different circumstances, circumstances attendant on the intertribal warfare141 that waged perpetually between the belligerent142 Arabs of the far south. Travelling in a district that was new to him, Carew had become involved in a bid for supremacy143 between two powerful chiefs which had ended in victory for the one who was now greeting him with such wealth of flowery hyperbole—a victory that at the time it had seemed impossible he could live to enjoy. In the course of his wanderings, Carew had seen many appalling144 sights and had attended to wounds that appeared well-nigh incurable145, but never in the whole of his experience had he attempted to restore a body so horribly mangled146 and broken. For weeks he had wrestled147 to save the chief’s life and it had been mainly owing to his care, though helped by a magnificent constitution and a passionate89 desire to live, that the Sheik had eventually recovered to swear eternal friendship with the man who had literally148 snatched him from the jaws149 of death.
The mutual150 interchange of formal compliments and good-will was followed by the customary coffee and sweet-meats, and cigarettes that were the Sheik’s one lapse120 from strict orthodoxy and which he proffered151 with a grave smile and a jest at his own expense. The conversation ranged over many topics, and used though he was to the circumambient methods of the oriental when any particular point is in view, Carew began to wonder when the special subject which he understood was the main reason of his visit would be approached. But when the Sheik at length abandoned generalities and came with unexpected directness to the heart of the matter he had dallied152 with so long, Carew listened to information that coming from such a quarter, filled him with amazement153. The man was no friend to France, and out of favour with the Government, but he was calmly imparting intelligence that would be very useful to the Administration and for the moment Carew was nonplussed154. Was the surprising confidence for his ears alone or was he being used as an intermediary to bring about a rapprochement between a refractory155 chief and the rulers of the country? He put the question with his usual bluntness.
“Is it thy wish that the Government should learn of this?”
“It is my wish that through thee the Government should learn that which they are too blind to see. Thus do I, in part, pay my debt,” he answered, with a sudden gleam in his fierce old eyes. Carew nodded and studied the glowing end of his cigarette thoughtfully for a few moments.
“And thou, O Sheik,” he said at last, “do I speak for thee to the Government? The day is fortunate. Tonight I dine with His Excellency and General Sanois—”
“May Allah burn them!” interposed the Sheik fervently157, and spat158 frankly159 and conclusively160 on to the priceless carpet. Carew laughed.
“And thy news?” he asked, rising to his feet after a glance at the watch on his wrist and pulling his waistcoat down with a jerk.
“Use it—or withhold161 it, but speak no word of me. Am I their dog?” replied the Sheik, with a flash of anger, as he prepared to take leave of his guest.
But there was a constraint162 in his manner, a hint of something left unsaid, that made him appear preoccupied163 as he accompanied Carew to the head of the little winding staircase where the negro was still waiting. And it was not until the elaborate farewells had been spoken and Carew had started to descend164 that the old Arab gave utterance165 to what was in his mind. Leaning forward he spoke72 in a swift undertone. “There was a dweller166 in the wilderness167 who had a garden filled with rare flowers—culled from the gardens of better men than he—a garden overflowing168 with sweetness and delight. Yet was he not satisfied, for his questioning eyes had glimpsed the beauty of a stranger blossom brought from a far-off land, and he burned with desire to gather it for his own. Chance gave him the prize he longed for—and chance wrested169 it from him again. And now the fire of desire is quenched170 in the greater fire of hatred171 and revenge. Take heed77 for that same gardener, my friend,” he added meaningly, and turned away with a parting salaam172.
Carew went on down the stairs with a faint smile at the oriental ambiguity173 with which the veiled warning had been conveyed to him. Though no name had been mentioned it was perfectly174 obvious who threatened him. He had thwarted175 the desire of no other Arab. But as he followed the negro again through the blackness of the winding passage he turned from the thought of that particular Arab with a shrug of annoyance176. Abdul el Dhib was too intimately connected with what he wished to forget to allow him to dwell on the possible results of the horse-thief’s threats. Threatened men live long, and Abdul was in some ways wise in his generation. There seemed no need to take the warning too seriously and, besides, he was too deeply imbued177 with the fatalism he had learned in the desert to dread178 death that was always more or less imminent179 in the hazardous180 life he led. He had always held his life cheaply, there was no reason now to go out of his way to take precautions that would probably be unnecessary. He lived or he died as Allah willed—a comfortable creed181 he found amply sufficient.
