—Very good, Simon. All serene2, Simon, said the old man tranquilly3. Anywhere you like. The outhouse will do me nicely: it will be more salubrious.
—Damn me, said Mr Dedalus frankly5, if I know how you can smoke such villainous awful tobacco. It’s like gunpowder6, by God.
—It’s very nice, Simon, replied the old man. Very cool and mollifying.
Every morning, therefore, uncle Charles repaired to his outhouse but not before he had greased and brushed scrupulously7 his back hair and brushed and put on his tall hat. While he smoked the brim of his tall hat and the bowl of his pipe were just visible beyond the jambs of the outhouse door. His arbour, as he called the reeking8 outhouse which he shared with the cat and the garden tools, served him also as a soundingbox: and every morning he hummed contentedly10 one of his favourite songs: O, twine13 me a bower14 or Blue eyes and golden hair or The Groves15 of Blarney while the grey and blue coils of smoke rose slowly from his pipe and vanished in the pure air.
During the first part of the summer in Blackrock uncle Charles was Stephen’s constant companion. Uncle Charles was a hale old man with a well tanned skin, rugged16 features and white side whiskers. On week days he did messages between the house in Carysfort Avenue and those shops in the main street of the town with which the family dealt. Stephen was glad to go with him on these errands for uncle Charles helped him very liberally to handfuls of whatever was exposed in open boxes and barrels outside the counter. He would seize a handful of grapes and sawdust or three or four American apples and thrust them generously into his grandnephew’s hand while the shopman smiled uneasily; and, on Stephen’s feigning19 reluctance20 to take them, he would frown and say:
When the order list had been booked the two would go on to the park where an old friend of Stephen’s father, Mike Flynn, would be found seated on a bench, waiting for them. Then would begin Stephen’s run round the park. Mike Flynn would stand at the gate near the railway station, watch in hand, while Stephen ran round the track in the style Mike Flynn favoured, his head high lifted, his knees well lifted and his hands held straight down by his sides. When the morning practice was over the trainer would make his comments and sometimes illustrate22 them by shuffling24 along for a yard or so comically in an old pair of blue canvas shoes. A small ring of wonderstruck children and nursemaids would gather to watch him and linger even when he and uncle Charles had sat down again and were talking athletics25 and politics. Though he had heard his father say that Mike Flynn had put some of the best runners of modern times through his hands Stephen often glanced at his trainer’s flabby stubble-covered face, as it bent26 over the long stained fingers through which he rolled his cigarette, and with pity at the mild lustreless28 blue eyes which would look up suddenly from the task and gaze vaguely29 into the blue distance while the long swollen30 fingers ceased their rolling and grains and fibres of tobacco fell back into the pouch31.
On the way home uncle Charles would often pay a visit to the chapel32 and, as the font was above Stephen’s reach, the old man would dip his hand and then sprinkle the water briskly about Stephen’s clothes and on the floor of the porch. While he prayed he knelt on his red handkerchief and read above his breath from a thumb blackened prayerbook wherein catchwords were printed at the foot of every page. Stephen knelt at his side respecting, though he did not share, his piety34. He often wondered what his granduncle prayed for so seriously. Perhaps he prayed for the souls in purgatory35 or for the grace of a happy death or perhaps he prayed that God might send him back a part of the big fortune he had squandered36 in Cork37.
On Sundays Stephen with his father and his granduncle took their constitutional. The old man was a nimble walker in spite of his corns and often ten or twelve miles of the road were covered. The little village of Stillorgan was the parting of the ways. Either they went to the left towards the Dublin mountains or along the Goatstown road and thence into Dundrum, coming home by Sandyford. Trudging38 along the road or standing39 in some grimy wayside public house his elders spoke40 constantly of the subjects nearer their hearts, of Irish politics, of Munster and of the legends of their own family, to all of which Stephen lent an avid42 ear. Words which he did not understand he said over and over to himself till he had learnt them by heart: and through them he had glimpses of the real world about them. The hour when he too would take part in the life of that world seemed drawing near and in secret he began to make ready for the great part which he felt awaited him the nature of which he only dimly apprehended43.
His evenings were his own; and he pored over a ragged44 translation of The Count of Monte Cristo. The figure of that dark avenger45 stood forth46 in his mind for whatever he had heard or divined in childhood of the strange and terrible. At night he built up on the parlour table an image of the wonderful island cave out of transfers and paper flowers and coloured tissue paper and strips of the silver and golden paper in which chocolate is wrapped. When he had broken up this scenery, weary of its tinsel, there would come to his mind the bright picture of Marseilles, of sunny trellises and of Mercedes.
Outside Blackrock, on the road that led to the mountains, stood a small whitewashed47 house in the garden of which grew many rosebushes: and in this house, he told himself, another Mercedes lived. Both on the outward and on the homeward journey he measured distance by this landmark48: and in his imagination he lived through a long train of adventures, marvellous as those in the book itself, towards the close of which there appeared an image of himself, grown older and sadder, standing in a moonlit garden with Mercedes who had so many years before slighted his love, and with a sadly proud gesture of refusal, saying:
—Madam, I never eat muscatel grapes.
He became the ally of a boy named Aubrey Mills and founded with him a gang of adventurers in the avenue. Aubrey carried a whistle dangling49 from his buttonhole and a bicycle lamp attached to his belt while the others had short sticks thrust daggerwise through theirs. Stephen, who had read of Napoleon’s plain style of dress, chose to remain unadorned and thereby51 heightened for himself the pleasure of taking counsel with his lieutenant53 before giving orders. The gang made forays into the gardens of old maids or went down to the castle and fought a battle on the shaggy weedgrown rocks, coming home after it weary stragglers with the stale odours of the foreshore in their nostrils54 and the rank oils of the seawrack upon their hands and in their hair.
Aubrey and Stephen had a common milkman and often they drove out in the milkcar to Carrickmines where the cows were at grass. While the men were milking the boys would take turns in riding the tractable55 mare56 round the field. But when autumn came the cows were driven home from the grass: and the first sight of the filthy57 cowyard at Stradbrook with its foul59 green puddles60 and clots61 of liquid dung and steaming bran troughs, sickened Stephen’s heart. The cattle which had seemed so beautiful in the country on sunny days revolted him and he could not even look at the milk they yielded.
The coming of September did not trouble him this year for he was not to be sent back to Clongowes. The practice in the park came to an end when Mike Flynn went into hospital. Aubrey was at school and had only an hour or two free in the evening. The gang fell asunder62 and there were no more nightly forays or battles on the rocks. Stephen sometimes went round with the car which delivered the evening milk: and these chilly63 drives blew away his memory of the filth58 of the cowyard and he felt no repugnance64 at seeing the cow hairs and hayseeds on the milkman’s coat. Whenever the car drew up before a house he waited to catch a glimpse of a well scrubbed kitchen or of a softly lighted hall and to see how the servant would hold the jug65 and how she would close the door. He thought it should be a pleasant life enough, driving along the roads every evening to deliver milk, if he had warm gloves and a fat bag of gingernuts in his pocket to eat from. But the same foreknowledge which had sickened his heart and made his legs sag18 suddenly as he raced round the park, the same intuition which had made him glance with mistrust at his trainer’s flabby stubblecovered face as it bent heavily over his long stained fingers, dissipated any vision of the future. In a vague way he understood that his father was in trouble and that this was the reason why he himself had not been sent back to Clongowes. For some time he had felt the slight change in his house; and those changes in what he had deemed unchangeable were so many slight shocks to his boyish conception of the world. The ambition which he felt astir at times in the darkness of his soul sought no outlet66. A dusk like that of the outer world obscured his mind as he heard the mare’s hoofs67 clattering68 along the tramtrack on the Rock Road and the great can swaying and rattling69 behind him.
He returned to Mercedes and, as he brooded upon her image, a strange unrest crept into his blood. Sometimes a fever gathered within him and led him to rove alone in the evening along the quiet avenue. The peace of the gardens and the kindly70 lights in the windows poured a tender influence into his restless heart. The noise of children at play annoyed him and their silly voices made him feel, even more keenly than he had felt at Clongowes, that he was different from others. He did not want to play. He wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld71. He did not know where to seek it or how but a premonition which led him on told him that this image would, without any overt72 act of his, encounter him. They would meet quietly as if they had known each other and had made their tryst73, perhaps at one of the gates or in some more secret place. They would be alone, surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of supreme74 tenderness he would be transfigured. He would fade into something impalpable under her eyes and then in a moment, he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment.
Two great yellow caravans75 had halted one morning before the door and men had come tramping into the house to dismantle76 it. The furniture had been hustled78 out through the front garden which was strewn with wisps of straw and rope ends and into the huge vans at the gate. When all had been safely stowed the vans had set off noisily down the avenue: and from the window of the railway carriage, in which he had sat with his redeyed mother, Stephen had seen them lumbering79 along the Merrion Road.
