Not a bad life, Millicent thought.
“Outreined” was Dick’s translation of éreinté. He liked using words of his own manufacture; one had to learn his idiom before one could properly appreciate his intimate conversation.
[Pg 49]
Dick had every justification2 for being outreined. The spring and summer had passed for him in a whirl of incessant3 activity. He had written three long chapters of the New Synthetic4 Philosophy, and had the material for two more ready in the form of notes. He had helped to organize and bring to its successful conclusion the great carpenters’ strike of May and June. He had written four pamphlets and a small army of political articles. And this comprised only half his labour; for nightly, from twelve till two, Pearl Bellairs emerged to compose the masterpieces which supplied Dick with his bread and butter. Apes in Purple had been published in May. Since then she had finished La Belle5 Dame6 sans Morality, and had embarked7 on the first chapters of Daisy’s Voyage to Cythera. Her weekly articles, “For the Girls of Britain,” had become, during this period, a regular and favourite feature in the pages of Hildebrand’s Sabbath, that prince of Sunday papers. At the beginning of July, Dick considered that he had earned a holiday, and now they were off, he and Millicent, for the North.
[Pg 50]
Dick had taken a cottage on the shore of one of those long salt-water lochs that give to the west coast of Scotland such a dissipated appearance on the map. For miles around there was not a living soul who did not bear the name of Campbell—two families only excepted, one of whom was called Murray-Drummond and the other Drummond-Murray. However, it was not for the people that Dick and Millicent had come, so much as for the landscape, which made up in variety for anything that the inhabitants might lack. Behind the cottage, in the midst of a narrow strip of bog8 lying between the loch and the foot of the mountains, stood one of the numerous tombs of Ossian, a great barrow of ancient stones. And a couple of miles away the remains9 of Deirdre’s Scottish refuge bore witness to the Celtic past. The countryside was dotted with the black skeletons of medi?val castles. Astonishing country, convulsed into fantastic mountain shapes, cut and indented10 by winding11 fiords. On summer days the whole of this improbable landscape became blue and remote and [Pg 51]aerially transparent12. Its beauty lacked all verisimilitude. It was for that reason that Dick chose the neighbourhood for his holidays. After the insistent13 actuality of London this frankly14 unreal coast was particularly refreshing15 to a jaded16 spirit.
“Nous sommes ici en plein romantisme,” said Dick on the day of their arrival, making a comprehensive gesture towards the dream-like scenery, and for the rest of his holiday he acted the part of a young romantic of the palmy period. He sat at the foot of Ossian’s tomb and read Lamartine; he declaimed Byron from the summit of the mountains and Shelley as he rowed along the loch. In the evening he read George Sand’s Indiana; he agonized17 with the pure, but passionate18, heroine, while his admiration19 for Sir Brown, her English lover, the impassive giant who never speaks and is always clothed in faultless hunting costume, knew no bounds. He saturated20 himself in the verses of Victor Hugo, and at last almost came to persuade himself that the words, Dieu, infinité, eternité, with which the works of that deplorable genius are so profusely21 sprinkled, actually [Pg 52]possessed some meaning, though what that meaning was he could not, even in his most romantic transports, discover. Pearl Bellairs, of course, understood quite clearly their significance, and though she was a very poor French scholar she used sometimes to be moved almost to tears by the books she found lying about when she came into existence after midnight. She even copied out extracts into her notebooks with a view to using them in her next novel.
“Les plus désespérés sont les chants les plus beaux,
Et j’en sais d’immortels qui sont de purs sanglots,”
Millicent, meanwhile, did the housekeeping with extraordinary efficiency, took a great deal of exercise, and read long, serious books; she humoured her brother in his holiday romanticism, but refused to take part in the game.
The declaration of war took them completely by surprise. It is true that a Scotsman found its way into the cottage by about lunch-time every day, but it was never read, and served only to light fires and wrap up fish and things of that [Pg 53]sort. No letters were being forwarded, for they had left no address; they were isolated23 from the world. On the fatal morning Dick had, indeed, glanced at the paper, without however noticing anything out of the ordinary. It was only later when, alarmed by the rumours24 floating round the village shop, he came to examine his Scotsman more closely, that he found about half-way down the third column of one of the middle pages an admirable account of all that had been so tragically25 happening in the last twenty-four hours; he learnt with horror that Europe was at war and that; his country too had entered the arena26. Even in the midst of his anguish27 of spirit he could not help admiring the Scotsman’s splendid impassivity—no headlines, no ruffling28 of the traditional aristocratic dignity. Like Sir Rodolphe Brown in Indiana, he thought, with a sickly smile.
