She hoped that the subject would be forgotten. It was not forgotten. That was clear to her, although Silas made no direct allusion1; but by his manner he established the existence of a secret between them, and because she dared not say to him, “There is no secret,” the secret remained, growing insidiously2. She was nervous and uneasy in his presence. Silas was kinder than ever she had known him, kinder and gentler, also he appeared to be more contented3, but she had a terrified suspicion that he was contented only because his mind was occupied, and it seemed horrible to her that she should be the centre of that occupation. She had suddenly become involved in an affair whose existence, she protested to herself, had its being solely4 as the outcome of Silas’s imagination. She tried to shake it off and to laugh it away, but he held her to it. She had the helpless sensation of being on the end of a rope that 159he was slowly hauling in, maintaining his purchase over every miserly inch as he gained it.
Hambley, soft-footed, insinuating5, and urbane6, added by his parasitic7 presence to the uneasiness of the house. The yellow faced, thin little man, with his black hair and his long front teeth like a rodent’s, never had an opinion of his own, but echoed Silas, or cackled with the laughter of approval. He alternately tried to provoke and to propitiate8 Nan and Morgan, gibed10 at them when they were civil to him, and fawned11 on them when they were curt12. Nan shuddered13 when she wondered how many of Silas’s darker thoughts were shared out to his keeping.
Was there a conspiracy14 against her? To her mind, full of alarm, this seemed not impossible. Calthorpe even,—her prop9, her kind, comfortable friend,—Calthorpe mentioned casually15, “I may have to steal Gregory from you, my dear; I must have a man with me when I go to Birmingham to look over some new plants, and I fancy that your Gregory would relish16 the job, and be very useful to me.” She had clasped his arm. “Oh no, don’t take Gregory away, Mr. Calthorpe.” “What!” he said in surprise, “are you so fond of him?” She did not answer. She was not fond of Gregory; he was an owner and an institution, 160but the question of fondness played no part. Hitherto, she had not thought of disliking him; that was all. He and Silas (until she knew Silas was a murderer) had appeared very much the same in her mind, the only difference being that whereas Gregory had rights over her passive and uninquiring person Silas had none.
“Well, am I not to take him?” asked Calthorpe.
“Yes, take him,” she replied. Why had she hesitated? By all these doubts and hesitations17 she was playing Silas’s game; he had gained another inch of the rope. “When are you going?”
“It’s all quite uncertain; I may not be going at all. But if I go, it will be some time next month, and I shall ask for Gregory. I am discovering that he has the real knack18 for any kind of engine; he’s sulky about it and contemptuous, but I urge him, and he unfolds. He showed me some of his plans—but you’re in the clouds?”
II
Silas was with Lady Malleson, more than usually morose19. She lay upon the sofa, while he prowled up and down the room.
“Dene, you scarcely speak to me to-day?”
161(“She cringes,” he thought with pride.)
“With whom has she fallen in love?” asked Lady Malleson, thinking how strange it was that she should be thus intimately conversant21 with a group of work-people down in the village.
“With Morgan,—the young zany.”
“Why, you always seemed so fond of him! your one human frailty,” she bantered22. But he rounded on her with unwarrantable sharpness. “I think your ladyship is mistaken: I never remember saying I was fond of Morgan. They’re neither of them any more alive than a turtle-dove sunning itself in a wicker cage.”
“You strange creature—have you no natural affections?” she said, with indolent curiosity. “None for that young man, who really devotes himself to you? none for your little harmless sister-in-law?”
“I’m nothing to them—only a blind man to whom they’re kind out of their charity.”
“Why shouldn’t you accept what comfort those two young things could give you?”
162“It’s weak,” he burst out, “why not stand alone? why depend on another? Why shouldn’t the strength of one suffice? Why all this need to double it? Love’s wholly a question of weakness; the weaker you are, the more desperately25 you love. A prop.... Love’s the first tie for an independent man to rid himself of. It’s a weakness that grows too easily out of all proportion. I want my mind for other things, not for anything so trite26. So well charted. So ... so recurrent.”
“Another theory, Silas? Be careful,” she lazily teased him; “what we most abuse, you know, is often what we most fear.”
“What! your sister-in-law? that frail-looking little thing?”
“She, and ... her lover.”
“Scare you, my lady? even you?”
“Why ‘even me’?”
“You’ve explored me,” he said grudgingly29; “you know me so well.”
“Do I? everything about you?”
“Not quite,” he said, in a tone of profound gloom.
163“Do you know yourself, I wonder?”
“To the depths,” he replied.
“Do you enjoy having such complete self-knowledge?”
“Lonely, but you have me now to talk to.”
“Oh, your ladyship is very kind and gracious,” he said, with the deferential32 manner he sometimes abruptly33 assumed, and through which she always uncomfortably suspected the sarcasm34; “I am very grateful to your ladyship. But your ladyship....” and thus far he preserved his deference35, but abandoned it now to exclaim as though tormented36, “You’re a whetstone to my disquiet37; you taunt38 me, you keep all peace from me.”
“I never knew you wanted peace.”
He was tired and dispirited that day, and had been dwelling39 upon his blindness; he craved40 for peace, for some one to give him peace!—and she knew it. But she must whip and provoke him back to the strain of his old attitude. She did not know what urged her to say as she did, in her most sneering42 tone, “I never knew you wanted peace.”
164
III
So they wrangled44 always; indispensable she might be to him, but peace was certainly not what she brought him. And although they maintained the disguise afforded by her tone of slight condescension45, and by his of conventional respect, underneath46 this disguise fomented47 the perpetual and manifold contest, of class against class, of the rough against the fastidious, of the man against the woman. She had very little real fear that its full strength would ever break over her,—little real fear, only enough to provide the spice she exacted. She trusted to her appraisement48 of him: too proud to risk a rebuff; too fiercely recalcitrant49 under the thongs50 of affection. Under their menace he snorted and reared, while she laughed indolently, and incited51 him to further indignations. Yet she held him, she held him! and though she knew full well that she fretted52 and exasperated53 him, she held him still; seeing his struggles, but toying with him, pretending to let him go, pulling him back, distracting and confusing his spirit that was always beating round in the search for escape; and all the while she heard from various quarters the pleasant flattery of her guilt55 extolled56 under the name of charity.