Dismissing Abdul from his mind his thoughts reverted182 to the other as plausible183 but more clean-handed Arab he had just quitted. The intelligence the Sheik had imparted ought, without question, to be passed on to headquarters, and that as speedily as possible. Perhaps tonight he would find opportunity to approach the General on the subject—and Sanois; certain demands for the source of his information were going to be the very devil to parry.
The return journey through the dismal184 cellars seemed shorter than the first and Carew was not surprised when he was ushered into the outer world again to find himself, as he had expected, in a totally different street from that in which he had waited to gain admittance to the sinister-looking house. But the locality was known to him and very soon he was back in the rue81 Annibal, swinging quickly down the unusually empty street. Preoccupied he rounded a sharp corner without noticing the noisy clamour that ordinarily would have warned him of some special excitement in progress and came suddenly upon a yelling crowd of ragged185 youths and boys who fought and screamed and tore at each other as they surged round some central object that was hidden from him. The noise was deafening186, the narrow roadway completely blocked, and Carew glanced at his watch with a gathering187 frown. He was late enough already, he had no mind to be further delayed by a band of young savages188 employed probably in their usual amusement of torturing some unfortunate dumb animal that had fallen into their clutches.
He was familiar with the callous189 cruelty of the Arabs, but familiarity had not lessened190 the abhorrence191 with which he viewed this particular pastime of the native youth. And the scowl on his face deepened as he sought to find some way of passing the squalid rabble192 who had taken possession of the footway. Argument was impossible, his voice would be drowned in the shrill193 cries that filled the air. Action, prompt and decisive, was the only expedient194. Selecting a spot where the throng195 seemed less dense196 he gripped two of the taller lads, who were engaged in a private sparring match on the fringe of the crowd, and dashing their heads together drove them before him a living wedge into the heart of the press.
The unexpectedness of his attack made his task an easy one, and in the sudden silence that ensued he cursed them fluently and with picturesque197 attention to detail that left nothing to the imagination.
There were some who knew him by sight—he heard his Arab title uttered warningly—for the rest he was a representative of law and order whose coming put a period to their amusement. Before he had finished speaking they had begun to slink away and in a few moments he was alone in the again deserted street, looking down with a variety of feelings on the slim girlish figure crouched198 on the filthy cobblestones at his feet. Hatless, her white dress stained and crumpled199, she seemed oblivious200 of everything but the pitiful little cur whose mangled bloodstained head lay on her knee. She was crooning to it softly, brushing the matted hair from its fast glazing201 eyes and stroking the broken palpitating limbs with tender caressing202 fingers. And when the tortured creature’s agony was over and she had laid the little dead body gently aside she still sat on motionless, shivering from time to time as she tried to wipe the crimson203 stickiness from her fingers with a scrap204 of lawn that was already a soaked red rag.
With a gesture of impatience205 Carew dropped his own larger and more adequate handkerchief into her lap.
“It is unwise to meddle206 with these Arab gamins, Lady Geradine.” He spoke curtly207, his tone patiently disapproving42, and at the sound of his voice she started violently. For a moment she scarcely seemed to breathe, then she stumbled to her feet looking up at him quickly and he saw the sudden bewilderment that leaped into her eyes as they travelled slowly over the length of his tall figure and then sought his face again to linger on the tell-tale scar across his cheek that gave her the clue to his identity.
