[168]Because commuting is a tough and gruelling discipline. It educes10 all the latent strength and virtue in a man (although it is hard on those at home, for when he wins back at supper time there is left in him very little of what the ladies so quaintly11 call "soul"). If you study the demeanour of fellow-passengers on the 8:04 and the 5:27 you will see a quiet and well-drilled acceptiveness, a pious12 non-resistance, which is not unworthy of the antique Chinese sages13.
Is there any ritual (we cry, warming to our theme) so apt to imbue14 the spirit with patience, stolidity15, endurance, all the ripe and seasoned qualities of manhood? It is well known that the fiercest and most terrible fighters in the late war were those who had been commuters. It was a Division composed chiefly of commuters that stormed the Hindenburg Stellung and purged16 the Argonne thickets17 with flame and steel. Their commanding officers were wont18 to remark these men's carelessness of life. It seemed as though they hardly heeded19 whether they got home again or not.
See them as they stand mobbed at the train gate, waiting for admission to the homeward cars. A certain disingenuous20 casualness appears on those hardened brows; but beneath burn stubborn fires. These are engaged in battle, and they know it—a battle that never ends. And while a warfare21 that goes on without truce22 necessarily develops its own jokes, informalities, callousnesses, disregard of wounds and gruesome sights, yet deep in their souls the units never forget that they are drilled and regimented for struggle. We stood the other evening with a Freeport man in the baggage compartment[169] at the front of a train leaving Brooklyn. We two had gained the bull's-eye window at the nose of the train and sombrely watched the sparkling panorama23 of lights along the track. Something had gone wrong with the schedule that evening, and the passengers of the 5:27 had been shunted to the 5:30. As fellow mariners24 will, we discussed famous breakdowns25 of old and the uncertainties26 of the commuter6's life. "Yes," said our companion, "once you leave home you never know when you'll get back." And he smiled the passive, placable smile of the experienced commuter.
It is this reasonable and moderate temper that makes the commuter the seed wherewith a new generation shall be disseminated27. He faces troubles manifold without embittered28 grumbling29. His is a new kind of Puritanism, which endures hardship without dourness30. When, on Christmas Eve, the train out of Jamaica was so packed that the aisle31 was one long mass of unwillingly32 embraced passengers, and even the car platforms were crowded with shivering wights, and the conductor buffeted34 his way as best he could over our toes and our parcels of tinsel balls, what was the general cry? Was it a yell against the railroad for not adding an extra brace33 of cars? No, it was good-natured banter35 of the perspiring36 little officer as he struggled to disentangle himself from forests of wedged legs. "You've got a fine, big family in here," they told him: "you ought to be proud of us." And there was a sorrowing Italian who had with him a string of seven children who had tunnelled and burrowed37 their way down the packed aisle of the smoking car and had got irretrievably scattered38. The [170]father was distracted. Here and there, down the length of the car, someone would discover an urchin40 and hold him up for inspection41. "Is this one of them?" he would cry, and Italy would give assent42. "Right!" And the children were agglomerated43 and piled in a heap in the middle of the car until such time as a thinning of the crowd permitted the anxious and blushing sire to reassemble them and reprove their truancy44 with Adriatic lightnings from his dark glowing eyes.
How pleasing is our commuter's simplicity45! A cage of white mice, or a crated46 goat (such are to be seen now and then on the Jamaica platform) will engage his eye and give him keen amusement. Then there is that game always known (in the smoking car) as "pea-knuckle." The sight of four men playing will afford contemplative and apparently47 intense satisfaction to all near. They will lean diligently48 over seat-backs to watch every play of the cards. They will stand in the aisle to follow the game, with apparent comprehension. Then there are distinguished49 figures that move through the observant commuter's peep-show. There is the tall young man with the beaky nose, which (as Herrick said)
Is the grace
And proscenium of his face.
He is one of several light-hearted and carefree gentry50 who always sit together and are full of superb cheer. Those who travel sometimes with twinges of perplexity or skepticism are healed when they see the magnificent assurance of this creature. Every day we hear him [171]making dates for his cronies to meet him at lunch time, and in the evening we see him towering above the throng51 at the gate. We like his confident air toward life, though he is still a little too jocular to be a typical commuter.
But the commuter, though simple and anxious to be pleased, is shrewdly alert. Every now and then they shuffle52 the trains at Jamaica just to keep him guessing and sharpen his faculty53 of judging whether this train goes to Brooklyn or Penn Station. His decisions have to be made rapidly. We are speaking now of Long Island commuters, whom we know best; but commuters are the same wherever you find them. The Jersey54 commuter has had his own celebrant in Joyce Kilmer, and we hope that he knows Joyce's pleasant essay on the subject which was published in that little book, "The Circus and Other Essays." But we gain-say the right of Staten Islanders to be classed as commuters. These are a proud and active sort who are really seafarers, not commuters. Fogs and ice floes make them blench55 a little; but the less romantic troubles of broken brake-shoes leave them unscotched.