165
IV
“You’ll be happy soon: you’ll have the spring,” Silas said to Nan. He did not speak with the customary note of derision in his voice,—this was the newer Silas,—but she thought she detected it very painstakingly57 concealed59.
She went away from him, and her going was after the manner of a flight. Had she followed her impulse, she would have gone running, with her head bent60 down between her protecting hands. It seemed that she could keep nothing from Silas; he laid his grasp without mercy upon her shyest secrets. She had tried to keep her joy in the coming spring a secret; although reserve was hard of accomplishment61 to her, she had achieved it, hiding her delight away in her heart, or so she believed, not knowing that her laughter had rung more clearly, or that she had been singing so constantly over her work in the two cottages. She was conscious of no impatience62 and no desires. She would not, by a wish, have made herself a month older. She was happy now, she told herself, because the country would presently become a refuge from the factory, instead of its dismal63 and consonant64 setting, wide and level as the sea itself, in its centre the sinister65 hump of the 166abbey and the factory. By walking a little way in the opposite direction, and turning her back upon the village, she would dismiss the factory and look across the liberated66 country, as it was impossible to do in these days when the floods accompanied the factory for miles around as a reflection of its spirit. She told herself that she wanted nothing more. She knew that she could be happy,—perhaps not indefinitely, but she did not look far ahead, the present was too buoyant and suspended,—happy for the moment if Silas would but leave her alone.
V
For a few days he kept up his new smooth-spoken tone; it was “little Nan” this, and “little Nan” that, and whenever he could get hold of her hand he stroked and patted it, and joined his fingers round her wrist, saying that it was fragile. “You’re very slight, Nan,” he said, feeling her arm and shoulder, and once he laid one hand against her chest and the other against her back, and said that there was no thickness in her body. She withdrew herself, shuddering68, from his touch. “I’m blind, you know,” he whined69, and then laughed, “Bless you, blind or not blind, I know any of you in the room before you’ve 167spoken; there’s very little Silas doesn’t know. I know all about you, Nan, and I’m a good friend to you, too.” “But Silas ...” she began desperately. “Hush70!” he said, putting his fingers to her lips and looking mysterious, “no need to say anything; we understand one another.” Just then Linnet Morgan came in, throwing aside his cap, and Nan clasped her hands in terror lest Silas should continue. “Linnet?” said Silas instantly, “you’re back early to-day.”
Linnet had work which could as easily be done at home. He began at once getting books and papers out of his cupboard, and disposing them on the table. He and Nan observed one another stealthily and quickly; he saw that she wore her dark red shirt and black skirt, and that on his entrance she had become silent as though confused, but meanwhile he talked to Silas and made him laugh, and ran his fingers backwards71 through his hair. Nan noticed that his crisp hair was quite golden at the roots, and that a fine white line followed the beginning of its growth. He was very fair-skinned, and the back of his neck where it disappeared into his collar was covered with a fine golden down. He was always busy; when he was not working he was 168talking and laughing; Nan supposed that he had never in his life had time to think about himself.
“There’s something I’ve always wanted to know,” began Silas, resting his arms upon the table as though he were watching Nan and Linnet, “what were you two doing here the night Martin came? while I was at the Abbey?”
“The night the donkey was maimed?” asked Morgan.
“Why, fancy you remembering that!” said Silas negligently72.
“I was clearing up, and we talked for a bit,” Nan put in.
“There was nothing to clear up; it was Sunday evening and you’d been singing and playing your zither. You talked mostly,—now, didn’t you?”
“Why not?” asked Morgan. He was very rarely sharp in speech, but he saw Nan’s discomfort73.
“Why not, indeed? you and Nan are much of an age,” Silas replied. They considered him wonderingly; was he well-intentioned or infinitely74 malign75? As they considered him he got up and went towards the stairs. “Back in a moment,” he said. They heard his tread upon the steps, then moving overhead. They looked at one another.
169“Why did you say that about the donkey?” Nan asked.
“You think, like me, that Silas did it,” he answered, as a statement. “Don’t look so frightened,” he went on, his eyes softening76 into his ready smile; “I assure you, you need never be frightened of Silas. There’s no muscle in his violence. Nothing will ever come of it—beyond maiming donkeys. Oh yes, it’s horrible, I know, because it’s so futile77. No, don’t shake your head—your pretty head,” he added inaudibly. An impulse came over him to cry “You tiny thing! you slip of fragility!” but he repressed it.
She uttered the most treacherous78 remark she had ever breathed about Silas, something which fringed the frightful79 truth, “I know better,” then terrified of her indiscretion, added, “Oh no, I mean nothing.”
“You are afraid of him, aren’t you?” he said, coming round the table closer to her, his attitude very sympathetic and protective, and differing by a shade from Calthorpe’s attitude. “You must not be that. One can only be sorry for Silas, who has grown warped80 and crooked81, and who talks because there is nothing else he can do. Whenever I think of Silas, I feel so lucky in mind and body.”
170She glanced at him gratefully. He had had the tact83 not to urge an explanation of her injudicious remark, and she knew that she could always depend upon this gentle tact; moreover, he had rescued her soul from the terror she so dreaded84, and had by his words set Silas in a sane85 and pitiful light. It suited her temperament86 to have Silas drawn down from the uncomfortable heights where he seemed to dwell in perpetual strife87 with elements. It was no longer Silas who brooded over them, but they who endured and even loved Silas with widened charity. She was very grateful to Linnet for this. What he had done once he could do again; he could soothe88 her terrors. She had not yet thought of him in so human, companionable a way.
He continued the line that he had taken up, giving her time to command herself fully82, making no demands upon her and pretending that nothing had been amiss. He swung himself on to the table, and talked easily,—
“I feel so lucky and thankful for having whole limbs and a sane mind. I don’t covet89 genius, but I do covet sanity90; in fact, I’m not sure that the broadest genius isn’t the supreme91 sanity. Balance and justice! I think those two things are magnificent 171and grand,” (but he himself, she knew, would in practice always be merciful rather than just).
“I wish I had your book-learning,” she said; “you ought to stick to books.”
“Oh no,” he replied, “I like chemistry better, and those things. Science.... If I hadn’t to earn my living I shouldn’t be working on scents92 in this factory. No! I’d be in a country cottage with a laboratory.”
“I had a bit of training at Edinburgh University,” he said, in wistful reminiscence, “but one ought to dedicate years....”