The parlour fire would not draw that evening and Mr Dedalus rested the poker80 against the bars of the grate to attract the flame. Uncle Charles dozed81 in a corner of the half furnished uncarpeted room and near him the family portraits leaned against the wall. The lamp on the table shed a weak light over the boarded floor, muddied by the feet of the vanmen. Stephen sat on a footstool beside his father listening to a long and incoherent monologue82. He understood little or nothing of it at first but he became slowly aware that his father had enemies and that some fight was going to take place. He felt, too, that he was being enlisted83 for the fight, that some duty was being laid upon his shoulders. The sudden flight from the comfort and reverie of Blackrock, the passage through the gloomy foggy city, the thought of the bare cheerless house in which they were now to live made his heart heavy: and again an intuition, a foreknowledge of the future came to him. He understood also why the servants had often whispered together in the hall and why his father had often stood on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire, talking loudly to uncle Charles who urged him to sit down and eat his dinner.
—There’s a crack of the whip left in me yet, Stephen, old chap, said Mr Dedalus, poking84 at the dull fire with fierce energy. We’re not dead yet, sonny. No, by the Lord Jesus (God forgive me) nor half dead.
Dublin was a new and complex sensation. Uncle Charles had grown so witless that he could no longer be sent out on errands and the disorder85 in settling in the new house left Stephen freer than he had been in Blackrock. In the beginning he contented11 himself with circling timidly round the neighbouring square or, at most, going half way down one of the side streets but when he had made a skeleton map of the city in his mind he followed boldly one of its central lines until he reached the Custom House. He passed unchallenged among the docks and along the quays87 wondering at the multitude of corks88 that lay bobbing on the surface of the water in a thick yellow scum, at the crowds of quay86 porters and the rumbling89 carts and the illdressed bearded policeman. The vastness and strangeness of the life suggested to him by the bales of merchandise stocked along the walls or swung aloft out of the holds of steamers wakened again in him the unrest which had sent him wandering in the evening from garden to garden in search of Mercedes. And amid this new bustling91 life he might have fancied himself in another Marseilles but that he missed the bright sky and the sun-warmed trellises of the wineshops. A vague dissatisfaction grew up within him as he looked on the quays and on the river and on the lowering skies and yet he continued to wander up and down day after day as if he really sought someone that eluded92 him.
He went once or twice with his mother to visit their relatives: and though they passed a jovial94 array of shops lit up and adorned50 for Christmas his mood of embittered95 silence did not leave him. The causes of his embitterment96 were many, remote and near. He was angry with himself for being young and the prey97 of restless foolish impulses, angry also with the change of fortune which was reshaping the world about him into a vision of squalor and insincerity. Yet his anger lent nothing to the vision. He chronicled with patience what he saw, detaching himself from it and tasting its mortifying99 flavour in secret.
He was sitting on the backless chair in his aunt’s kitchen. A lamp with a reflector hung on the japanned wall of the fireplace and by its light his aunt was reading the evening paper that lay on her knees. She looked a long time at a smiling picture that was set in it and said musingly100:
—The beautiful Mabel Hunter!
A ringletted girl stood on tiptoe to peer at the picture and said softly:
—What is she in, mud?
—In a pantomime, love.
The child leaned her ringletted head against her mother’s sleeve, gazing on the picture and murmured as if fascinated:
—The beautiful Mabel Hunter!
As if fascinated, her eyes rested long upon those demurely102 taunting104 eyes and she murmured devotedly105:
And the boy who came in from the street, stamping crookedly107 under his stone of coal, heard her words. He dropped his load promptly108 on the floor and hurried to her side to see. He mauled the edges of the paper with his reddened and blackened hands, shouldering her aside and complaining that he could not see.
He was sitting in the narrow breakfast room high up in the old darkwindowed house. The firelight flickered109 on the wall and beyond the window a spectral110 dusk was gathering111 upon the river. Before the fire an old woman was busy making tea and, as she bustled112 at the task, she told in a low voice of what the priest and the doctor had said. She told too of certain changes they had seen in her of late and of her odd ways and sayings. He sat listening to the words and following the ways of adventure that lay open in the coals, arches and vaults114 and winding115 galleries and jagged caverns116.
Suddenly he became aware of something in the doorway117. A skull118 appeared suspended in the gloom of the doorway. A feeble creature like a monkey was there, drawn119 thither120 by the sound of voices at the fire. A whining121 voice came from the door asking:
—Is that Josephine?
The old bustling woman answered cheerily from the fireplace:
—No, Ellen, it’s Stephen.
—O... O, good evening, Stephen.
He answered the greeting and saw a silly smile break over the face in the doorway.
—Do you want anything, Ellen? asked the old woman at the fire.
But she did not answer the question and said:
—I thought it was Josephine. I thought you were Josephine, Stephen.
And, repeating this several times, she fell to laughing feebly.
He was sitting in the midst of a children’s party at Harold’s Cross. His silent watchful122 manner had grown upon him and he took little part in the games. The children, wearing the spoils of their crackers123, danced and romped124 noisily and, though he tried to share their merriment, he felt himself a gloomy figure amid the gay cocked hats and sunbonnets.
But when he had sung his song and withdrawn126 into a snug127 corner of the room he began to taste the joy of his loneliness. The mirth, which in the beginning of the evening had seemed to him false and trivial, was like a soothing128 air to him, passing gaily129 by his senses, hiding from other eyes the feverish130 agitation131 of his blood while through the circling of the dancers and amid the music and laughter her glance travelled to his corner, flattering, taunting, searching, exciting his heart.
In the hall the children who had stayed latest were putting on their things: the party was over. She had thrown a shawl about her and, as they went together towards the tram, sprays of her fresh warm breath flew gaily above her cowled head and her shoes tapped blithely132 on the glassy road.
It was the last tram. The lank133 brown horses knew it and shook their bells to the clear night in admonition. The conductor talked with the driver, both nodding often in the green light of the lamp. On the empty seats of the tram were scattered134 a few coloured tickets. No sound of footsteps came up or down the road. No sound broke the peace of the night save when the lank brown horses rubbed their noses together and shook their bells.
They seemed to listen, he on the upper step and she on the lower. She came up to his step many times and went down to hers again between their phrases and once or twice stood close beside him for some moments on the upper step, forgetting to go down, and then went down. His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or reverie, he had heard their tale before. He saw her urge her vanities, her fine dress and sash and long black stockings, and knew that he had yielded to them a thousand times. Yet a voice within him spoke above the noise of his dancing heart, asking him would he take her gift to which he had only to stretch out his hand. And he remembered the day when he and Eileen had stood looking into the hotel grounds, watching the waiters running up a trail of bunting on the flagstaff and the fox terrier scampering135 to and fro on the sunny lawn, and how, all of a sudden, she had broken out into a peal136 of laughter and had run down the sloping curve of the path. Now, as then, he stood listlessly in his place, seemingly a tranquil4 watcher of the scene before him.
—She too wants me to catch hold of her, he thought. That’s why she came with me to the tram. I could easily catch hold of her when she comes up to my step: nobody is looking. I could hold her and kiss her.
But he did neither: and, when he was sitting alone in the deserted137 tram, he tore his ticket into shreds138 and stared gloomily at the corrugated139 footboard.
The next day he sat at his table in the bare upper room for many hours. Before him lay a new pen, a new bottle of ink and a new emerald exercise. From force of habit he had written at the top of the first page the initial letters of the jesuit motto: A.M.D.G. On the first line of the page appeared the title of the verses he was trying to write: To E—— C——. He knew it was right to begin so for he had seen similar titles in the collected poems of Lord Byron. When he had written this title and drawn an ornamental140 line underneath141 he fell into a daydream142 and began to draw diagrams on the cover of the book. He saw himself sitting at his table in Bray143 the morning after the discussion at the Christmas dinner table, trying to write a poem about Parnell on the back of one of his father’s second moiety144 notices. But his brain had then refused to grapple with the theme and, desisting, he had covered the page with the names and addresses of certain of his classmates:
Roderick Kickham
John Lawton
Anthony MacSwiney
Simon Moonan
Now it seemed as if he would fail again but, by dint145 of brooding on the incident, he thought himself into confidence. During this process all those elements which he deemed common and insignificant146 fell out of the scene. There remained no trace of the tram itself nor of the trammen nor of the horses: nor did he and she appear vividly147. The verses told only of the night and the balmy breeze and the maiden148 lustre27 of the moon. Some undefined sorrow was hidden in the hearts of the protagonists149 as they stood in silence beneath the leafless trees and when the moment of farewell had come the kiss, which had been withheld150 by one, was given by both. After this the letters L. D. S. were written at the foot of the page, and, having hidden the book, he went into his mother’s bedroom and gazed at his face for a long time in the mirror of her dressingtable.
But his long spell of leisure and liberty was drawing to its end. One evening his father came home full of news which kept his tongue busy all through dinner. Stephen had been awaiting his father’s return for there had been mutton hash that day and he knew that his father would make him dip his bread in the gravy151. But he did not relish152 the hash for the mention of Clongowes had coated his palate with a scum of disgust.