Dick determined29 to start for London at once. He felt that he must act, or at least create the illusion of action; he could not stay quietly where he was. It was arranged that he should set out that afternoon, while Millicent should follow [Pg 54]a day or two later with the bulk of the luggage. The train which took him to Glasgow was slower than he thought it possible for any train to be. He tried to read, he tried to sleep; it was no good. His nervous agitation30 was pitiable; he made little involuntary movements with his limbs, and every now and then the muscles of his face began twitching31 in a spasmodic and uncontrollable tic. There were three hours to wait in Glasgow; he spent them in wandering about the streets. In the interminable summer twilight32 the inhabitants of Glasgow came forth33 into the open to amuse themselves; the sight almost made him sick. Was it possible that there should be human beings so numerous and so uniformly hideous34? Small, deformed35, sallow, they seemed malignantly36 ugly, as if on purpose. The words they spoke37 were incomprehensible. He shuddered38; it was an alien place—it was hell.
The London train was crammed39. Three gross Italians got into Dick’s carriage, and after they had drunk and eaten with loud, unpleasant gusto, they prepared themselves for sleep by taking off their [Pg 55]boots. Their feet smelt40 strongly ammoniac, like a cage of mice long uncleaned. Acutely awake, while the other occupants of the compartment41 enjoyed a happy unconsciousness, he looked at the huddled42 carcasses that surrounded him. The warmth and the smell of them was suffocating43, and there came to his mind, with the nightmarish insistence44 of a fixed45 idea, the thought that every breath they exhaled46 was saturated with disease. To be condemned47 to sit in a hot bath of consumption and syphilis—it was too horrible! The moment came at last when he could bear it no longer; he got up and went into the corridor. Standing48 there, or sitting sometimes for a few dreary49 minutes in the lavatory50, he passed the rest of the night. The train roared along without a stop. The roaring became articulate: in the days of his childhood trains used to run to the tune51 of “Lancashire, to Lancashire, to fetch a pocket-handkercher; to Lancashire, to Lancashire . . .” But to-night the wheels were shouting insistently52, a million times over, two words only—“the War, the War; the War, the War.” He tried [Pg 56]desperately to make them say something else, but they refused to recite Milton; they refused to go to Lancashire; they went on with their endless Tibetan litany—the War, the War, the War.
By the time he reached London, Dick was in a wretched state. His nerves were twittering and jumping within him; he felt like a walking aviary53. The tic in his face had become more violent and persistent54. As he stood in the station, waiting for a cab, he overheard a small child saying to its mother, “What’s the matter with that man’s face, mother?”
“Sh—sh, darling,” was the reply. “It’s rude.”
Dick turned and saw the child’s big round eyes fixed with fascinated curiosity upon him, as though he were a kind of monster. He put his hand to his forehead and tried to stop the twitching of the muscles beneath the skin. It pained him to think that he had become a scarecrow for children.
Arrived at his flat, Dick drank a glass of brandy and lay down for a rest. He felt exhausted55—ill. At half-past one he got up, drank some more brandy, and crept [Pg 57]down into the street. It was intensely hot; the pavements reverberated56 the sunlight in a glare which hurt his eyes; they seemed to be in a state of grey incandescence57. A nauseating58 smell of wetted dust rose from the roadway, along which a water-cart was slowly piddling its way. He realized suddenly that he ought not to have drunk all that brandy on an empty stomach; he was definitely rather tipsy. He had arrived at that state of drunkenness when the senses perceive things clearly, but do not transmit their knowledge to the understanding. He was painfully conscious of this division, and it needed all the power of his will to establish contact between his parted faculties59. It was as though he were, by a great and prolonged effort, keeping his brain pressed against the back of his eyes; as soon as he relaxed the pressure, the understanding part slipped back, the contact was broken, and he relapsed into a state bordering on imbecility. The actions which ordinarily one does by habit and without thinking, he had to perform consciously and voluntarily. He had to reason out the problem of walking—first the left foot [Pg 58]forward, then the right. How ingeniously he worked his ankles and knees and hips60! How delicately the thighs61 slid past one another!
He found a restaurant and sat there drinking coffee and trying to eat an omelette until he felt quite sober. Then he drove to the offices of the Weekly International to have a talk with Hyman, the editor. Hyman was sitting in his shirt-sleeves, writing.
He lifted his head as Dick came in. “Greenow,” he shouted delightedly, “we were all wondering what had become of you. We thought you’d joined the Army.”
Dick shook his head, but did not speak; the hot stuffy62 smell of printer’s ink and machinery63 combined with the atrocious reek64 of Hyman’s Virginian cigarettes to make him feel rather faint. He sat down on the window-ledge, so as to be able to breathe an uncontaminated air.
“Well,” he said at last, “what about it?”
“It’s going to be hell.”
[Pg 59]
“Did you suppose I thought it was going to be paradise?” Dick replied irritably65. “Internationalism looks rather funny now, doesn’t it?”