“Who was your father?” she asked after much deliberation whether she might venture the question. She knew Morgan only as an isolated94 person, who had arrived one day into the world of the factory, and had never mentioned home or relations. She knew only that he was Scotch95; he had a very slight Scotch accent.
“He was an Inverness crofter,” he replied vaguely96, “I used to keep the sheep on the hills in mists and snows, and properly I hated it. The days 172were short, and I thought it was always winter. I used to sit shivering on the brae-side, huddled97 in a plaid for shelter under a boulder98, trying to read while I kept one eye on the sheep. The pages of my book used to get damp and limp, and the print got blurred99 when I tried to dry the page with the corner of my jacket. Then somebody found out that I wasn’t getting any education, and reported it, so I was sent back to school, and was happy again. And you—you haven100’t lived here always, have you?”
“Since I was ten,” she replied, sighing, “we used to live in the south before that ... I liked that,” she said, “it was a pretty place, Midhurst, near Arundel—perhaps you know it?” She thought innocently, and rather in the fashion of a child, that every one must know what she knew.
“I wish I did, but I don’t.”
“Oh, it’s under the Downs. Do you remember the day we walked with Silas to Thorpe’s Howland? that put me in mind of Midhurst; there were woods round about Midhurst.”
“You enjoyed yourself that day, didn’t you?”
He expected a little burst of rhapsody from her, but she only said quietly, “Yes, I did,” and he was aware of disappointment, and at the same time of 173the little stinging charm of her occasional unexpectedness.
“We both come from sheep country, then,” he said, but the images evoked101 in their minds were different: his of rough hills with their summits lost in mist, and lochs lying amongst the windings102 at their base; of dirty huddled flocks swept by wind and sleet103; while hers were of cropped downland under a blue and white open sky, with the shadows of the clouds bowling104 across the downs and over the clumps105 of trees and little church-steeples in the valleys. He realised the disparity, saying “When I say that, we see different pictures,” and he smiled, but in his heart he longed for their childhood to have run side by side either in the Sussex or the Highland106 village. “Have you ever been back there?” he asked.
“Oh no; it’s a long way from Lincolnshire. I was always at the factory after I left school, and then when I was eighteen Mother died and I married.”
“Only eighteen?”
“A week after my birthday.”
“How young!” he said, with such rich and wondering compassion107 that she looked suddenly as it were into the depths of a cool inexhaustible well, always at hand for the quenching108 of her thirst. He 174was sitting on the table near her, while their conversation flowed on in its effortless interest, so that time and his books were forgotten. He seemed quite absorbed in what they were saying, looking down at her with intent consideration. They had attained110 an intimacy111 in which they could talk untroubled; she found it very precious.
VI
Silas became unwontedly withdrawn113 into himself, neither Nan nor Morgan knew what to make of him. At times he avoided them, at other times silently sought their company. Gregory, to whom Nan turned, after one glance at his brother, replied, “Let him alone,” and she followed the brief formula as being the best advice, finding that Silas only snarled at her whenever she spoke67 to him. She was relieved rather than dismayed; Silas surly was preferable to Silas honeyed.
He roamed alone, spending hours in the abbey after dusk; or ordered up Hambley, and under the little man’s guidance made his way to the secluded114 summer-house at Malleson Place. Lady Malleson 175was also at a loss to understand his altered manner; towards her he relaxed his taciturnity, and his speech was more than ever wild and varied115, but although he ranged erratically116 she had the impression that his mind rarely departed from one central subject, and she had also the shrewd idea that that subject was his little sister-in-law, whom she had once seen, and whom she vaguely thought a pretty, delicate, rather appealing girl, unimportant until she had become the preoccupation of Silas’s thoughts.
So long as she had Silas with her, however, she cared very little what he talked about. The utmost that she deplored117, sometimes, was his restlessness. It made her wonder whether she really held him. She wondered, indeed, sometimes whether her hold on him was too light to satisfy her vanity, or too secure—all too secure!—for the preservation118 of her safety and her convenience. She liked danger well enough, but there was a point where danger might become too dangerous.
“Wild man,—Ishmael,” she said to him.
But he went on regardless with what he had been saying.
“There’s but one use for the body,” he exclaimed, “health. Not mortification—that’s morbid119. But 176health, lean and hard. Sinews like whips.” He bared a magnificent forearm. “The only instance where I practise what I preach,” he added bitterly, causing the muscles to rise at will.
“Then you should respect your brother Gregory,” she said, languidly content.
“You have seen him lately, my lady?”
“Yesterday, in the village.”
“The neatest of minds, in the body of a blacksmith,” said Silas.
“Neat?”
“Why, yes—so long as he doesn’t break out. Then he lays all around him, smashes everything he can see, without comment—that makes it quite uncanny, I assure you—and in a trice returns to his quiet and his neatness as though nothing out of the way had happened. He’s very inaccessible120, my brother Gregory. No warnings. No explanations. No remorse121. Nothing apparently122, but action.”
“You respect that,” she said, looking at his fine bony face, and his thick rough hair.
“Think, if a man’s killed,” he brooded, “killed by violent means, what an outrage123 on the body. Blood spilt, that ran secretly and private in his veins124. 177Bones, no one had ever seen. Entrails. What a bursting!”
She pictured his mind as a landscape ravaged126 by war, here a wreckage127 of stone and twisted iron, there a grave, here the stark128 Calvary of a stricken tree, there the bright blare of poppies striving for life amongst the rushes and rank weeds.
She liked to stir him, by such calculated remarks.
“A second-rate poet? not I,” he sneered130 instantly; then, as the flattery stole over him, “More likely a martyr, of the two,” he said, responding.
“You waste yourself,” she repeated, drawing meanwhile slowly through her fingers the long silk fringe of a shawl that lay thrown across her sofa, “you waste yourself, out of contempt. You eagle with broken wings!”—she knew with what gluttony he accepted such metaphors131, and amused herself when he wasn’t with her by thinking out new ones that she might serve up to him,—“you repudiate132 comfort, don’t you, in your dream of grandeur133. Will you end, I wonder, by getting neither?” “No one speaks to me like your ladyship,” he muttered reluctantly. She laughed. She enjoyed pretending 178to an ideal of him that, his pride well fired, he would strain himself to live up to; an ideal, moreover, that coincided so adroitly134 with his own ideal of himself. “I never knew a man so vigorously reject the second-best. It was a pity,” she continued, smoothing out and patting down the fringe of the shawl, “that you never came across a woman to suit you.” She raised her eyes to watch him as she talked, and modulated135 her phrases according to the expression she found on his face, nor did she trouble to conceal58 the busy mischief136 in her own; there were advantages, certainly, in his blindness. “How would you have behaved, I wonder?” she went on; “you would have made a stormy lover, I fancy, once your resistance had been thrown to the winds. Stormy and exacting137. Poor woman! Yet I dare say she wouldn’t have minded. Women are like that, you know. And for you,—no more loneliness, no more unsatisfied longings139, no more misanthropy. I believe you’d have grown into a different man. You would probably have achieved a good deal.... But it would have taken a clever woman, a very clever woman, to steer140 you without your knowing that you were being steered141.”