—I walked bang into him, said Mr Dedalus for the fourth time, just at the corner of the square.
—Then I suppose, said Mrs Dedalus, he will be able to arrange it. I mean about Belvedere.
—Of course he will, said Mr Dedalus. Don’t I tell you he’s provincial153 of the order now?
—Christian brothers be damned! said Mr Dedalus. Is it with Paddy Stink155 and Micky Mud? No, let him stick to the jesuits in God’s name since he began with them. They’ll be of service to him in after years. Those are the fellows that can get you a position.
—And they’re a very rich order, aren’t they, Simon?
—Rather. They live well, I tell you. You saw their table at Clongowes. Fed up, by God, like gamecocks.
Mr Dedalus pushed his plate over to Stephen and bade him finish what was on it.
—Now then, Stephen, he said, you must put your shoulder to the wheel, old chap. You’ve had a fine long holiday.
—O, I’m sure he’ll work very hard now, said Mrs Dedalus, especially when he has Maurice with him.
—O, Holy Paul, I forgot about Maurice, said Mr Dedalus. Here, Maurice! Come here, you thick-headed ruffian! Do you know I’m going to send you to a college where they’ll teach you to spell c.a.t. cat. And I’ll buy you a nice little penny handkerchief to keep your nose dry. Won’t that be grand fun?
Maurice grinned at his father and then at his brother.
Mr Dedalus screwed his glass into his eye and stared hard at both his sons. Stephen mumbled156 his bread without answering his father’s gaze.
—By the bye, said Mr Dedalus at length, the rector, or provincial rather, was telling me that story about you and Father Dolan. You’re an impudent157 thief, he said.
—O, he didn’t, Simon!
—Not he! said Mr Dedalus. But he gave me a great account of the whole affair. We were chatting, you know, and one word borrowed another. And, by the way, who do you think he told me will get that job in the corporation? But I’ll tell you that after. Well, as I was saying, we were chatting away quite friendly and he asked me did our friend here wear glasses still, and then he told me the whole story.
—And was he annoyed, Simon?
Father Dolan and I, when I told them all at dinner about it, Father Dolan and I had a great laugh over it. You better mind yourself, Father Dolan, said I, or young Dedalus will send you up for twice nine. We had a famous laugh together over it. Ha! Ha! Ha!
Mr Dedalus turned to his wife and interjected in his natural voice:
—Shows you the spirit in which they take the boys there. O, a jesuit for your life, for diplomacy160!
He reassumed the provincial’s voice and repeated:
—I told them all at dinner about it and Father Dolan and I and all of us we had a hearty161 laugh together over it. Ha! Ha! Ha!
The night of the Whitsuntide play had come and Stephen from the window of the dressingroom looked out on the small grassplot across which lines of Chinese lanterns were stretched. He watched the visitors come down the steps from the house and pass into the theatre. Stewards162 in evening dress, old Belvedereans, loitered in groups about the entrance to the theatre and ushered163 in the visitors with ceremony. Under the sudden glow of a lantern he could recognise the smiling face of a priest.
The Blessed Sacrament had been removed from the tabernacle and the first benches had been driven back so as to leave the dais of the altar and the space before it free. Against the walls stood companies of barbells and Indian clubs; the dumbbells were piled in one corner: and in the midst of countless164 hillocks of gymnasium shoes and sweaters and singlets in untidy brown parcels there stood the stout165 leatherjacketed vaulting167 horse waiting its turn to be carried up on the stage and set in the middle of the winning team at the end of the gymnastic display.
Stephen, though in deference168 to his reputation for essay writing he had been elected secretary to the gymnasium, had had no part in the first section of the programme but in the play which formed the second section he had the chief part, that of a farcical pedagogue169. He had been cast for it on account of his stature170 and grave manners for he was now at the end of his second year at Belvedere and in number two.
A score of the younger boys in white knickers and singlets came pattering down from the stage, through the vestry and into the chapel. The vestry and chapel were peopled with eager masters and boys. The plump bald sergeant171 major was testing with his foot the springboard of the vaulting horse. The lean young man in a long overcoat, who was to give a special display of intricate club swinging, stood near watching with interest, his silver-coated clubs peeping out of his deep sidepockets. The hollow rattle172 of the wooden dumbbells was heard as another team made ready to go up on the stage: and in another moment the excited prefect was hustling173 the boys through the vestry like a flock of geese, flapping the wings of his soutane nervously174 and crying to the laggards175 to make haste. A little troop of Neapolitan peasants were practising their steps at the end of the chapel, some circling their arms above their heads, some swaying their baskets of paper violets and curtseying. In a dark corner of the chapel at the gospel side of the altar a stout old lady knelt amid her copious176 black skirts. When she stood up a pinkdressed figure, wearing a curly golden wig177 and an oldfashioned straw sunbonnet, with black pencilled eyebrows178 and cheeks delicately rouged179 and powdered, was discovered. A low murmur101 of curiosity ran round the chapel at the discovery of this girlish figure. One of the prefects, smiling and nodding his head, approached the dark corner and, having bowed to the stout old lady, said pleasantly:
—Is this a beautiful young lady or a doll that you have here, Mrs Tallon?
Then, bending down to peer at the smiling painted face under the leaf of the bonnet125, he exclaimed:
—No! Upon my word I believe it’s little Bertie Tallon after all!
Stephen at his post by the window heard the old lady and the priest laugh together and heard the boys’ murmurs180 of admiration181 behind him as they passed forward to see the little boy who had to dance the sunbonnet dance by himself. A movement of impatience182 escaped him. He let the edge of the blind fall and, stepping down from the bench on which he had been standing, walked out of the chapel.
He passed out of the schoolhouse and halted under the shed that flanked the garden. From the theatre opposite came the muffled183 noise of the audience and sudden brazen184 clashes of the soldiers’ band. The light spread upwards186 from the glass roof making the theatre seem a festive187 ark, anchored among the hulks of houses, her frail188 cables of lanterns looping her to her moorings. A side door of the theatre opened suddenly and a shaft189 of light flew across the grassplots. A sudden burst of music issued from the ark, the prelude190 of a waltz: and when the side door closed again the listener could hear the faint rhythm of the music. The sentiment of the opening bars, their languor191 and supple192 movement, evoked193 the incommunicable emotion which had been the cause of all his day’s unrest and of his impatient movement of a moment before. His unrest issued from him like a wave of sound: and on the tide of flowing music the ark was journeying, trailing her cables of lanterns in her wake. Then a noise like dwarf195 artillery196 broke the movement. It was the clapping that greeted the entry of the dumbbell team on the stage.
At the far end of the shed near the street a speck197 of pink light showed in the darkness and as he walked towards it he became aware of a faint aromatic198 odour. Two boys were standing in the shelter of a doorway, smoking, and before he reached them he had recognised Heron by his voice.
—Here comes the noble Dedalus! cried a high throaty voice. Welcome to our trusty friend!
This welcome ended in a soft peal of mirthless laughter as Heron salaamed199 and then began to poke41 the ground with his cane200.
—Here I am, said Stephen, halting and glancing from Heron to his friend.
The latter was a stranger to him but in the darkness, by the aid of the glowing cigarette tips, he could make out a pale dandyish face over which a smile was travelling slowly, a tall overcoated figure and a hard hat. Heron did not trouble himself about an introduction but said instead:
—I was just telling my friend Wallis what a lark201 it would be tonight if you took off the rector in the part of the schoolmaster. It would be a ripping good joke.
Heron made a poor attempt to imitate for his friend Wallis the rector’s pedantic202 bass203 and then, laughing at his failure, asked Stephen to do it.
—Go on, Dedalus, he urged, you can take him off rippingly. He that will not hear the churcha let him be to theea as the heathena and the publicana.
The imitation was prevented by a mild expression of anger from Wallis in whose mouthpiece the cigarette had become too tightly wedged.
—Damn this blankety blank holder204, he said, taking it from his mouth and smiling and frowning upon it tolerantly. It’s always getting stuck like that. Do you use a holder?
—I don’t smoke, answered Stephen.
—No, said Heron, Dedalus is a model youth. He doesn’t smoke and he doesn’t go to bazaars205 and he doesn’t flirt206 and he doesn’t damn anything or damn all.
Stephen shook his head and smiled in his rival’s flushed and mobile face, beaked207 like a bird’s. He had often thought it strange that Vincent Heron had a bird’s face as well as a bird’s name. A shock of pale hair lay on the forehead like a ruffled208 crest209: the forehead was narrow and bony and a thin hooked nose stood out between the closeset prominent eyes which were light and inexpressive. The rivals were school friends. They sat together in class, knelt together in the chapel, talked together after beads210 over their lunches. As the fellows in number one were undistinguished dullards, Stephen and Heron had been during the year the virtual heads of the school. It was they who went up to the rector together to ask for a free day or to get a fellow off.
—O by the way, said Heron suddenly, I saw your governor going in.