Of Long Island commuters there are two classes: those who travel to Penn Station, those who travel to Brooklyn. Let it not be denied, there is a certain air of aristocracy about the Penn Station clique56 that we cannot waive57. Their tastes are more delicate. The train-boy from Penn Station cries aloud "Choice, delicious apples," which seems to us almost an affectation compared to the hoarse58 yell of our Brooklyn news-agents imploring59 "Have a comic cartoon book, 'Mutt [172]and Jeff,' 'Bringing Up Father,' choclut-covered cherries!" The club cars all go to Penn Station: there would be a general apoplexy in the lowly terminal at Atlantic Avenue if one of those vehicles were seen there. People are often seen (on the Penn Station branch) who look exactly like the advertisements in Vanity Fair. Yet we, for our humility60, have treasures of our own, such as the brightly lighted little shops along Atlantic Avenue and a station with the poetic61 name of Autumn Avenue. The Brooklyn commuter points with pride to his monthly ticket, which is distinguished from that of the Penn Station nobility by a red badge of courage—a bright red stripe. On the Penn Station branch they often punch the tickets with little diamond-shaped holes; but on our line the punch is in the form of a heart.
When the humble62 commuter who is accustomed to travelling via Brooklyn is diverted from his accustomed orbit, and goes by way of the Pennsylvania Station, what surprising excitements are his. The enormousness of the crowd at Penn Station around 5 p.m. causes him to realize that what he had thought, in his innocent Brooklyn fashion, was a considerable mob, was nothing more than a trifling63 scuffle. But he notes with pleasure the Penn Station habit of letting people through the gate before the train comes in, so that one may stand in comparative comfort and coolness downstairs on the train platform. Here a vision of luxury greets his eyes that could not possibly be imagined at the Brooklyn terminal—the Lehigh Valley dining car that stands on a neighbouring track, the pink [173]candles lit on the tables, the shining water carafes64, the white-coated stewards65 at attention. At the car's kitchen window lolls a young coloured boy in a chef's hat, surveying the files of proletarian commuters with a glorious calmness of scorn and superiority. His mood of sanguine67 assurance and self-esteem is so complete, so unruffled, and so composed that we cannot help loving him. Lucky youth, devoid68 of cares, responsibilities, and chagrins69! Does he not belong to the conquering class that has us all under its thumb? What does it matter that he (probably) knows less about cooking than you or I? He gazes with glorious cheer upon the wretched middle class, and as our train rolls away we see him still gazing across the darkling cellars of the station with that untroubled gleam of condescension70, his eyes seeming (as we look back at them) as large and white and unspeculative as billiard balls.
In the eye of one commuter, the 12:50 Saturday Only is the most exciting train of all. What a gay, heavily-bundled, and loquacious71 crowd it is that gathers by the gate at the Atlantic Avenue terminal. There is a holiday spirit among the throng, which pants a little after the battle down and up those steps leading from the subway. (What a fine sight, incidentally, is the stag-like stout72 man who always leaps from the train first and speeds scuddingly along the platform, to reach the stairs before any one else.) Here is the man who always carries a blue cardboard box full of chicks. Their plaintive73 chirpings sound shrill74 and disconsolate75. There is such a piercing sorrow and perplexity in their persistent76 query77 that one knows they have the true [174]souls of minor78 poets. Here are two cheerful stenographers off to Rockaway for the week-end. They are rather sarcastic79 about another young woman of their party who always insists on sleeping under sixteen blankets when at the shore.
But the high point of the trip comes when one changes at Jamaica, there boarding the 1:15 for Salamis. This is the train that on Saturdays takes back the two famous club cars, known to all travellers on the Oyster80 Bay route. Behind partly drawn82 blinds the luncheon83 tables are spread; one gets narrow glimpses of the great ones of the Island at their tiffin. This is a militant84 moment for the white-jacketed steward66 of the club car. On Saturdays there are always some strangers, unaccustomed to the ways of this train, who regard the two wagons85 of luxury as a personal affront86. When they find all the seats in the other cars filled they sternly desire to storm the door of the club car, where the proud steward stands on guard. "What's the matter with this car?" they say. "Nothing's the matter with it," he replies. Other more humble commuters stand in the vestibule, enjoying these little arguments. It is always quite delightful87 to see the indignation of these gallant88 creatures, their faces seamed with irritation89 to think that there should be a holy of holies into which they may not tread.