“You are English,” she stammered208, the colour rushing into her white cheeks. “I thought—that night—you were an Arab.” Then she flung her hands out to him with a little choking cry. “Oh, why didn’t you come sooner,” she wailed209, “it was horrible! That poor wee beastie—those devils! You don’t know what they did—it nearly drove me mad—I can’t bear to see an animal suffer—” she broke off with a shudder210 and for a moment he thought she was going to faint and caught at her arm instinctively211. But she pulled herself together, moving away from him slightly with a fleeting212 smile of acknowledgment.
“I’m all right, thanks, only it makes one—just a little bit—sick,” she said jerkily, her hands busy with her loosened hair, and looking about for her hat which had been torn from her in the scuffle. She spied it at last wedged in the grating of a window and rescued it with a rueful laugh that ended shakily. Brushing the dust marks from her tumbled dress she turned again to Carew. He was waiting with the detached air of aloofness213 she remembered so well and which sent a little chill through her, making her feel that again he had been constrained214 to render a service that was totally against his inclination215.
“I seem to be fated to give you trouble,” she murmured shyly. But he did not choose to notice her tentative reference to their first meeting.
“Are you alone?” he asked bluntly. “It is too late in the evening for you to be in the Casbar without an escort.”
She flushed deeply at the undisguised reproof216 in his tone, and found herself eagerly defending her imprudence as if she admitted his right to censure218 and could not bear that he should put a wrong construction on her actions.
“I know—but I didn’t realize how late it was. I was shopping, and after I had sent my man home with the parcels I remembered a piece of embroidery I wanted. I thought I could find it easily but I had to hunt for it a long time. Then I forgot all about the time in watching the people, and I wandered on until, finally, I lost myself. I was trying to make my way back when—when I saw the dog. I suppose it was stupid of me to attempt to do anything—but I just had to,” she concluded, with sudden vehemence219. A curious look she was unable to read flashed across his face as he glanced from her to the wretched little body stiffening220 on the cobbles, but he made no comment as he moved forward with an almost imperceptible shrug. “I can find you a fiacre in the rue Randon,” he said coldly, as if his sole desire was to be rid of her society at the earliest moment possible.
And chilled again by his brusque manner she walked beside him silently. She was more shaken by the incident than she had realised, and for the first time she began to wonder what would have happened if he had not come. But he had come, and once again she was his debtor221 for a service he rendered unwillingly222. By no stretch of imagination could she deceive herself into believing that, he was even interested, much less glad, at seeing her again. Why did he so grudge223 the help he voluntarily offered? And why had he let her think that he was an Arab? She looked at him covertly224, but after the first shy glance she had no hesitation225 in continuing her scrutiny226 for he seemed as unaware of her regard as he was negligent227 of her company. She realised it with a curiously228 bitter little feeling of pain. Yet why should he be other than he was? She was only a stranger, forced upon his notice by what he must consider as deliberate acts of folly229 on her part. And yet it was not so. She had been thoughtless, but on neither occasion had she willfully gone out of her way to court either excitement or danger. The morning when she had ridden alone it was an imperative230 desire for solitude231 that had made her leave Tanner behind. And today the sight of the tortured dog had driven all thoughts of herself out of her head. She had not stopped to think of the possible consequences that might ensue when, carried away by horror and pity, she had endeavoured to restrain the most fiendish cruelty she had ever witnessed.