“Women in my walk of life don’t have time for 179cleverness, my lady,” he said acrimoniously142, giving a literal answer to her words because he must ignore the meaning which he read into them, and which, as he well knew, she had intended him to read. Her ingenuity143 was tireless over insinuations that put him on the rack. Clever, she had said; she was clever enough! why hadn’t they, he wondered, appointed women to sit upon the tribunals of the Inquisition? “If you had been born into my class, or I into yours ...” he burst out.
“I don’t admit impertinence, you know, Dene,” she said in a voice of ice, “and anyway I am afraid I cannot give you any more time at present.”
VII
Thus, always. He hated his bondage144, he despised while he coveted145 the woman, he hated her for holding him bound, but nothing, nothing was comparable to his hatred146 and disgust of himself in his inability to get free. Often he raved41 audibly, shaking his fists; and those who saw him stopped to listen to his mutterings, and thought what an alarming sight Silas Dene presented, with his wild blind eyes and furrowed147 mouth that mumbled149 and let drop the tiny river of saliva150. He was often to be 180seen thus in the abbey, of an evening, prowling in the aisles151; where occasionally on a Sunday he would be perceived by the rare visitor attracted to Abbot’s Etchery, that strange island of factory and Norman abbey emerging amidst the floods, sufficiently152 singular to be worth the journey out from Lincoln; and those who saw him there went away saying that not the least arresting sight in the desolate153 encampment was the blind man who in savagery154 and loneliness haunted the precincts of the abbey, and whose incoherent ravings could be readily changed by a little encouragement into a tirade155 of such vehemence156, such angry bitterness, such bewildering aggression157. They went away wondering what ailed158 him, to have made of him so baffling and solitary159 a figure.
VIII
Rumour160, at the same time, began to trot161 like a jackal round the figure of Silas. There was the incident, never very clear to the village, of the fire. Loyalty162 of course silenced Nan and Morgan; and Hambley, to a very large extent silenced through fear, dared do no more than drop hints that Silas could scarcely trace back to him. Nevertheless, a 181taste of the story got about, a taste that the village relished163 and rolled over on its tongue, both in the workshops and the public bar,—for gossip that penetrated164 the fiercely secluded house of the Denes, and brought to light even the tip of one of their buried secrets, had a legendary165 smack166 denied to topics more vulgar and more frequently accessible.
Also, Lady Malleson’s name was murmured, behind the shelter of a raised hand.
Nan was aware of the curious looks, thrown at her because she had been with Silas during the fire; and Morgan, aware of similar looks, met them with a contemptuous impatience; but Silas for some days knew of nothing amiss. Only when he stood up to speak at the debating-club, down in the concert-room, he heard a murmur167 pass through his audience, a murmur of resentment168 and disapproval169. It was as though the accumulated resentment of the men, repressed hitherto out of a lack of understanding, a certain awe171, and even a grudging30 admiration172, had now broken its bonds under a definite provocation173 that had submerged their submission174 by arousing their disgust. It was a low murmur, compounded of irritation175, criticism, and of mutiny under a tyranny they no longer respected and were therefore no 182longer prepared to admit. Silas heard it, and with his fist already lifted for his peroration176, stopped himself dead.
“Some one spoke?” he demanded.
He was accustomed to exact silence when he took up the debate.
He had very little time to decide his course of action; he knew that they were against him; knew, obscurely, why; and dared not press home the question.
Morgan was not present, or he might have tided over the matter, out of pity for Silas, who in his defiance178 looked so extraordinarily179 gaunt and solitary, and so undefeatably proud.
Morgan, however, was busy elsewhere, so that Silas faced only a lowering throng180, that sat obstinate181, chins thrust forward into palms and murmured still, with deliberate intent to affront182, but without the courage to bring clear accusation183.
“This isn’t the treatment I’m accustomed to receive here,” Silas bayed at them finally, “and until I’m invited I’ll no longer trouble you. Invited I said, and invited I meant. If I’m sought up at my 183own house perhaps I’ll reconsider it, and come back to you. For the present, good-night to you all.”
One, more kind-hearted than the rest, and perhaps ashamed, rose clumsily to intercept184 him as he went towards the door.
“I’ll help you, Dene.”
Silas thrust him aside, and strode away alone.
IX
When this story had come to the ears of Nan and Morgan, they whispered “The fire!” and crept away from one another sooner than disturb a subject of which they could not bear to speak.
The fire had taken place at night, and had not been in itself of any importance. “You see nothing but a few tarred sheds burning,” Silas had cried, in a frenzy185 of desperation to Morgan, “and folk will come to me to-morrow to say you acted gallantly186, or what not. Why shouldn’t you, seeing only wood and flames? You don’t hear it coming after you with great light strides and flaming fingers....”
“Silas, you’re afraid,” Morgan had said gravely.
Silas had checked himself at that; he had quavered, and made an effort to recover. The accusation 184had fallen like a plummet187 into the uncontrolled waters of his mind. He had quavered, and almost gibbered at Morgan; so greatly fallen beneath his normal standard of pride and independence that he had been shocking to hear and see. He had tried to defend himself, “Not afraid, only helpless, helpless....”
Nan and Morgan had stood, hearing him beseech188 them not to leave him. Nan knew then that Silas was betrayed by fear into revealing something he usually kept very, very carefully concealed; that was why the exposure was so shocking and so degrading; and Morgan seeing it with her eyes stood beside her, both equally hurt, and equally craving189 to rescue Silas. But he, in his mingled190 panic and resentment, had had nothing but insults for them, and, nearly screaming, told Morgan to clear out.
“Shall I stay with you?” Nan had asked.