A proud man, and a high-spirited, is the conductor of the 4:27 on weekdays. This train, after leaving Jamaica, does not stop until Salamis is reached. It attains90 such magnificent speed that it always gets to Salamis a couple of minutes ahead of time. Then [175]stands the conductor on the platform, watch in hand, receiving the plaudits of those who get off. The Salamites have to stand patiently beside the train—it is a level crossing—until it moves on. This is the daily glory of this conductor, as he stands, watch in one hand, the other hand on the signal cord, waiting for Time to catch up with him. "Some train," we cry up at him; he tries not to look pleased, but he is a happy man. Then he pulls the cord and glides91 away.
Among other articulations in the anatomy92 of commuting, we mention the fact that no good trainman ever speaks of a train going or stopping anywhere. He says, "This train makes Sea Cliff and Glen Cove39; it don't make Salamis." To be more purist still, one should refer to the train as "he" (as a kind of extension of the engineer's personality, we suppose). If you want to speak with the tongue of a veteran, you will say, "He makes Sea Cliff and Glen Cove."
The commuter has a chance to observe all manner of types among his brethren. On our line we all know by sight the two fanatical checker players, bent93 happily over their homemade board all the way to town. At Jamaica they are so absorbed in play that the conductor—this is the conductor who is so nervous about missing a fare and asks everyone three times if his ticket has been punched—has to rout81 them out to change to the Brooklyn train. "How's the game this morning?" says someone. "Oh, I was just trimming him, but they made us change." However thick the throng, these two always manage to find seats together. They are still hard at it when Atlantic Avenue is reached, [176]furiously playing the last moves as the rest file out. Then there is the humorous news-agent who takes charge of the smoking car between Jamaica and Oyster Bay. There is some mysterious little game that he conducts with his clients. Very solemnly he passes down the aisle distributing rolled-up strips of paper among the card players. By and by it transpires94 that some one has won a box of candy. Just how this is done we know not. Speaking of card players, observe the gaze of anguish95 on the outpost. He dashes ahead, grabs two facing seats and sits in one with a face contorted with anxiety for fear that the others will be too late to join him. As soon as a card game is started there are always a half dozen other men who watch it, following every play with painful scrutiny96. It seems that watching other people play cards is the most absorbing amusement known to the commuter.
Then there is the man who carries a heavy bag packed with books. A queer creature, this. Day by day he lugs97 that bag with him yet spends all his time reading the papers and rarely using the books he carries. His pipe always goes out just as he reaches his station; frantically98 he tries to fill and light it before the train stops. Sometimes he digs deeply into the bag and brings out a large slab99 of chocolate, which he eats with an air of being slightly ashamed of himself. The oddities of this person do not amuse us any the less because he happens to be ourself.
So fares the commuter: a figure as international as the teddy bear. He has his own consolations—of a morning when he climbs briskly upward from his dark [177]tunnel and sees the sunlight upon the spread wings of the Telephone and Telegraph Building's statue, and moves again into the stirring pearl and blue of New York's lucid100 air. And at night, though drooping101 a little in the heat and dimness of those Oyster Bay smoking cars, he is dumped down and set free. As he climbs the long hill and tunes102 his thoughts in order, the sky is a froth of stars.
点击收听单词发音
1 follies | |
罪恶,时事讽刺剧; 愚蠢,蠢笨,愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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2 peevishness | |
脾气不好;爱发牢骚 | |
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3 contemplating | |
深思,细想,仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 ); 注视,凝视; 考虑接受(发生某事的可能性); 深思熟虑,沉思,苦思冥想 | |
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4 steadfast | |
adj.固定的,不变的,不动摇的;忠实的;坚贞不移的 | |
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5 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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6 commuter | |
n.(尤指市郊之间)乘公交车辆上下班者 | |
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7 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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8 sonnet | |
n.十四行诗 | |
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9 commuting | |
交换(的) | |
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10 educes | |
v.引出( educe的第三人称单数 );唤起或开发出(潜能);推断(出);从数据中演绎(出) | |
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11 quaintly | |
adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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12 pious | |
adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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13 sages | |
n.圣人( sage的名词复数 );智者;哲人;鼠尾草(可用作调料) | |
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14 imbue | |
v.灌输(某种强烈的情感或意见),感染 | |
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15 stolidity | |
n.迟钝,感觉麻木 | |
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16 purged | |
清除(政敌等)( purge的过去式和过去分词 ); 涤除(罪恶等); 净化(心灵、风气等); 消除(错事等)的不良影响 | |
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17 thickets | |
n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 );丛状物 | |
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18 wont | |
adj.习惯于;v.习惯;n.习惯 | |
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19 heeded | |
v.听某人的劝告,听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 );变平,使(某物)变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20 disingenuous | |
adj.不诚恳的,虚伪的 | |
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21 warfare | |
n.战争(状态);斗争;冲突 | |
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22 truce | |
n.休战,(争执,烦恼等的)缓和;v.以停战结束 | |
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23 panorama | |
n.全景,全景画,全景摄影,全景照片[装置] | |
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24 mariners | |
海员,水手(mariner的复数形式) | |
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25 breakdowns | |
n.分解( breakdown的名词复数 );衰竭;(车辆或机器的)损坏;统计分析 | |
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26 uncertainties | |
无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 ); 不确定; 变化不定; 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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27 disseminated | |
散布,传播( disseminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28 embittered | |
v.使怨恨,激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29 grumbling | |
adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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30 dourness | |
n.性情乖僻,酸味,坏心眼 | |
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31 aisle | |
n.(教堂、教室、戏院等里的)过道,通道 | |