The smile waned211 on Stephen’s face. Any allusion212 made to his father by a fellow or by a master put his calm to rout213 in a moment. He waited in timorous214 silence to hear what Heron might say next. Heron, however, nudged him expressively215 with his elbow and said:
—You’re a sly dog.
—Why so? said Stephen.
—You’d think butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, said Heron. But I’m afraid you’re a sly dog.
—Indeed you might, answered Heron. We saw her, Wallis, didn’t we? And deucedly pretty she is too. And inquisitive217! And what part does Stephen take, Mr Dedalus? And will Stephen not sing, Mr Dedalus? Your governor was staring at her through that eyeglass of his for all he was worth so that I think the old man has found you out too. I wouldn’t care a bit, by Jove. She’s ripping, isn’t she, Wallis?
—Not half bad, answered Wallis quietly as he placed his holder once more in a corner of his mouth.
A shaft of momentary218 anger flew through Stephen’s mind at these indelicate allusions219 in the hearing of a stranger. For him there was nothing amusing in a girl’s interest and regard. All day he had thought of nothing but their leavetaking on the steps of the tram at Harold’s Cross, the stream of moody220 emotions it had made to course through him and the poem he had written about it. All day he had imagined a new meeting with her for he knew that she was to come to the play. The old restless moodiness221 had again filled his breast as it had done on the night of the party, but had not found an outlet in verse. The growth and knowledge of two years of boyhood stood between then and now, forbidding such an outlet: and all day the stream of gloomy tenderness within him had started forth and returned upon itself in dark courses and eddies222, wearying him in the end until the pleasantry of the prefect and the painted little boy had drawn from him a movement of impatience.
—So you may as well admit, Heron went on, that we’ve fairly found you out this time. You can’t play the saint on me any more, that’s one sure five.
A soft peal of mirthless laughter escaped from his lips and, bending down as before, he struck Stephen lightly across the calf223 of the leg with his cane, as if in jesting reproof224.
Stephen’s moment of anger had already passed. He was neither flattered nor confused but simply wished the banter225 to end. He scarcely resented what had seemed to him a silly indelicateness for he knew that the adventure in his mind stood in no danger from these words: and his face mirrored his rival’s false smile.
—Admit! repeated Heron, striking him again with his cane across the calf of the leg.
The stroke was playful but not so lightly given as the first one had been. Stephen felt the skin tingle226 and glow slightly and almost painlessly; and, bowing submissively, as if to meet his companion’s jesting mood, began to recite the Confiteor. The episode ended well, for both Heron and Wallis laughed indulgently at the irreverence227.
The confession228 came only from Stephen’s lips and, while they spoke the words, a sudden memory had carried him to another scene called up, as if by magic, at the moment when he had noted229 the faint cruel dimples at the corners of Heron’s smiling lips and had felt the familiar stroke of the cane against his calf and had heard the familiar word of admonition:
—Admit.
It was towards the close of his first term in the college when he was in number six. His sensitive nature was still smarting under the lashes185 of an undivined and squalid way of life. His soul was still disquieted230 and cast down by the dull phenomenon of Dublin. He had emerged from a two years’ spell of reverie to find himself in the midst of a new scene, every event and figure of which affected231 him intimately, disheartened him or allured232 and, whether alluring233 or disheartening, filled him always with unrest and bitter thoughts. All the leisure which his school life left him was passed in the company of subversive234 writers whose gibes235 and violence of speech set up a ferment236 in his brain before they passed out of it into his crude writings.
The essay was for him the chief labour of his week and every Tuesday, as he marched from home to the school, he read his fate in the incidents of the way, pitting himself against some figure ahead of him and quickening his pace to outstrip237 it before a certain goal was reached or planting his steps scrupulously in the spaces of the patchwork238 of the pathway and telling himself that he would be first and not first in the weekly essay.
On a certain Tuesday the course of his triumphs was rudely broken. Mr Tate, the English master, pointed239 his finger at him and said bluntly:
A hush241 fell on the class. Mr Tate did not break it but dug with his hand between his thighs242 while his heavily starched243 linen244 creaked about his neck and wrists. Stephen did not look up. It was a raw spring morning and his eyes were still smarting and weak. He was conscious of failure and of detection, of the squalor of his own mind and home, and felt against his neck the raw edge of his turned and jagged collar.
A short loud laugh from Mr Tate set the class more at ease.
—Perhaps you didn’t know that, he said.
—Where? asked Stephen.
—Here. It’s about the Creator and the soul. Rrm... rrm... rrm... Ah! without a possibility of ever approaching nearer. That’s heresy.
Stephen murmured:
—I meant without a possibility of ever reaching.
It was a submission246 and Mr Tate, appeased248, folded up the essay and passed it across to him, saying:
—O... Ah! ever reaching. That’s another story.
But the class was not so soon appeased. Though nobody spoke to him of the affair after class he could feel about him a vague general malignant249 joy.
A few nights after this public chiding250 he was walking with a letter along the Drumcondra Road when he heard a voice cry:
—Halt!
He turned and saw three boys of his own class coming towards him in the dusk. It was Heron who had called out and, as he marched forward between his two attendants, he cleft251 the air before him with a thin cane, in time to their steps. Boland, his friend, marched beside him, a large grin on his face, while Nash came on a few steps behind, blowing from the pace and wagging his great red head.
As soon as the boys had turned into Clonliffe Road together they began to speak about books and writers, saying what books they were reading and how many books there were in their fathers’ bookcases at home. Stephen listened to them in some wonderment for Boland was the dunce and Nash the idler of the class. In fact after some talk about their favourite writers Nash declared for Captain Marryat who, he said, was the greatest writer.
—Fudge! said Heron. Ask Dedalus. Who is the greatest writer, Dedalus?
Stephen noted the mockery in the question and said:
—Of prose do you mean?
—Yes.
—Newman, I think.
—Yes, answered Stephen.
—And do you like Cardinal Newman, Dedalus?
—O, many say that Newman has the best prose style, Heron said to the other two in explanation, of course he’s not a poet.
—And who is the best poet, Heron? asked Boland.
—Lord Tennyson, of course, answered Heron.
—O, yes, Lord Tennyson, said Nash. We have all his poetry at home in a book.
—Tennyson a poet! Why, he’s only a rhymester!
—O, get out! said Heron. Everyone knows that Tennyson is the greatest poet.
—And who do you think is the greatest poet? asked Boland, nudging his neighbour.
—Byron, of course, answered Stephen.
Heron gave the lead and all three joined in a scornful laugh.
—What are you laughing at? asked Stephen.
—You, said Heron. Byron the greatest poet! He’s only a poet for uneducated people.
—He must be a fine poet! said Boland.
—You may keep your mouth shut, said Stephen, turning on him boldly. All you know about poetry is what you wrote up on the slates255 in the yard and were going to be sent to the loft90 for.
Boland, in fact, was said to have written on the slates in the yard a couplet about a classmate of his who often rode home from the college on a pony256:
As Tyson was riding into Jerusalem
He fell and hurt his Alec Kafoozelum.
This thrust put the two lieutenants257 to silence but Heron went on:
—I don’t care what he was, cried Stephen hotly.
—You don’t care whether he was a heretic or not? said Nash.
—What do you know about it? shouted Stephen. You never read a line of anything in your life except a trans or Boland either.
—I know that Byron was a bad man, said Boland.
—Here, catch hold of this heretic, Heron called out.
In a moment Stephen was a prisoner.
—I’ll tell him tomorrow, said Boland.
—Will you? said Stephen. You’d be afraid to open your lips.
—Afraid?
—Ay. Afraid of your life.
—Behave yourself! cried Heron, cutting at Stephen’s legs with his cane.
It was the signal for their onset260. Nash pinioned261 his arms behind while Boland seized a long cabbage stump262 which was lying in the gutter263. Struggling and kicking under the cuts of the cane and the blows of the knotty264 stump Stephen was borne back against a barbed wire fence.
—Admit that Byron was no good.
—No.
—Admit.
—No.
—Admit.
—No. No.
At last after a fury of plunges265 he wrenched266 himself free. His tormentors set off towards Jones’s Road, laughing and jeering267 at him, while he, half blinded with tears, stumbled on, clenching268 his fists madly and sobbing270.
While he was still repeating the Confiteor amid the indulgent laughter of his hearers and while the scenes of that malignant episode were still passing sharply and swiftly before his mind he wondered why he bore no malice271 now to those who had tormented272 him. He had not forgotten a whit17 of their cowardice273 and cruelty but the memory of it called forth no anger from him. All the descriptions of fierce love and hatred274 which he had met in books had seemed to him therefore unreal. Even that night as he stumbled homewards along Jones’s Road he had felt that some power was divesting275 him of that suddenwoven anger as easily as a fruit is divested276 of its soft ripe peel.