He had hesitated; he wanted to fling her out, he tried to make himself say, “No, go!” but his extreme terror was stronger than this flicker191 of his other, antagonistic192. He said, “Yes, you can stay,” a heat of hatred for her passing over him as he said it.
185
X
They had sat in silence after Morgan had gone, because Silas had forbidden her to speak. She was glad of the hush, for she felt that she had passed through a great empty din54 and that the brass193 vacancy194 of cymbals195 was still clanging in her ears. The scene had wounded her, and had roused emotions that bewildered her. Why should she resent (to the extent of stretching out deterrent196 hands, as she had done,) the betrayal of Silas by himself? Somewhere, though she would neither have probed nor acknowledged, she had believed that underneath her fear and pity lay hatred of Silas; she had even tried to extend her pity into a reassuring197 mental scorn. Yet to him, who never spared others, she had had the impulse to cry, “Spare yourself.” She had suffered from seeing him untrue to his own tradition.
They sat in silence, Silas tearing at the seat of a rush-bottomed chair, Nan watching the unequal glow in the sky outside the windows. She found herself trembling from time to time. Not with fear of the fire, but with disgust and regret of that noisy scene. She wished that something would happen to restore him to his ancient formidable credit, something to remove that disquieting198 sense of his fraudulence. 186She turned away from him, but next moment was glancing at him again; he was destroying the seat of the chair, shred199 by shred, his fine hands pulling at the rushes with a peevish200 haste and his head bent obstinately201 away from observation. Every time a siren hooted202 he hunched203 himself more closely together, as though the compression of his limbs would afford him some protection.
“I think the glare is dying down, Silas,” she said gently.
He hunched himself fretfully away.
He was thinking, “They are full of forbearance and long-suffering. Am I to be taught gratitude204? perhaps through disaster? They would let God himself look into every corner of their minds. Little children!” For the moment, under the effect of his fear, he did not brand them as lacking in savour. Their limpidity205 seemed to him as desirable as the absence of danger. If danger might but be removed he would abandon as the price his own arrogant206 passions. He was humbled207 now to another standard of life. Weary of battle and opposition209, peace appeared to him sweet and seemly, now that he had been granted tumult210,—a tumult not of his own making, and entirely211 out of the control of his stage-managing. 187He thought again, “They have never a quick word against me. Nan gave me a stick, and I broke it and said I wanted no stick, because I knew she expected me to show pleasure. I am sure that after I broke it she had tears in her eyes. But why should she try to coax212 me with presents? or I allow myself to be coaxed213?” He shuddered at the long scream of a siren, and reflected that they had probably kept the extent of the fire from him, knowing that he could not verify. For an instant he caught hold of the idea that the fire might get across the village to the abbey, and destroy that; and a little flash of old wicked glee passed across him. But it died away. He imagined the fire travelling down his own street, men and women flying before it, and he himself forgotten, engulfed,—perhaps even purposely left to perish. At this point he spoke, “Are you there, Nan?” She was there. “I never meant you any harm, Nan,” he said surprisingly. Warm-hearted, she was at his side as the words left his lips. “No, Silas, I know that....” “That’ll do,” he said pushing her away.
But he had now started upon another train of thought, which he adopted and amplified214 with his usual vehemence. “God preserve me, and I will live 188to befriend Nan and Linnet.” Obscurely he had the instinct of propitiation, offering his intention as a bribe215 to a very angry god; and partially216 in his chastened mood,—albeit but the vile217 chastening of terror,—he yielded to the stirrings of his own repressed sentimentalism. Simplicity218, limpidity, were perhaps not the poor and bloodless attributes he had thought. Their case might be turned convincingly by a skilful219 advocate. He, Silas, had the mettle220 of strife within him; those other two had not: (The fire! the fire! in the meanderings of his arguments he had almost forgotten the fire. In the rush of recollection he knotted his fingers together till they cracked. He was horribly afraid.) Those two did not fight and wrestle221 with chimeras222, muscles knotted and sweat pouring, as Silas did. Their minds were not ridden by demons223. They did not sight everywhere a portent224, a dark enemy or a fiercely fair ally. He had scorned them as easy, milky225, satisfied,—he knew well the run of the familiar epithets226. He had tried to scorn them; he had forsworn their kindness. He had crushed his love for them, and his longing138 to allow the warm tide of that love to flow in solace227 over him. He had been proud, and had driven his craft ever to sea, courting the gales228 and riot, rather 189than accept the broad comfort of the haven. Proud! proud! how superbly proud! how proportionately base the physical fear that could humble208 such a spirit of arrogance229 in man!
XI
A cry from Nan brought him to his feet, chattering230. “What it it? what is it?” in a renewed access of fear. “Oh, Silas!” she exclaimed, coming close to him, “there’s Hambley looking in through the window; tell him to go away, oh, please tell him to go away! He does what you tell him always.”
Hambley was indeed pressing his face against the window, and the shape of his head was dark against the red sky. He was so small that he was only just able to reach the window by climbing to the outside sill with the tips of his fingers, and the end of his nose was flattened231 white upon the pane232. Nan could see the grin on his evil little face. Silas strode to the door, flung it open, and summoned the little man. At the end of the street the night was torn by flames.
As soon as Hambley was inside he seized the little man by his collar. “Now what were you doing, peeping into my house when you thought you 190wouldn’t be found out? You little skunk233, I’ve always called you, and so you are. You frightened Nan, you little skunk. You meant to spy upon me. Well, you’ll see what you get!” Holding him easily with one hand, sometimes swinging him clean off his feet, so that he twirled and dangled234 in mid-air, Silas thrashed him with his fist, and Hambley shrieked235 and appealed to Nan, and tried, but quite vainly, to kick Silas. Nan got into a corner, out of the way of the blows. When he had finished, Silas carried him over to the door and threw him regardlessly out into the street.
XII
Morgan came back at midnight, and said that the fire was over, not having spread beyond the sheds. He was rubbing his blackened hands on a piece of waste. His eyes fell upon the litter of shredded236 rushes scattered237 in witness on the floor near Silas. Nan drooped238, pale and tired. He began to tell her about the fire, trying to brighten her and to make her feel that she was no longer a prisoner alone with Silas. He was purposely taking no notice of Silas, but presently looked up to see the blind man standing above them.