The change of dress seemed to alter him completely. In the well-fitting blue serge suit that clung closely to his muscular figure he appeared taller, slenderer than she had supposed; but he looked older, too, and the gravity of face and demeanour that had seemed natural in an Arab struck her even more forcibly now that she knew his true nationality. The soft felt hat, pulled far forward over his eyes, shaded features that to her looked sterner and more rigidly233 set than when she had first seen them. It was a strong face, she decided30, too strong, too hard perhaps for absolute beauty but, clean cut, and bronzed as a native’s, lean and healthy looking, it was a face that arrested and compelled attention. Strength seemed the key note of his composition. His spare frame appeared to be made up of only bone and muscle, his long slow stride was springy and elastic234, and he carried himself magnificently. Again she found herself wondering who he was, wishing she might ask him, but fearing the same rebuff she had met with before. And yet, if she only knew his name! It would be something to remember, something to cling to. And as the thought came she turned her head away hastily with a feeling of acute and miserable235 shame, realising how completely he had filled her mind during what had seemed to her the longest and most unhappy weeks she had ever experienced. She had wrestled with herself, striving to forget him, hoping that time would obliterate236 the image that seemed to possess her every conscious moment. But this second meeting had shattered the resolutions she had formed so bravely. She would always remember, always care. The memory of him would go with her through life—the memory of a man who was indifferent to her, whom honour demanded that she should root out of her heart. Did love always come like that, so suddenly, so irresistible237, so unsought? Could she have conquered it if she had really tried to do so from the first moment of realization238? She had tried. She had fought against it, shuddering239 from what seemed to her a sin, praying desperately240 for strength to put it from her. But her prayers had been unavailing and daily, hourly, the love she could not deny had grown stronger and more insistent241. Only in the last three weeks had she come to know how starved her heart had been. Love had entered very little into her life. Her father had loved her but she was a child when he died, and since his death she had had no outlet242 for the affection lying dormant243 in her. She had lived in the open, a boy’s life rather than a girl’s, finding abundant happiness and contentment in sport and outdoor pursuits. She had had no girlish dreams of the possible lover who might some day come to win her heart, no opportunity of filling her imagination with tales of sentiment and romance. During the long winter evenings in the lonely house in Ireland she had read much but the books that formed her father’s library were books of travel and the histories of many countries. She had been singularly innocent, singularly young. Then she had married, and marriage had brought her not the joy and wonder of a man’s devotion but the loathing244 of a man’s possession. All that was brutal245, all that was sordid246 and degrading in such a union she had learned with horror and amazement. Forced to hide the revulsion that filled her, forced into a mode of life that shocked her every sense of decency247, she had steeled herself to endure until she had come to look upon herself as a thing of stone, a heartless, lifeless automaton248. The hope of a child, that might have been another woman’s salvation249, had never touched her. She shrank with abhorrence from the thought of possible motherhood. It would have been the last drop in her cup of bitterness. In spite of the disappointment and anger of her husband, who never ceased to reproach her for failing to give him the heir he desired, she prayed God passionately90 to spare her the shame of bringing into the world the offspring of such a man. That through her his vices250 might be perpetuated251 was a fear that never left her, a fear that year by year as she learned more thoroughly her husband’s character and innate252 viciousness had grown into an obsession253. And now the dread that filled her continually had become a thousand times more poignant254, a thousand times more horrible for the strange overwhelming emotion that had leaped into being that awful night three weeks ago. Love she had never thought to know had come to her—and come too late. Free, she could have loved him though he had never turned to her; bound, to even think of him was disloyalty to the man who had the right to claim her affection. The right to claim—but when had he ever claimed it! When had he ever shown by look or word that he even desired it? Her feelings were nothing to him, obedience255 was all he demanded—slavish submission256 to his domination, absolute surrender to his will, his caprices, and his inordinate257 passion. The pride he displayed in her beauty was the same he exhibited for any animal his wealth enabled him to acquire. The pride merely of arrogant258 ownership. And as he treated his animals so did he treat her. And as they flinched259 from him so did her whole soul recoil260 from his proximity261. The last three weeks had been purgatory262. He had been more intolerant, more hard to please, more insistent in his selfish demands than he had ever been. He had also been drinking more heavily than usual with disastrous263 results to his temper which had been felt by all the household. Malec, the Arab valet, the scarcely healed cut across his face a burning, throbbing264 reminder265 of his master’s heavy hand, went sullenly266 about his duties with hatred in his half-veiled eyes, and Tanner was in open rebellion.
This evening for the first time since his return he had allowed her out of his sight, and had given reluctant permission for the shopping expedition to the Casbar. For two hours she had been free, free of the suspicious eyes that watched her every movement, free of the hated caresses267 that in his maudlin268 humour he showered on her. She shivered at the thought of going back to him. With an unconscious movement she drew nearer to the man who walked beside her, marvelling269 anew at the strange feeling of security his presence brought her, marvelling that she should feel so little astonishment at seeing him again.