He remained standing with his two companions at the end of the shed listening idly to their talk or to the bursts of applause in the theatre. She was sitting there among the others perhaps waiting for him to appear. He tried to recall her appearance but could not. He could remember only that she had worn a shawl about her head like a cowl and that her dark eyes had invited and unnerved him. He wondered had he been in her thoughts as she had been in his. Then in the dark and unseen by the other two he rested the tips of the fingers of one hand upon the palm of the other hand, scarcely touching277 it lightly. But the pressure of her fingers had been lighter278 and steadier: and suddenly the memory of their touch traversed his brain and body like an invisible wave.
A boy came towards them, running along under the shed. He was excited and breathless.
—O, Dedalus, he cried, Doyle is in a great bake about you. You’re to go in at once and get dressed for the play. Hurry up, you better.
The boy turned to Heron and repeated:
—But Doyle is in an awful bake.
—Will you tell Doyle with my best compliments that I damned his eyes? answered Heron.
—Well, I must go now, said Stephen, who cared little for such points of honour.
—I wouldn’t, said Heron, damn me if I would. That’s no way to send for one of the senior boys. In a bake, indeed! I think it’s quite enough that you’re taking a part in his bally old play.
This spirit of quarrelsome comradeship which he had observed lately in his rival had not seduced280 Stephen from his habits of quiet obedience281. He mistrusted the turbulence282 and doubted the sincerity98 of such comradeship which seemed to him a sorry anticipation283 of manhood. The question of honour here raised was, like all such questions, trivial to him. While his mind had been pursuing its intangible phantoms284 and turning in irresolution285 from such pursuit he had heard about him the constant voices of his father and of his masters, urging him to be a gentleman above all things and urging him to be a good catholic above all things. These voices had now come to be hollowsounding in his ears. When the gymnasium had been opened he had heard another voice urging him to be strong and manly and healthy and when the movement towards national revival286 had begun to be felt in the college yet another voice had bidden him be true to his country and help to raise up her language and tradition. In the profane287 world, as he foresaw, a worldly voice would bid him raise up his father’s fallen state by his labours and, meanwhile, the voice of his school comrades urged him to be a decent fellow, to shield others from blame or to beg them off and to do his best to get free days for the school. And it was the din9 of all these hollowsounding voices that made him halt irresolutely288 in the pursuit of phantoms. He gave them ear only for a time but he was happy only when he was far from them, beyond their call, alone or in the company of phantasmal comrades.
In the vestry a plump freshfaced jesuit and an elderly man, in shabby blue clothes, were dabbling289 in a case of paints and chalks. The boys who had been painted walked about or stood still awkwardly, touching their faces in a gingerly fashion with their furtive290 fingertips. In the middle of the vestry a young jesuit, who was then on a visit to the college, stood rocking himself rhythmically291 from the tips of his toes to his heels and back again, his hands thrust well forward into his sidepockets. His small head set off with glossy292 red curls and his newly shaven face agreed well with the spotless decency293 of his soutane and with his spotless shoes.
As he watched this swaying form and tried to read for himself the legend of the priest’s mocking smile there came into Stephen’s memory a saying which he had heard from his father before he had been sent to Clongowes, that you could always tell a jesuit by the style of his clothes. At the same moment he thought he saw a likeness294 between his father’s mind and that of this smiling welldressed priest: and he was aware of some desecration295 of the priest’s office or of the vestry itself whose silence was now routed by loud talk and joking and its air pungent296 with the smells of the gasjets and the grease.
While his forehead was being wrinkled and his jaws297 painted black and blue by the elderly man he listened distractedly to the voice of the plump young jesuit which bade him speak up and make his points clearly. He could hear the band playing The Lily of Killarney and knew that in a few moments the curtain would go up. He felt no stage fright but the thought of the part he had to play humiliated298 him. A remembrance of some of his lines made a sudden flush rise to his painted cheeks. He saw her serious alluring eyes watching him from among the audience and their image at once swept away his scruples299, leaving his will compact. Another nature seemed to have been lent him: the infection of the excitement and youth about him entered into and transformed his moody mistrustfulness. For one rare moment he seemed to be clothed in the real apparel of boyhood: and, as he stood in the wings among the other players, he shared the common mirth amid which the drop scene was hauled upwards by two ablebodied priests with violent jerks and all awry300.
A few moments after he found himself on the stage amid the garish301 gas and the dim scenery, acting302 before the innumerable faces of the void. It surprised him to see that the play which he had known at rehearsals303 for a disjointed lifeless thing had suddenly assumed a life of its own. It seemed now to play itself, he and his fellow actors aiding it with their parts. When the curtain fell on the last scene he heard the void filled with applause and, through a rift304 in a side scene, saw the simple body before which he had acted magically deformed305, the void of faces breaking at all points and falling asunder into busy groups.
He left the stage quickly and rid himself of his mummery and passed out through the chapel into the college garden. Now that the play was over his nerves cried for some further adventure. He hurried onwards as if to overtake it. The doors of the theatre were all open and the audience had emptied out. On the lines which he had fancied the moorings of an ark a few lanterns swung in the night breeze, flickering307 cheerlessly. He mounted the steps from the garden in haste, eager that some prey should not elude93 him, and forced his way through the crowd in the hall and past the two jesuits who stood watching the exodus308 and bowing and shaking hands with the visitors. He pushed onward306 nervously, feigning a still greater haste and faintly conscious of the smiles and stares and nudges which his powdered head left in its wake.
When he came out on the steps he saw his family waiting for him at the first lamp. In a glance he noted that every figure of the group was familiar and ran down the steps angrily.
—I have to leave a message down in George’s Street, he said to his father quickly. I’ll be home after you.
Without waiting for his father’s questions he ran across the road and began to walk at breakneck speed down the hill. He hardly knew where he was walking. Pride and hope and desire like crushed herbs in his heart sent up vapours of maddening incense309 before the eyes of his mind. He strode down the hill amid the tumult310 of suddenrisen vapours of wounded pride and fallen hope and baffled desire. They streamed upwards before his anguished311 eyes in dense312 and maddening fumes313 and passed away above him till at last the air was clear and cold again.
A film still veiled his eyes but they burned no longer. A power, akin52 to that which had often made anger or resentment314 fall from him, brought his steps to rest. He stood still and gazed up at the sombre porch of the morgue and from that to the dark cobbled laneway at its side. He saw the word Lotts on the wall of the lane and breathed slowly the rank heavy air.
That is horse piss and rotted straw, he thought. It is a good odour to breathe. It will calm my heart. My heart is quite calm now. I will go back.
Stephen was once again seated beside his father in the corner of a railway carriage at Kingsbridge. He was travelling with his father by the night mail to Cork. As the train steamed out of the station he recalled his childish wonder of years before and every event of his first day at Clongowes. But he felt no wonder now. He saw the darkening lands slipping away past him, the silent telegraphpoles passing his window swiftly every four seconds, the little glimmering315 stations, manned by a few silent sentries316, flung by the mail behind her and twinkling for a moment in the darkness like fiery317 grains flung backwards318 by a runner.
He listened without sympathy to his father’s evocation319 of Cork and of scenes of his youth, a tale broken by sighs or draughts320 from his pocket flask321 whenever the image of some dead friend appeared in it or whenever the evoker322 remembered suddenly the purpose of his actual visit. Stephen heard but could feel no pity. The images of the dead were all strangers to him save that of uncle Charles, an image which had lately been fading out of memory. He knew, however, that his father’s property was going to be sold by auction323, and in the manner of his own dispossession he felt the world give the lie rudely to his phantasy.
At Maryborough he fell asleep. When he awoke the train had passed out of Mallow and his father was stretched asleep on the other seat. The cold light of the dawn lay over the country, over the unpeopled fields and the closed cottages. The terror of sleep fascinated his mind as he watched the silent country or heard from time to time his father’s deep breath or sudden sleepy movement. The neighbourhood of unseen sleepers324 filled him with strange dread325, as though they could harm him, and he prayed that the day might come quickly. His prayer, addressed neither to God nor saint, began with a shiver, as the chilly morning breeze crept through the chink of the carriage door to his feet, and ended in a trail of foolish words which he made to fit the insistent326 rhythm of the train; and silently, at intervals327 of four seconds, the telegraphpoles held the galloping328 notes of the music between punctual bars. This furious music allayed329 his dread and, leaning against the windowledge, he let his eyelids330 close again.
They drove in a jingle331 across Cork while it was still early morning and Stephen finished his sleep in a bedroom of the Victoria Hotel. The bright warm sunlight was streaming through the window and he could hear the din of traffic. His father was standing before the dressingtable, examining his hair and face and moustache with great care, craning his neck across the waterjug and drawing it back sideways to see the better. While he did so he sang softly to himself with quaint332 accent and phrasing:
Makes young men marry,
So here, my love, I’ll
No longer stay.
What can’t be cured, sure,
Must be injured, sure,
So I’ll go to
Amerikay.
My love she’s handsome,
My love she’s bony:
She’s like good whisky
When it is new;
But when ’tis old
And growing cold
It fades and dies like
The mountain dew.