191He appeared to be immensely tall and haggard, and upon his face was a look of suffering, which by the accentuation of furrow148 and wrinkle gave the suggestion that he was unkempt. His limbs and torso were hugely, grotesquely239 reproduced in shadow upon the walls and ceiling behind him. Inscrutable to them, he loomed240 over Nan and Linnet. At last he spoke.
“You’re glad to have him back, Nan. You’re glad to come back to her, Linnet.”
Their eyes met in tremulous surprise; was Silas to serve as their interpreter?
“You little, dainty people! Oh, yes. I know. Gentle in your dealings. Amiable241. Indulgent. You don’t criticise—criticism’s uncharitable—might hurt somebody’s feelings. Let things remain as they are; don’t disturb. Moderation! That’s your creed242. Make terms. Compromise!” He dropped ejaculations, and swung into his most rhetorical vein125, in which he seemed really possessed243 by a spirit that released the unfaltering words. “O pliant244 ones of the earth! blessed are the meek245, and flowers shall revive at your passage. Wander into the woods; call to the roe-deer to eat from your hand. Look with envy at the pairing foxes, the nesting birds; 192no creature so wild that it may escape the yearly call of home. If the fox and the vixen together can burrow246 their earth for shelter and the whelping of their litter, cannot you two together build a hut of boughs247 and branches in a clearing beside the stream? Listen: I covet no love, I am debarred; and love when it touches men like me is no virtue248, only an indulgence of self and a lapse249 from strength.” He laughed. “Who would be weak? or bestial250? But in you, love shall attain109 its highest purpose of usefulness and steadfastness251. To be steadfast252 in love is reserved to man; it is the conscious will of love, the sustained reason. Without it, as well be a dog, and couple in the street. Are you fit? You are young and your minds are counterparts; you have no business with me or with Gregory. Leave me to Gregory, and Gregory to me; the dumb shall lead the blind, and the blind shall speak for the dumb. But you, go out, where no strife assails253, and concern yourselves with labour. You are the builders, and we are the destroyers; we are the cursed, and you are the blessed. You and your like must build your security upon the ruins of us and our like; it’s the natural law. I might have been another man, but God saw fit to twist me; he 193wrenched my spirit and upon each of my eyes in turn he laid a finger.”
They sat absolutely speechless, confused and confounded that he should thus trumpet254 out the secret they had hitherto guarded from one another. They had wondered and suffered and trembled much, but of all outcomes this was an outcome they had certainly never foreseen. It broke over them like a natural catastrophe255; Silas was making it into something beyond the diapason of their souls.
“Build!” he said passionately256, earnestly, “build with your sanity and your health. Leave query257 and destruction to the tormented spirits; there will always be enough of those; and if you did but know,—oh, world!” he said, clasping his hands, “if you did but know, you would pity the precursor258, solitary and bold. Then comes the army of the workers, with honest tools, and their flowing quietness.—Why should you struggle, you two, beside Gregory and me? You should be side by side, perfectly259 matched, amongst children who should resemble you. Tell me,” he said, bending down to them, “you love?”
When he reduced it to those naked terms, they were ashamed into honesty, both towards him and towards each other; they assented260, as though he 194were a priest reading over them a terrible and simple marriage-service.
“Then you shall have the courage to love. You shall go unmolested. You were intended to fulfil, not to renounce261. Who pretends to one law for all? Not I; I wouldn’t dare utter such a heresy262 of intolerance. Not in my sane moments. Who would take a field-bird up into the mountains? His place is simpler; sweeter....”
He suddenly put his hands over his face, and his voice faltered263, as though he were spent and had nothing more to say.
“Go away now,” he said fretfully, “I’m tired out.”
点击收听单词发音
1 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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2 insidiously | |
潜在地,隐伏地,阴险地 | |
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3 contented | |
adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
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4 solely | |
adv.仅仅,唯一地 | |
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5 insinuating | |
adj.曲意巴结的,暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 );巧妙或迂回地潜入;(使)缓慢进入;慢慢伸入 | |
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6 urbane | |
adj.温文尔雅的,懂礼的 | |
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7 parasitic | |
adj.寄生的 | |
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8 propitiate | |
v.慰解,劝解 | |
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9 prop | |
vt.支撑;n.支柱,支撑物;支持者,靠山 | |
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10 gibed | |
v.嘲笑,嘲弄( gibe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11 fawned | |
v.(尤指狗等)跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的过去式和过去分词 );巴结;讨好 | |
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12 curt | |
adj.简短的,草率的 | |
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13 shuddered | |
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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14 conspiracy | |
n.阴谋,密谋,共谋 | |
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15 casually | |
adv.漠不关心地,无动于衷地,不负责任地 | |
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16 relish | |
n.滋味,享受,爱好,调味品;vt.加调味料,享受,品味;vi.有滋味 | |
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17 hesitations | |
n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 );踌躇;犹豫(之事或行为);口吃 | |
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18 knack | |
n.诀窍,做事情的灵巧的,便利的方法 | |
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19 morose | |
adj.脾气坏的,不高兴的 | |
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20 tersely | |
adv. 简捷地, 简要地 | |
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21 conversant | |
adj.亲近的,有交情的,熟悉的 | |
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22 bantered | |
v.开玩笑,说笑,逗乐( banter的过去式和过去分词 );(善意地)取笑,逗弄 | |
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23 bleak | |
adj.(天气)阴冷的;凄凉的;暗淡的 | |
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24 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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25 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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26 trite | |
adj.陈腐的 | |
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27 growled | |
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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28 savagely | |
adv. 野蛮地,残酷地 | |
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29 grudgingly | |
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30 grudging | |
adj.勉强的,吝啬的 | |
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31 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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32 deferential | |
adj. 敬意的,恭敬的 | |
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33 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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34 sarcasm | |
n.讥讽,讽刺,嘲弄,反话 (adj.sarcastic) | |
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35 deference | |
n.尊重,顺从;敬意 | |
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36 tormented | |
饱受折磨的 | |
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37 disquiet | |
n.担心,焦虑 | |
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38 taunt | |
n.辱骂,嘲弄;v.嘲弄 | |
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39 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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40 craved | |
渴望,热望( crave的过去式 ); 恳求,请求 | |
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41 raved | |
v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 );愤怒地说;咆哮;痴心地说 | |
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42 sneering | |
嘲笑的,轻蔑的 | |
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43 snarled | |
v.(指狗)吠,嗥叫, (人)咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 );咆哮着说,厉声地说 | |
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44 wrangled | |
v.争吵,争论,口角( wrangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45 condescension | |
n.自以为高人一等,贬低(别人) | |
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46 underneath | |
adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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47 fomented | |
v.激起,煽动(麻烦等)( foment的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48 appraisement | |
n.评价,估价;估值 | |
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49 recalcitrant | |
adj.倔强的 | |
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50 thongs | |
的东西 | |
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51 incited | |
刺激,激励,煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52 fretted | |
焦躁的,附有弦马的,腐蚀的 | |
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53 exasperated | |
adj.恼怒的 | |
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54 din | |
n.喧闹声,嘈杂声 | |
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55 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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56 extolled | |
v.赞颂,赞扬,赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57 painstakingly | |
adv. 费力地 苦心地 | |
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58 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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59 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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60 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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61 accomplishment | |
n.完成,成就,(pl.)造诣,技能 | |
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62 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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63 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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64 consonant | |
n.辅音;adj.[音]符合的 | |