It seemed perfectly natural that he should once more come to her aid. If it had been Clyde instead—a spasm270 of pain crossed her face. Clyde would only have been amused! She clenched271 her hands as she strove to stem the tide of bitterness that rushed over her. Why must she torture herself with making comparisons. The contrast between them was sufficiently hideous272 without allowing herself to dwell on it. And she had no right to dwell on it, no right to make comparisons. She was Clyde’s wife—Clyde’s wife. The clenched hands tightened273 until the nails bit deeper into the soft palms. Silence became impossible. She must speak, if only to turn the current of her thoughts.
“I haven’t thanked you for sending back The Caid,” she said nervously274, forcing her voice to steadiness. They were passing down a narrow street where grave-faced Arabs, lost apparently in contemplation, sat smoking in the open doorways275 of their shops regarding the passers-by with unconcerned aloofness, ostensibly disdainful of possible sales, yet quick to notice all who came and went, for, watching them, Marny saw with growing astonishment the frequent and profound salaams276 which greeted her companion. As she spoke he had stopped to acknowledge the salute277 of a venerable greybeard who lounged indolently amongst the fine carpets and heterogeneous278 collection of brasswork and antique firearms that formed his stock in trade. For a moment Carew paused to handle the keen-edged Moorish279 dagger280 proffered to him with an accompanying murmur34 that was barely audible, then shook his head smilingly as he returned the weapon with a shrug of careless indifference and an equally low-voiced rejoinder.
With complete unconcern the Arab tossed the knife aside and resumed his pipe, and Carew turned again to Marny with a slight gesture of apology.
“I can recommend old Ibraheim, if you are interested in embroideries281, Lady Geradine. Most of his things are genuine, and he has seen you with me—he won’t rob you too unmercifully,” he said, with the first smile he had yet given her. “I was fortunate in finding your horse,” he continued, raising his hand to fend217 from her the swaying head of a heavily laden camel that lurched past with a snarling282 grunt of ill-humour, “but, if you will permit me to say so, I strongly advise you not to ride him again unattended. His worth and pedigree are well known, and there are a number of Arabs in and about Algiers who are very averse283 to valuable stallions being sold out of the country. It is only natural when you come to think of it! I should hold the same view myself—were I an Arab.”
“You are very like one.” The words escaped her involuntarily and she glanced at him quickly, fearful that he would think her impertinent. But he did not appear to resent the comparison and taking courage she yielded to the longing284 that came over her to learn more of the man who had come so strangely into her life.
“You have lived much amongst them?” she suggested diffidently. His curt assent285 was not conducive286 to further questioning but her wistful interest overcame her shyness.
“In the desert—the real desert?” she asked eagerly.
“Yes, in the real desert,” he answered shortly, a slight frown gathering on his face. And as if regretting the slight lapse from his former rigidity287 of manner he seemed to draw once more into himself, cold and unapproachable as he had been at first. And, flushing sensitively, Marny relapsed into silence that lasted until they reached the rue Randon. A passing victoria plying288 for hire rattled289 up in response to Carew’s signal, and he had placed her in it almost before she realized that they were clear of the Casbar.
For a moment she leant forward without speaking, looking at him as he stood bareheaded on the pavement beside her. Then she thrust her hand out to him with a brusque boyish gesture.
“Thank you—for all you’ve done,” she said shakily, her lips trembling despite her efforts to keep them steady.
For the fraction of a second he hesitated, staring gloomily at the little outstretched hand, then his tall figure stiffened290 suddenly and, drawing back with a deep un-English bow, he signed to the Arab coachman to drive on.