The consciousness of the warm sunny city outside his window and the tender tremors334 with which his father’s voice festooned the strange sad happy air, drove off all the mists of the night’s ill humour from Stephen’s brain. He got up quickly to dress and, when the song had ended, said:
—That’s much prettier than any of your other come-all-yous.
—Do you think so? asked Mr Dedalus.
—I like it, said Stephen.
—It’s a pretty old air, said Mr Dedalus, twirling the points of his moustache. Ah, but you should have heard Mick Lacy sing it! Poor Mick Lacy! He had little turns for it, grace notes that he used to put in that I haven’t got. That was the boy who could sing a come-all-you, if you like.
Mr Dedalus had ordered drisheens for breakfast and during the meal he cross-examined the waiter for local news. For the most part they spoke at cross purposes when a name was mentioned, the waiter having in mind the present holder and Mr Dedalus his father or perhaps his grandfather.
—Well, I hope they haven’t moved the Queen’s College anyhow, said Mr Dedalus, for I want to show it to this youngster of mine.
Along the Mardyke the trees were in bloom. They entered the grounds of the college and were led by the garrulous335 porter across the quadrangle. But their progress across the gravel336 was brought to a halt after every dozen or so paces by some reply of the porter’s.
—Ah, do you tell me so? And is poor Pottlebelly dead?
—Yes, sir. Dead, sir.
During these halts Stephen stood awkwardly behind the two men, weary of the subject and waiting restlessly for the slow march to begin again. By the time they had crossed the quadrangle his restlessness had risen to fever. He wondered how his father, whom he knew for a shrewd suspicious man, could be duped by the servile manners of the porter; and the lively southern speech which had entertained him all the morning now irritated his ears.
They passed into the anatomy337 theatre where Mr Dedalus, the porter aiding him, searched the desks for his initials. Stephen remained in the background, depressed338 more than ever by the darkness and silence of the theatre and by the air it wore of jaded339 and formal study. On the desk he read the word F?tus cut several times in the dark stained wood. The sudden legend startled his blood: he seemed to feel the absent students of the college about him and to shrink from their company. A vision of their life, which his father’s words had been powerless to evoke194, sprang up before him out of the word cut in the desk. A broadshouldered student with a moustache was cutting in the letters with a jackknife, seriously. Other students stood or sat near him laughing at his handiwork. One jogged his elbow. The big student turned on him, frowning. He was dressed in loose grey clothes and had tan boots.
Stephen’s name was called. He hurried down the steps of the theatre so as to be as far away from the vision as he could be and, peering closely at his father’s initials, hid his flushed face.
But the word and the vision capered340 before his eyes as he walked back across the quadrangle and towards the college gate. It shocked him to find in the outer world a trace of what he had deemed till then a brutish and individual malady341 of his own mind. His monstrous342 reveries came thronging343 into his memory. They too had sprung up before him, suddenly and furiously, out of mere344 words. He had soon given in to them and allowed them to sweep across and abase345 his intellect, wondering always where they came from, from what den1 of monstrous images, and always weak and humble346 towards others, restless and sickened of himself when they had swept over him.
—Ay, bedad! And there’s the Groceries sure enough! cried Mr Dedalus. You often heard me speak of the Groceries, didn’t you, Stephen. Many’s the time we went down there when our names had been marked, a crowd of us, Harry347 Peard and little Jack166 Mountain and Bob Dyas and Maurice Moriarty, the Frenchman, and Tom O’Grady and Mick Lacy that I told you of this morning and Joey Corbet and poor little goodhearted Johnny Keevers of the Tantiles.
The leaves of the trees along the Mardyke were astir and whispering in the sunlight. A team of cricketers passed, agile348 young men in flannels349 and blazers, one of them carrying the long green wicketbag. In a quiet bystreet a German band of five players in faded uniforms and with battered350 brass351 instruments was playing to an audience of street arabs and leisurely352 messenger boys. A maid in a white cap and apron353 was watering a box of plants on a sill which shone like a slab354 of limestone355 in the warm glare. From another window open to the air came the sound of a piano, scale after scale rising into the treble.
Stephen walked on at his father’s side, listening to stories he had heard before, hearing again the names of the scattered and dead revellers who had been the companions of his father’s youth. And a faint sickness sighed in his heart. He recalled his own equivocal position in Belvedere, a free boy, a leader afraid of his own authority, proud and sensitive and suspicious, battling against the squalor of his life and against the riot of his mind. The letters cut in the stained wood of the desk stared upon him, mocking his bodily weakness and futile356 enthusiasms and making him loathe357 himself for his own mad and filthy orgies. The spittle in his throat grew bitter and foul to swallow and the faint sickness climbed to his brain so that for a moment he closed his eyes and walked on in darkness.
He could still hear his father’s voice—
—When you kick out for yourself, Stephen—as I daresay you will one of these days—remember, whatever you do, to mix with gentlemen. When I was a young fellow I tell you I enjoyed myself. I mixed with fine decent fellows. Everyone of us could do something. One fellow had a good voice, another fellow was a good actor, another could sing a good comic song, another was a good oarsman or a good racket player, another could tell a good story and so on. We kept the ball rolling anyhow and enjoyed ourselves and saw a bit of life and we were none the worse of it either. But we were all gentlemen, Stephen—at least I hope we were—and bloody358 good honest Irishmen too. That’s the kind of fellows I want you to associate with, fellows of the right kidney. I’m talking to you as a friend, Stephen. I don’t believe a son should be afraid of his father. No, I treat you as your grandfather treated me when I was a young chap. We were more like brothers than father and son. I’ll never forget the first day he caught me smoking. I was standing at the end of the South Terrace one day with some maneens like myself and sure we thought we were grand fellows because we had pipes stuck in the corners of our mouths. Suddenly the governor passed. He didn’t say a word, or stop even. But the next day, Sunday, we were out for a walk together and when we were coming home he took out his cigar case and said:—By the by, Simon, I didn’t know you smoked, or something like that.—Of course I tried to carry it off as best I could.—If you want a good smoke, he said, try one of these cigars. An American captain made me a present of them last night in Queenstown.
—He was the handsomest man in Cork at that time, by God he was! The women used to stand to look after him in the street.
He heard the sob passing loudly down his father’s throat and opened his eyes with a nervous impulse. The sunlight breaking suddenly on his sight turned the sky and clouds into a fantastic world of sombre masses with lakelike spaces of dark rosy359 light. His very brain was sick and powerless. He could scarcely interpret the letters of the signboards of the shops. By his monstrous way of life he seemed to have put himself beyond the limits of reality. Nothing moved him or spoke to him from the real world unless he heard in it an echo of the infuriated cries within him. He could respond to no earthly or human appeal, dumb and insensible to the call of summer and gladness and companionship, wearied and dejected by his father’s voice. He could scarcely recognise as his own thoughts, and repeated slowly to himself:
—I am Stephen Dedalus. I am walking beside my father whose name is Simon Dedalus. We are in Cork, in Ireland. Cork is a city. Our room is in the Victoria Hotel. Victoria and Stephen and Simon. Simon and Stephen and Victoria. Names.
The memory of his childhood suddenly grew dim. He tried to call forth some of its vivid moments but could not. He recalled only names. Dante, Parnell, Clane, Clongowes. A little boy had been taught geography by an old woman who kept two brushes in her wardrobe. Then he had been sent away from home to a college, he had made his first communion and eaten slim jim out of his cricketcap and watched the firelight leaping and dancing on the wall of a little bedroom in the infirmary and dreamed of being dead, of mass being said for him by the rector in a black and gold cope, of being buried then in the little graveyard360 of the community off the main avenue of limes. But he had not died then. Parnell had died. There had been no mass for the dead in the chapel and no procession. He had not died but he had faded out like a film in the sun. He had been lost or had wandered out of existence for he no longer existed. How strange to think of him passing out of existence in such a way, not by death but by fading out in the sun or by being lost and forgotten somewhere in the universe! It was strange to see his small body appear again for a moment: a little boy in a grey belted suit. His hands were in his sidepockets and his trousers were tucked in at the knees by elastic361 bands.
On the evening of the day on which the property was sold Stephen followed his father meekly362 about the city from bar to bar. To the sellers in the market, to the barmen and barmaids, to the beggars who importuned363 him for a lob Mr Dedalus told the same tale, that he was an old Corkonian, that he had been trying for thirty years to get rid of his Cork accent up in Dublin and that Peter Pickackafax beside him was his eldest364 son but that he was only a Dublin jackeen.