“I believe in it more than ever I did,” cried Hyman. His face lit up with the fervour of his enthusiasm. It was a fine face, gaunt, furrowed66, and angular, for all that he was barely thirty, looking as though it had been boldly chiselled67 from some hard stone. “The rest of the world may go mad; we’ll try and keep our sanity68. The time will come when they’ll see we were right.”
Hyman talked on. His passionate sincerity69 and singleness of purpose were an inspiration to Dick. He had always admired Hyman—with the reservations, of course, that the man was rather a fanatic70 and not so well-educated as he might have been—but to-day he admired him more than ever. He was even moved by that perhaps too facile eloquence71 which of old had been used to leave him cold. After promising72 to do a series of articles on international relations for the paper, Dick went home, feeling better than he had done all day.
He decided73 that he would begin writing his articles at once. He collected pens, [Pg 60]paper, and ink and sat down in a business-like way at his bureau. He remembered distinctly biting the tip of his pen-holder; it tasted rather bitter.
And then he realized he was standing in Regent Street, looking in at one of the windows of Liberty’s.
For a long time he stood there quite still, absorbed to all appearance in the contemplation of a piece of peacock-blue fabric74. But all his attention was concentrated within himself, not on anything outside. He was wondering—wondering how it came about that he was sitting at his writing-table at one moment, and standing, at the next, in Regent Street. He hadn’t—the thought flashed upon him—he hadn’t been drinking any more of that brandy, had he? No, he felt himself to be perfectly75 sober. He moved slowly away and continued to speculate as he walked.
At Oxford76 Circus he bought an evening paper. He almost screamed aloud when he saw that the date printed at the head of the page was August 12th. It was on August 7th that he had sat down at his writing-table to compose those articles. [Pg 61]Five days ago, and he had not the faintest recollection of what had happened in those five days.
He made all haste back to the flat. Everything was in perfect order. He had evidently had a picnic lunch that morning—sardines, bread and jam, and raisins77; the remains of it still covered the table. He opened the sideboard and took out the brandy bottle. Better make quite sure. He held it up to the light; it was more than three-quarters full. Not a drop had gone since the day of his return. If brandy wasn’t the cause, then what was?
As he sat there thinking, he began in an absent-minded way to look at his evening paper. He read the news on the front page, then turned to the inner sheets. His eye fell on these words printed at the head of the column next the leading article:
“To the Women of the Empire. Thoughts in War-Time. By Pearl Bellairs.” Underneath78 in brackets: “The first of a series of inspiring patriotic79 articles by Miss Bellairs, the well-known novelist.”
Dick groaned80 in agony. He saw in a [Pg 62]flash what had happened to his five missing days. Pearl had got hold of them somehow, had trespassed81 upon his life out of her own reserved nocturnal existence. She had taken advantage of his agitated82 mental state to have a little fun in her own horrible way.
He picked up the paper once more and began to read Pearl’s article. “Inspiring and patriotic”: those were feeble words in which to describe Pearl’s shrilly83 raucous84 chauvinism. And the style! Christ! to think that he was responsible, at least in part, for this. Responsible, for had not the words been written by his own hand and composed in some horrible bluebeard’s chamber85 of his own brain? They had, there was no denying it. Pearl’s literary atrocities86 had never much distressed87 him; he had long given up reading a word she wrote. Her bank balance was the only thing about her that interested him. But now she was invading the sanctities of his private life. She was trampling88 on his dearest convictions, denying his faith. She was a public danger. It was all too frightful89.
[Pg 63]
He passed the afternoon in misery90. Suicide or brandy seemed the only cures. Not very satisfactory ones, though. Towards evening an illuminating91 idea occurred to him. He would go and see Rogers. Rogers knew all about psychology—from books, at any rate: Freud, Jung, Morton Prince, and people like that. He used to try hypnotic experiments on his friends and even dabbled92 in amateur psychotherapy. Rogers might help him to lay the ghost of Pearl. He ate a hasty dinner and went to see Rogers in his Kensington rooms.
Rogers was sitting at a table with a great book open in front of him. The reading-lamp, which was the only light in the room, brightly illumined one side of the pallid93, puffy, spectacled face, leaving the other in complete darkness, save for a little cedilla of golden light caught on the fold of flesh at the corner of his mouth. His huge shadow crossed the floor, began to climb the wall, and from the shoulders upwards94 mingled95 itself with the general darkness of the room.
“Good evening, Rogers,” said Dick [Pg 64]wearily. “I wish you wouldn’t try and look like Rembrandt’s ‘Christ at Emmaus’ with these spectacular chiaroscuro96 effects.”
Rogers gave vent97 to his usual nervous giggling98 laugh. “This is very nice of you to come and see me, Greenow.”
“How’s the Board of Trade?” Rogers was a Civil Servant by profession.