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65 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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66 liberated | |
a.无拘束的,放纵的 | |
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67 spoke | |
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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68 shuddering | |
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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69 whined | |
v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 );哀诉,诉怨 | |
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70 hush | |
int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
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71 backwards | |
adv.往回地,向原处,倒,相反,前后倒置地 | |
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72 negligently | |
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73 discomfort | |
n.不舒服,不安,难过,困难,不方便 | |
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74 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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75 malign | |
adj.有害的;恶性的;恶意的;v.诽谤,诬蔑 | |
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76 softening | |
变软,软化 | |
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77 futile | |
adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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78 treacherous | |
adj.不可靠的,有暗藏的危险的;adj.背叛的,背信弃义的 | |
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79 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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80 warped | |
adj.反常的;乖戾的;(变)弯曲的;变形的v.弄弯,变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 );使(行为等)不合情理,使乖戾, | |
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81 crooked | |
adj.弯曲的;不诚实的,狡猾的,不正当的 | |
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82 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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83 tact | |
n.机敏,圆滑,得体 | |
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84 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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85 sane | |
adj.心智健全的,神志清醒的,明智的,稳健的 | |
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86 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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87 strife | |
n.争吵,冲突,倾轧,竞争 | |
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88 soothe | |
v.安慰;使平静;使减轻;缓和;奉承 | |
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89 covet | |
vt.垂涎;贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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90 sanity | |
n.心智健全,神智正常,判断正确 | |
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91 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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92 scents | |
n.香水( scent的名词复数 );气味;(动物的)臭迹;(尤指狗的)嗅觉 | |
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93 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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94 isolated | |
adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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95 scotch | |
n.伤口,刻痕;苏格兰威士忌酒;v.粉碎,消灭,阻止;adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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96 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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97 huddled | |
挤在一起(huddle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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98 boulder | |
n.巨砾;卵石,圆石 | |
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99 blurred | |
v.(使)变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 );(使)难以区分;模模糊糊;迷离 | |
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100 haven | |
n.安全的地方,避难所,庇护所 | |
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101 evoked | |
[医]诱发的 | |
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102 windings | |
(道路、河流等)蜿蜒的,弯曲的( winding的名词复数 ); 缠绕( wind的现在分词 ); 卷绕; 转动(把手) | |
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103 sleet | |
n.雨雪;v.下雨雪,下冰雹 | |
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104 bowling | |
n.保龄球运动 | |
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105 clumps | |
n.(树、灌木、植物等的)丛、簇( clump的名词复数 );(土、泥等)团;块;笨重的脚步声v.(树、灌木、植物等的)丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 );(土、泥等)团;块;笨重的脚步声 | |
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106 highland | |
n.(pl.)高地,山地 | |
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107 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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108 quenching | |
淬火,熄 | |
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109 attain | |
vt.达到,获得,完成 | |
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110 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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111 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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112 bantering | |
adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑,说笑,逗乐( banter的现在分词 );(善意地)取笑,逗弄 | |
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113 withdrawn | |
vt.收回;使退出;vi.撤退,退出 | |
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114 secluded | |
adj.与世隔绝的;隐退的;偏僻的v.使隔开,使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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115 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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116 erratically | |
adv.不规律地,不定地 | |
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117 deplored | |
v.悲叹,痛惜,强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118 preservation | |
n.保护,维护,保存,保留,保持 | |
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119 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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120 inaccessible | |
adj.达不到的,难接近的 | |
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121 remorse | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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122 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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123 outrage | |
n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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124 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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125 vein | |
n.血管,静脉;叶脉,纹理;情绪;vt.使成脉络 | |
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126 ravaged | |
毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 ); 蹂躏; 劫掠; 抢劫 | |
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127 wreckage | |
n.(失事飞机等的)残骸,破坏,毁坏 | |
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128 stark | |
adj.荒凉的;严酷的;完全的;adv.完全地 | |
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129 martyr | |
n.烈士,殉难者;vt.杀害,折磨,牺牲 | |
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130 sneered | |
讥笑,冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131 metaphors | |
隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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132 repudiate | |
v.拒绝,拒付,拒绝履行 | |
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133 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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134 adroitly | |
adv.熟练地,敏捷地 | |
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135 modulated | |
已调整[制]的,被调的 | |
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136 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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137 exacting | |
adj.苛求的,要求严格的 | |
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138 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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139 longings | |
渴望,盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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140 steer | |
vt.驾驶,为…操舵;引导;vi.驾驶 | |
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141 steered | |
v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 );操纵;控制;引导 | |
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142 acrimoniously | |
adv.毒辣地,尖刻地 | |
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143 ingenuity | |
n.别出心裁;善于发明创造 | |
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144 bondage | |
n.奴役,束缚 | |
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145 coveted | |
adj.令人垂涎的;垂涎的,梦寐以求的v.贪求,觊觎(covet的过去分词);垂涎;贪图 | |
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146 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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147 furrowed | |
v.犁田,开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148 furrow | |
n.沟;垄沟;轨迹;车辙;皱纹 | |
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149 mumbled | |
含糊地说某事,叽咕,咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150 saliva | |
n.唾液,口水 | |
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151 aisles | |
n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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152 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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153 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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154 savagery | |
n.野性 | |
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155 tirade | |
n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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156 vehemence | |
n.热切;激烈;愤怒 | |
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157 aggression | |
n.进攻,侵略,侵犯,侵害 | |
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158 ailed | |
v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 );感到不舒服;处境困难;境况不佳 | |
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159 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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160 rumour | |
n.谣言,谣传,传闻 | |
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161 trot | |
n.疾走,慢跑;n.老太婆;现成译本;(复数)trots:腹泻(与the 连用);v.小跑,快步走,赶紧 | |
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162 loyalty | |
n.忠诚,忠心 | |
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163 relished | |
v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 );从…获得乐趣;渴望 | |