They had set out early in the morning from Newcombe’s coffeehouse, where Mr Dedalus’ cup had rattled365 noisily against its saucer, and Stephen had tried to cover that shameful366 sign of his father’s drinking bout33 of the night before by moving his chair and coughing. One humiliation367 had succeeded another—the false smiles of the market sellers, the curvetings and oglings of the barmaids with whom his father flirted368, the compliments and encouraging words of his father’s friends. They had told him that he had a great look of his grandfather and Mr Dedalus had agreed that he was an ugly likeness. They had unearthed369 traces of a Cork accent in his speech and made him admit that the Lee was a much finer river than the Liffey. One of them, in order to put his Latin to the proof, had made him translate short passages from Dilectus and asked him whether it was correct to say: Tempora mutantur nos et mutamur in illis or Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis. Another, a brisk old man, whom Mr Dedalus called Johnny Cashman, had covered him with confusion by asking him to say which were prettier, the Dublin girls or the Cork girls.
—He’s not that way built, said Mr Dedalus. Leave him alone. He’s a levelheaded thinking boy who doesn’t bother his head about that kind of nonsense.
—Then he’s not his father’s son, said the little old man.
—I don’t know, I’m sure, said Mr Dedalus, smiling complacently370.
—Your father, said the little old man to Stephen, was the boldest flirt in the city of Cork in his day. Do you know that?
Stephen looked down and studied the tiled floor of the bar into which they had drifted.
—Yerra, sure I wouldn’t put any ideas into his head. I’m old enough to be his grandfather. And I am a grandfather, said the little old man to Stephen. Do you know that?
—Are you? asked Stephen.
—Bedad I am, said the little old man. I have two bouncing grandchildren out at Sunday’s Well. Now, then! What age do you think I am? And I remember seeing your grandfather in his red coat riding out to hounds. That was before you were born.
—Ay, or thought of, said Mr Dedalus.
—Bedad I did, repeated the little old man. And, more than that, I can remember even your greatgrandfather, old John Stephen Dedalus, and a fierce old fire-eater he was. Now, then! There’s a memory for you!
—That’s three generations—four generations, said another of the company. Why, Johnny Cashman, you must be nearing the century.
—Well, I’ll tell you the truth, said the little old man. I’m just twentyseven years of age.
—We’re as old as we feel, Johnny, said Mr Dedalus. And just finish what you have there and we’ll have another. Here, Tim or Tom or whatever your name is, give us the same again here. By God, I don’t feel more than eighteen myself. There’s that son of mine there not half my age and I’m a better man than he is any day of the week.
—Draw it mild now, Dedalus. I think it’s time for you to take a back seat, said the gentleman who had spoken before.
—No, by God! asserted Mr Dedalus. I’ll sing a tenor372 song against him or I’ll vault113 a five-barred gate against him or I’ll run with him after the hounds across the country as I did thirty years ago along with the Kerry Boy and the best man for it.
—But he’ll beat you here, said the little old man, tapping his forehead and raising his glass to drain it.
—Well, I hope he’ll be as good a man as his father. That’s all I can say, said Mr Dedalus.
—If he is, he’ll do, said the little old man.
—And thanks be to God, Johnny, said Mr Dedalus, that we lived so long and did so little harm.
—But did so much good, Simon, said the little old man gravely. Thanks be to God we lived so long and did so much good.
Stephen watched the three glasses being raised from the counter as his father and his two cronies drank to the memory of their past. An abyss of fortune or of temperament373 sundered374 him from them. His mind seemed older than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and regrets like a moon upon a younger earth. No life or youth stirred in him as it had stirred in them. He had known neither the pleasure of companionship with others nor the vigour375 of rude male health nor filial piety. Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and loveless lust23. His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul capable of simple joys and he was drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon.
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless...?
He repeated to himself the lines of Shelley’s fragment. Its alternation of sad human ineffectiveness with vast inhuman376 cycles of activity chilled him and he forgot his own human and ineffectual grieving.
Stephen’s mother and his brother and one of his cousins waited at the corner of quiet Foster Place while he and his father went up the steps and along the colonnade377 where the Highland378 sentry379 was parading. When they had passed into the great hall and stood at the counter Stephen drew forth his orders on the governor of the bank of Ireland for thirty and three pounds; and these sums, the moneys of his exhibition and essay prize, were paid over to him rapidly by the teller380 in notes and in coin respectively. He bestowed381 them in his pockets with feigned382 composure and suffered the friendly teller, to whom his father chatted, to take his hand across the broad counter and wish him a brilliant career in after life. He was impatient of their voices and could not keep his feet at rest. But the teller still deferred383 the serving of others to say he was living in changed times and that there was nothing like giving a boy the best education that money could buy. Mr Dedalus lingered in the hall gazing about him and up at the roof and telling Stephen, who urged him to come out, that they were standing in the house of commons of the old Irish parliament.
—God help us! he said piously384, to think of the men of those times, Stephen, Hely Hutchinson and Flood and Henry Grattan and Charles Kendal Bushe, and the noblemen we have now, leaders of the Irish people at home and abroad. Why, by God, they wouldn’t be seen dead in a ten-acre field with them. No, Stephen, old chap, I’m sorry to say that they are only as I roved out one fine May morning in the merry month of sweet July.
A keen October wind was blowing round the bank. The three figures standing at the edge of the muddy path had pinched cheeks and watery385 eyes. Stephen looked at his thinly clad mother and remembered that a few days before he had seen a mantle77 priced at twenty guineas in the windows of Barnardo’s.
—Well that’s done, said Mr Dedalus.
—We had better go to dinner, said Stephen. Where?
—Dinner? said Mr Dedalus. Well, I suppose we had better, what?
—Some place that’s not too dear, said Mrs Dedalus.
—Underdone’s?
—Yes. Some quiet place.
—Come along, said Stephen quickly. It doesn’t matter about the dearness.
He walked on before them with short nervous steps, smiling. They tried to keep up with him, smiling also at his eagerness.
—Take it easy like a good young fellow, said his father. We’re not out for the half mile, are we?
For a swift season of merrymaking the money of his prizes ran through Stephen’s fingers. Great parcels of groceries and delicacies386 and dried fruits arrived from the city. Every day he drew up a bill of fare for the family and every night led a party of three or four to the theatre to see Ingomar or The Lady of Lyons. In his coat pockets he carried squares of Vienna chocolate for his guests while his trousers’ pocket bulged387 with masses of silver and copper388 coins. He bought presents for everyone, overhauled389 his room, wrote out resolutions, marshalled his books up and down their shelves, pored upon all kinds of price lists, drew up a form of commonwealth390 for the household by which every member of it held some office, opened a loan bank for his family and pressed loans on willing borrowers so that he might have the pleasure of making out receipts and reckoning the interests on the sums lent. When he could do no more he drove up and down the city in trams. Then the season of pleasure came to an end. The pot of pink enamel391 paint gave out and the wainscot of his bedroom remained with its unfinished and illplastered coat.
His household returned to its usual way of life. His mother had no further occasion to upbraid392 him for squandering393 his money. He, too, returned to his old life at school and all his novel enterprises fell to pieces. The commonwealth fell, the loan bank closed its coffers and its books on a sensible loss, the rules of life which he had drawn about himself fell into desuetude394.
How foolish his aim had been! He had tried to build a breakwater of order and elegance395 against the sordid396 tide of life without him and to dam up, by rules of conduct and active interest and new filial relations, the powerful recurrence397 of the tides within him. Useless. From without as from within the water had flowed over his barriers: their tides began once more to jostle fiercely above the crumbled398 mole399.
He saw clearly, too, his own futile isolation400. He had not gone one step nearer the lives he had sought to approach nor bridged the restless shame and rancour that had divided him from mother and brother and sister. He felt that he was hardly of the one blood with them but stood to them rather in the mystical kinship of fosterage, fosterchild and fosterbrother.
He turned to appease247 the fierce longings401 of his heart before which everything else was idle and alien. He cared little that he was in mortal sin, that his life had grown to be a tissue of subterfuge402 and falsehood. Beside the savage403 desire within him to realise the enormities which he brooded on nothing was sacred. He bore cynically404 with the shameful details of his secret riots in which he exulted405 to defile407 with patience whatever image had attracted his eyes. By day and by night he moved among distorted images of the outer world. A figure that had seemed to him by day demure103 and innocent came towards him by night through the winding darkness of sleep, her face transfigured by a lecherous408 cunning, her eyes bright with brutish joy. Only the morning pained him with its dim memory of dark orgiastic riot, its keen and humiliating sense of transgression409.
He returned to his wanderings. The veiled autumnal evenings led him from street to street as they had led him years before along the quiet avenues of Blackrock. But no vision of trim front gardens or of kindly lights in the windows poured a tender influence upon him now. Only at times, in the pauses of his desire, when the luxury that was wasting him gave room to a softer languor, the image of Mercedes traversed the background of his memory. He saw again the small white house and the garden of rosebushes on the road that led to the mountains and he remembered the sadly proud gesture of refusal which he was to make there, standing with her in the moonlit garden after years of estrangement410 and adventure. At those moments the soft speeches of Claude Melnotte rose to his lips and eased his unrest. A tender premonition touched him of the tryst he had then looked forward to and, in spite of the horrible reality which lay between his hope of then and now, of the holy encounter he had then imagined at which weakness and timidity and inexperience were to fall from him.