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32 unwillingly | |
adv.不情愿地 | |
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33 brace | |
n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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34 buffeted | |
反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 ); 连续猛击; 打来打去; 推来搡去 | |
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35 banter | |
n.嘲弄,戏谑;v.取笑,逗弄,开玩笑 | |
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36 perspiring | |
v.出汗,流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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37 burrowed | |
v.挖掘(洞穴),挖洞( burrow的过去式和过去分词 );翻寻 | |
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38 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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39 cove | |
n.小海湾,小峡谷 | |
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40 urchin | |
n.顽童;海胆 | |
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41 inspection | |
n.检查,审查,检阅 | |
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42 assent | |
v.批准,认可;n.批准,认可 | |
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43 agglomerated | |
团聚颗粒 | |
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44 truancy | |
n.逃学,旷课 | |
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45 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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46 crated | |
把…装入箱中( crate的过去式 ) | |
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47 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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48 diligently | |
ad.industriously;carefully | |
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49 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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50 gentry | |
n.绅士阶级,上层阶级 | |
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51 throng | |
n.人群,群众;v.拥挤,群集 | |
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52 shuffle | |
n.拖著脚走,洗纸牌;v.拖曳,慢吞吞地走 | |
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53 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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54 jersey | |
n.运动衫 | |
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55 blench | |
v.退缩,畏缩 | |
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56 clique | |
n.朋党派系,小集团 | |
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57 waive | |
vt.放弃,不坚持(规定、要求、权力等) | |
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58 hoarse | |
adj.嘶哑的,沙哑的 | |
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59 imploring | |
恳求的,哀求的 | |
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60 humility | |
n.谦逊,谦恭 | |
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61 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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62 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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63 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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64 carafes | |
n.玻璃水瓶(或酒瓶)( carafe的名词复数 ) | |
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65 stewards | |
(轮船、飞机等的)乘务员( steward的名词复数 ); (俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的)管理员; (大型活动的)组织者; (私人家中的)管家 | |
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66 steward | |
n.乘务员,服务员;看管人;膳食管理员 | |
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67 sanguine | |
adj.充满希望的,乐观的,血红色的 | |
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68 devoid | |
adj.全无的,缺乏的 | |
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69 chagrins | |
v.使懊恼,使懊丧,使悔恨( chagrin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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70 condescension | |
n.自以为高人一等,贬低(别人) | |
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71 loquacious | |
adj.多嘴的,饶舌的 | |
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73 plaintive | |
adj.可怜的,伤心的 | |
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74 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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75 disconsolate | |
adj.忧郁的,不快的 | |
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76 persistent | |
adj.坚持不懈的,执意的;持续的 | |
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77 query | |
n.疑问,问号,质问;vt.询问,表示怀疑 | |
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78 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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79 sarcastic | |
adj.讥讽的,讽刺的,嘲弄的 | |
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80 oyster | |
n.牡蛎;沉默寡言的人 | |
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81 rout | |
n.溃退,溃败;v.击溃,打垮 | |
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82 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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83 luncheon | |
n.午宴,午餐,便宴 | |
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84 militant | |
adj.激进的,好斗的;n.激进分子,斗士 | |
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85 wagons | |
n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 );铁路货车;小手推车 | |
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86 affront | |
n./v.侮辱,触怒 | |
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87 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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88 gallant | |
adj.英勇的,豪侠的;(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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89 irritation | |
n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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90 attains | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的第三人称单数 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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91 glides | |
n.滑行( glide的名词复数 );滑音;音渡;过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 );掠过;(鸟或飞机 ) 滑翔 | |
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92 anatomy | |
n.解剖学,解剖;功能,结构,组织 | |
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93 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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94 transpires | |
(事实,秘密等)被人知道( transpire的第三人称单数 ); 泄露; 显露; 发生 | |
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95 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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96 scrutiny | |
n.详细检查,仔细观察 | |
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97 lugs | |
钎柄 | |
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98 frantically | |
ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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99 slab | |
n.平板,厚的切片;v.切成厚板,以平板盖上 | |
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100 lucid | |
adj.明白易懂的,清晰的,头脑清楚的 | |
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101 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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102 tunes | |
n.曲调,曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 );调整;(给收音机、电视等)调谐;使协调 | |
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