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164 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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165 legendary | |
adj.传奇(中)的,闻名遐迩的;n.传奇(文学) | |
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166 smack | |
vt.拍,打,掴;咂嘴;vi.含有…意味;n.拍 | |
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167 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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168 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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169 disapproval | |
n.反对,不赞成 | |
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170 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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171 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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172 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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173 provocation | |
n.激怒,刺激,挑拨,挑衅的事物,激怒的原因 | |
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174 submission | |
n.服从,投降;温顺,谦虚;提出 | |
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175 irritation | |
n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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176 peroration | |
n.(演说等之)结论 | |
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177 rebellious | |
adj.造反的,反抗的,难控制的 | |
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178 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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179 extraordinarily | |
adv.格外地;极端地 | |
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180 throng | |
n.人群,群众;v.拥挤,群集 | |
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181 obstinate | |
adj.顽固的,倔强的,不易屈服的,较难治愈的 | |
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182 affront | |
n./v.侮辱,触怒 | |
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183 accusation | |
n.控告,指责,谴责 | |
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184 intercept | |
vt.拦截,截住,截击 | |
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185 frenzy | |
n.疯狂,狂热,极度的激动 | |
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186 gallantly | |
adv. 漂亮地,勇敢地,献殷勤地 | |
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187 plummet | |
vi.(价格、水平等)骤然下跌;n.铅坠;重压物 | |
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188 beseech | |
v.祈求,恳求 | |
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189 craving | |
n.渴望,热望 | |
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190 mingled | |
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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191 flicker | |
vi./n.闪烁,摇曳,闪现 | |
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192 antagonistic | |
adj.敌对的 | |
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193 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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194 vacancy | |
n.(旅馆的)空位,空房,(职务的)空缺 | |
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195 cymbals | |
pl.铙钹 | |
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196 deterrent | |
n.阻碍物,制止物;adj.威慑的,遏制的 | |
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197 reassuring | |
a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的,使人放心的 | |
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198 disquieting | |
adj.令人不安的,令人不平静的v.使不安,使忧虑,使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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199 shred | |
v.撕成碎片,变成碎片;n.碎布条,细片,些少 | |
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200 peevish | |
adj.易怒的,坏脾气的 | |
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201 obstinately | |
ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
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202 hooted | |
(使)作汽笛声响,作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203 hunched | |
(常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦)耸肩弓身的,伏首前倾的 | |
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204 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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205 limpidity | |
n.清澈,透明 | |
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206 arrogant | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的 | |
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207 humbled | |
adj. 卑下的,谦逊的,粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下,贬低 | |
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208 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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209 opposition | |
n.反对,敌对 | |
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210 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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211 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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212 coax | |
v.哄诱,劝诱,用诱哄得到,诱取 | |
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213 coaxed | |
v.哄,用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 );巧言骗取;哄劝,劝诱 | |
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214 amplified | |
放大,扩大( amplify的过去式和过去分词 ); 增强; 详述 | |
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215 bribe | |
n.贿赂;v.向…行贿,买通 | |
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216 partially | |
adv.部分地,从某些方面讲 | |
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217 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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218 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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219 skilful | |
(=skillful)adj.灵巧的,熟练的 | |
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220 mettle | |
n.勇气,精神 | |
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221 wrestle | |
vi.摔跤,角力;搏斗;全力对付 | |
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222 chimeras | |
n.(由几种动物的各部分构成的)假想的怪兽( chimera的名词复数 );不可能实现的想法;幻想;妄想 | |
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223 demons | |
n.恶人( demon的名词复数 );恶魔;精力过人的人;邪念 | |
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224 portent | |
n.预兆;恶兆;怪事 | |
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225 milky | |
adj.牛奶的,多奶的;乳白色的 | |
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226 epithets | |
n.(表示性质、特征等的)词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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227 solace | |
n.安慰;v.使快乐;vt.安慰(物),缓和 | |
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228 gales | |
龙猫 | |
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229 arrogance | |
n.傲慢,自大 | |
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230 chattering | |
n. (机器振动发出的)咔嗒声,(鸟等)鸣,啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的,啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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231 flattened | |
[医](水)平扁的,弄平的 | |
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232 pane | |
n.窗格玻璃,长方块 | |
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233 skunk | |
n.臭鼬,黄鼠狼;v.使惨败,使得零分;烂醉如泥 | |
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234 dangled | |
悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 ); 摆动不定; 用某事物诱惑…; 吊胃口 | |
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235 shrieked | |
v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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236 shredded | |
shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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237 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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238 drooped | |
弯曲或下垂,发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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239 grotesquely | |
adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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240 loomed | |
v.隐约出现,阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 );隐约出现,阴森地逼近 | |
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241 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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242 creed | |
n.信条;信念,纲领 | |
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243 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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244 pliant | |
adj.顺从的;可弯曲的 | |
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245 meek | |
adj.温顺的,逆来顺受的 | |
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246 burrow | |
vt.挖掘(洞穴);钻进;vi.挖洞;翻寻;n.地洞 | |
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247 boughs | |
大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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248 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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249 lapse | |
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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250 bestial | |
adj.残忍的;野蛮的 | |
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251 steadfastness | |
n.坚定,稳当 | |
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252 steadfast | |
adj.固定的,不变的,不动摇的;忠实的;坚贞不移的 | |
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253 assails | |
v.攻击( assail的第三人称单数 );困扰;质问;毅然应对 | |
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254 trumpet | |
n.喇叭,喇叭声;v.吹喇叭,吹嘘 | |
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255 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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256 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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257 query | |
n.疑问,问号,质问;vt.询问,表示怀疑 | |
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258 precursor | |
n.先驱者;前辈;前任;预兆;先兆 | |
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259 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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260 assented | |
同意,赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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261 renounce | |
v.放弃;拒绝承认,宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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262 heresy | |
n.异端邪说;异教 | |
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263 faltered | |
(嗓音)颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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