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收听单词发音
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1
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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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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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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kudos
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| n.荣誉，名声 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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administrators
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| n.管理者( administrator的名词复数 )；有管理（或行政）才能的人；（由遗嘱检验法庭指定的）遗产管理人；奉派暂管主教教区的牧师 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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17
sanely
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| ad.神志清楚地 | |
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18
felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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21
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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23
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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25
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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27
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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28
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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29
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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30
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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31
detrimental
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| adj.损害的，造成伤害的 | |
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32
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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33
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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34
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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35
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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36
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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38
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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39
buckling
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| 扣住 | |
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grudgingly
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41
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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43
disapprovingly
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| adv.不以为然地，不赞成地，非难地 | |
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44
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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45
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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46
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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47
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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48
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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49
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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50
somnolent
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| adj.想睡的，催眠的；adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地 | |
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51
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
gastronomic
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| adj.美食（烹饪）法的，烹任学的 | |
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53
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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54
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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55
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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56
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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57
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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58
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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59
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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60
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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61
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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62
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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63
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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64
mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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65
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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66
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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67
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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68
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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69
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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70
tabulating
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| 把（数字、事实）列成表( tabulate的现在分词 )； 制表 | |
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71
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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72
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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73
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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74
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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75
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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76
vouchsafing
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的现在分词 )；允诺 | |
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77
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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78
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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79
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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80
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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81
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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82
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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83
exigency
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| n.紧急；迫切需要 | |
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84
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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85
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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86
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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87
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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88
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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89
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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90
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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91
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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92
alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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93
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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94
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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95
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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96
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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97
wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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98
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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99
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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100
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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101
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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102
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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104
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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105
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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106
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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107
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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108
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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109
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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110
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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111
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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112
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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113
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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114
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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115
tenantless
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| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
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116
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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117
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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118
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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119
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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120
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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121
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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122
tortuously
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123
devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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124
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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125
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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126
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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127
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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128
cogent
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| adj.强有力的，有说服力的 | |
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129
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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130
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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131
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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132
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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133
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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134
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
sumptuousness
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| 奢侈，豪华 | |
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136
divans
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| n.（可作床用的）矮沙发( divan的名词复数 )；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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137
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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138
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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139
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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140
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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141
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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142
belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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143
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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144
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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145
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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146
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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147
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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148
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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149
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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150
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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151
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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153
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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154
nonplussed
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|
| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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156
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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157
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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158
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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159
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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160
conclusively
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| adv.令人信服地，确凿地 | |
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161
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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162
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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163
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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164
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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165
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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166
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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167
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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168
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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169
wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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170
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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171
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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172
salaam
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| n.额手之礼，问安，敬礼；v.行额手礼 | |
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173
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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174
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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175
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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176
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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177
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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178
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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179
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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180
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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181
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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182
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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183
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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184
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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185
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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186
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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187
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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188
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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189
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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190
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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191
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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192
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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193
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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194
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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195
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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196
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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197
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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198
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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199
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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200
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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201
glazing
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| n.玻璃装配业；玻璃窗；上釉；上光v.装玻璃( glaze的现在分词 )；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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202
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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203
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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204
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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205
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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206
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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207
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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208
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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210
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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211
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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212
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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213
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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214
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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215
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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216
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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217
fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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218
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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219
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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220
stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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221
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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222
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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223
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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224
covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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225
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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226
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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227
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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228
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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229
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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230
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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231
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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232
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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233
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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234
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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235
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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236
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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237
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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238
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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239
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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240
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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241
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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242
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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243
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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244
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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245
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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246
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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247
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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248
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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249
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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251
perpetuated
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| vt.使永存（perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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252
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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253
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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254
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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255
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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256
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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257
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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258
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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259
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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260
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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261
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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262
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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264
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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265
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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266
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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267
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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268
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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269
marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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270
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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271
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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272
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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273
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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274
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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275
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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276
salaams
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| （穆斯林的）额手礼，问安，敬礼( salaam的名词复数 ) | |
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277
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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278
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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279
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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280
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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281
embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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282
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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283
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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284
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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285
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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286
conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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287
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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288
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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289
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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290
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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