“Oh, business as usual, as the Daily Mail would say.” Rogers laughed again as though he had made a joke.
After a little talk of things indifferent, Dick brought the conversation round to himself.
“I believe I’m getting a bit neurasthenic,” he said. “Fits of depression, nervous pains, lassitude, an?mia of the will. I’ve come to you for professional advice. I want you to nose out my suppressed complexes, analyse me, dissect99 me. Will you do that for me?”
Rogers was evidently delighted. “I’ll do my best,” he said, with assumed modesty100. “But I’m no good at the thing, so you mustn’t expect much.”
“I’m at your disposal,” said Dick.
Rogers placed his guest in a large arm-chair. [Pg 65]“Relax your muscles and think of nothing at all.” Dick sat there flabby and abstracted while Rogers made his preparations. His apparatus101 consisted chiefly in a notebook and a stop-watch. He seated himself at the table.
“Now,” he said solemnly, “I want you to listen to me. I propose to read out a list of words; after each of the words you must say the first word that comes into your head. The very first, mind, however foolish it may seem. And say it as soon as it crosses your mind; don’t wait to think. I shall write down your answers and take the time between each question and reply.”
Rogers cleared his throat and started.
“Mother,” he said in a loud, clear voice. He always began his analyses with the family. For since the majority of kinks and complexes date from childhood, it is instructive to investigate the relations between the patient and those who surrounded him at an early age. “Mother.”
“Dead,” replied Dick immediately. He had scarcely known his mother.
“Father.”
[Pg 66]
“Fabian Society,” said Dick, after two seconds’ interval. Rogers was a little disappointed. He was agreeably thrilled and excited by the answer he received to his next word: “Aunt.”
The seconds passed, bringing nothing with them; and then at last there floated into Dick’s mind the image of himself as a child, dressed in green velvet104 and lace, a perfect Bubbles boy, kneeling on Auntie Loo’s lap and arranging a troop of lead soldiers on the horizontal projection105 of her corsage.
“Bosom,” he said.
Rogers wrote down the word and underlined it. Six and three-fifths seconds: very significant. He turned now to the chapter of possible accidents productive of nervous shocks.
“Fire.”
“Coal.”
“Sea.”
“Sick.”
[Pg 67]
“Train.”
“Smell.”
And so on. Dull answers all the time. Evidently, nothing very catastrophic had ever happened to him. Now for a frontal attack on the fortress106 of sex itself.
“Women.” There was rather a long pause, four seconds, and then Dick replied, “Novelist.” Rogers was puzzled.
“Breast.”
“Chicken.” That was disappointing. Rogers could find no trace of those sinister107 moral censors108, expurgators of impulse, suppressors of happiness. Perhaps the trouble lay in religion.
“Christ,” he said.
Dick replied, “Amen,” with the promptitude of a parish clerk.
“God.”
Dick’s mind remained a perfect blank. The word seemed to convey to him nothing at all. God, God. After a long time there appeared before his inward eye the face of a boy he had known at school and at Oxford, one Godfrey Wilkinson, called God for short.
[Pg 68]
“Wilkinson.” Ten seconds and a fifth.
A few more miscellaneous questions, and the list was exhausted. Almost suddenly, Dick fell into a kind of hypnotic sleep. Rogers sat pensive109 in front of his notes; sometimes he consulted a text-book. At the end of half an hour he awakened110 Dick to tell him that he had had, as a child, consciously or unconsciously, a great Freudian passion for his aunt; that later on he had had another passion, almost religious in its fervour and intensity111, for somebody called Wilkinson; and that the cause of all his present troubles lay in one or other of these episodes. If he liked, he (Rogers) would investigate the matter further with a view to establishing a cure.
Dick thanked him very much, thought it wasn’t worth taking any more trouble, and went home.
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1
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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synthetic
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| adj.合成的，人工的；综合的；n.人工制品 | |
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belle
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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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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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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indented
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| adj.锯齿状的，高低不平的；缩进排版 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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profusely
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sublime
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isolated
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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twitching
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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forth
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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malignantly
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| 怀恶意地； 恶毒地； 有害地； 恶性地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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suffocating
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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lavatory
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| n.盥洗室，厕所 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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aviary
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| n.大鸟笼，鸟舍 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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incandescence
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| n.白热，炽热；白炽 | |
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nauseating
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| adj.令人恶心的，使人厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的现在分词 ) | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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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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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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trespassed
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| （trespass的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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atrocities
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| n.邪恶，暴行( atrocity的名词复数 )；滔天大罪 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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chiaroscuro
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| n.明暗对照法 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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dissect
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| v.分割；解剖 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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103
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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107
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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108
censors
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| 删剪（书籍、电影等中被认为犯忌、违反道德或政治上危险的内容）( censor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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109
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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