Such moments passed and the wasting fires of lust sprang up again. The verses passed from his lips and the inarticulate cries and the unspoken brutal411 words rushed forth from his brain to force a passage. His blood was in revolt. He wandered up and down the dark slimy streets peering into the gloom of lanes and doorways412, listening eagerly for any sound. He moaned to himself like some baffled prowling beast. He wanted to sin with another of his kind, to force another being to sin with him and to exult406 with her in sin. He felt some dark presence moving irresistibly413 upon him from the darkness, a presence subtle and murmurous414 as a flood filling him wholly with itself. Its murmur besieged415 his ears like the murmur of some multitude in sleep; its subtle streams penetrated416 his being. His hands clenched417 convulsively and his teeth set together as he suffered the agony of its penetration418. He stretched out his arms in the street to hold fast the frail swooning form that eluded him and incited419 him: and the cry that he had strangled for so long in his throat issued from his lips. It broke from him like a wail420 of despair from a hell of sufferers and died in a wail of furious entreaty421, a cry for an iniquitous422 abandonment, a cry which was but the echo of an obscene scrawl423 which he had read on the oozing424 wall of a urinal.
He had wandered into a maze425 of narrow and dirty streets. From the foul laneways he heard bursts of hoarse426 riot and wrangling427 and the drawling of drunken singers. He walked onward, undismayed, wondering whether he had strayed into the quarter of the jews. Women and girls dressed in long vivid gowns traversed the street from house to house. They were leisurely and perfumed. A trembling seized him and his eyes grew dim. The yellow gasflames arose before his troubled vision against the vapoury sky, burning as if before an altar. Before the doors and in the lighted halls groups were gathered arrayed as for some rite12. He was in another world: he had awakened428 from a slumber429 of centuries.
He stood still in the middle of the roadway, his heart clamouring against his bosom430 in a tumult. A young woman dressed in a long pink gown laid her hand on his arm to detain him and gazed into his face. She said gaily:
—Good night, Willie dear!
Her room was warm and lightsome. A huge doll sat with her legs apart in the copious easychair beside the bed. He tried to bid his tongue speak that he might seem at ease, watching her as she undid431 her gown, noting the proud conscious movements of her perfumed head.
As he stood silent in the middle of the room she came over to him and embraced him gaily and gravely. Her round arms held him firmly to her and he, seeing her face lifted to him in serious calm and feeling the warm calm rise and fall of her breast, all but burst into hysterical432 weeping. Tears of joy and relief shone in his delighted eyes and his lips parted though they would not speak.
—Give me a kiss, she said.
His lips would not bend to kiss her. He wanted to be held firmly in her arms, to be caressed435 slowly, slowly, slowly. In her arms he felt that he had suddenly become strong and fearless and sure of himself. But his lips would not bend to kiss her.
With a sudden movement she bowed his head and joined her lips to his and he read the meaning of her movements in her frank uplifted eyes. It was too much for him. He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her, body and mind, conscious of nothing in the world but the dark pressure of her softly parting lips. They pressed upon his brain as upon his lips as though they were the vehicle of a vague speech; and between them he felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odour.
点击收听单词发音
1 den | |
n.兽穴;秘密地方;安静的小房间,私室 | |
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2 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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3 tranquilly | |
adv. 宁静地 | |
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4 tranquil | |
adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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5 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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6 gunpowder | |
n.火药 | |
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7 scrupulously | |
adv.一丝不苟地;小心翼翼地,多顾虑地 | |
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8 reeking | |
v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 );散发臭气;发出难闻的气味 (of sth);明显带有(令人不快或生疑的跡象) | |
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9 din | |
n.喧闹声,嘈杂声 | |
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10 contentedly | |
adv.心满意足地 | |
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11 contented | |
adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
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12 rite | |
n.典礼,惯例,习俗 | |
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13 twine | |
v.搓,织,编饰;(使)缠绕 | |
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14 bower | |
n.凉亭,树荫下凉快之处;闺房;v.荫蔽 | |
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15 groves | |
树丛,小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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16 rugged | |
adj.高低不平的,粗糙的,粗壮的,强健的 | |
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17 whit | |
n.一点,丝毫 | |
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18 sag | |
v.下垂,下跌,消沉;n.下垂,下跌,凹陷,[航海]随风漂流 | |
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19 feigning | |
假装,伪装( feign的现在分词 ); 捏造(借口、理由等) | |
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20 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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21 bowels | |
n.肠,内脏,内部;肠( bowel的名词复数 );内部,最深处 | |
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22 illustrate | |
v.举例说明,阐明;图解,加插图 | |
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23 lust | |
n.性(淫)欲;渴(欲)望;vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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24 shuffling | |
adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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25 athletics | |
n.运动,体育,田径运动 | |
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26 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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27 lustre | |
n.光亮,光泽;荣誉 | |
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28 lustreless | |
adj.无光泽的,无光彩的,平淡乏味的 | |
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29 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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30 swollen | |
adj.肿大的,水涨的;v.使变大,肿胀 | |
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31 pouch | |
n.小袋,小包,囊状袋;vt.装...入袋中,用袋运输;vi.用袋送信件 | |
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32 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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33 bout | |
n.侵袭,发作;一次(阵,回);拳击等比赛 | |
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34 piety | |
n.虔诚,虔敬 | |
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35 purgatory | |
n.炼狱;苦难;adj.净化的,清洗的 | |
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36 squandered | |
v.(指钱,财产等)浪费,乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37 cork | |
n.软木,软木塞 | |
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38 trudging | |
vt.& vi.跋涉,吃力地走(trudge的现在分词形式) | |
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39 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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40 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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41 poke | |
n.刺,戳,袋;vt.拨开,刺,戳;vi.戳,刺,捅,搜索,伸出,行动散慢 | |
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42 avid | |
adj.热心的;贪婪的;渴望的;劲头十足的 | |
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43 apprehended | |
逮捕,拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 ); 理解 | |
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44 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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45 avenger | |
n. 复仇者 | |
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46 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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47 whitewashed | |
粉饰,美化,掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48 landmark | |
n.陆标,划时代的事,地界标 | |
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49 dangling | |
悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 ); 摆动不定; 用某事物诱惑…; 吊胃口 | |
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50 adorned | |
[计]被修饰的 | |
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51 thereby | |
adv.因此,从而 | |
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52 akin | |
adj.同族的,类似的 | |
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53 lieutenant | |
n.陆军中尉,海军上尉;代理官员,副职官员 | |
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54 nostrils | |
鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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55 tractable | |
adj.易驾驭的;温顺的 | |
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56 mare | |
n.母马,母驴 | |
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57 filthy | |
adj.卑劣的;恶劣的,肮脏的 | |
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58 filth | |
n.肮脏,污物,污秽;淫猥 | |
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59 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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60 puddles | |
n.水坑, (尤指道路上的)雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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61 clots | |
n.凝块( clot的名词复数 );血块;蠢人;傻瓜v.凝固( clot的第三人称单数 ) | |
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62 asunder | |
adj.分离的,化为碎片 | |
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63 chilly | |
adj.凉快的,寒冷的 | |
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64 repugnance | |
n.嫌恶 | |
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65 jug | |
n.(有柄,小口,可盛水等的)大壶,罐,盂 | |
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66 outlet | |
n.出口/路;销路;批发商店;通风口;发泄 | |
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67 hoofs | |
n.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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68 clattering | |
发出咔哒声(clatter的现在分词形式) | |
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69 rattling | |
adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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70 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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71 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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72 overt | |
adj.公开的,明显的,公然的 | |
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73 tryst | |
n.约会;v.与…幽会 | |
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74 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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75 caravans | |
(可供居住的)拖车(通常由机动车拖行)( caravan的名词复数 ); 篷车; (穿过沙漠地带的)旅行队(如商队) | |
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76 dismantle | |
vt.拆开,拆卸;废除,取消 | |
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77 mantle | |
n.斗篷,覆罩之物,罩子;v.罩住,覆盖,脸红 | |
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78 hustled | |
催促(hustle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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79 lumbering | |
n.采伐林木 | |
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80 poker | |
n.扑克;vt.烙制 | |
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81 dozed | |
v.打盹儿,打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82 monologue | |
n.长篇大论,(戏剧等中的)独白 | |
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83 enlisted | |
adj.应募入伍的v.(使)入伍, (使)参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 );获得(帮助或支持) | |
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84 poking | |
n. 刺,戳,袋 vt. 拨开,刺,戳 vi. 戳,刺,捅,搜索,伸出,行动散慢 | |
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85 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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86 quay | |
n.码头,靠岸处 | |
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87 quays | |
码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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88 corks | |
n.脐梅衣;软木( cork的名词复数 );软木塞 | |
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89 rumbling | |
n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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90 loft | |
n.阁楼,顶楼 | |
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91 bustling | |
adj.喧闹的 | |
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92 eluded | |
v.(尤指机敏地)避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 );逃避;躲避;使达不到 | |
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93 elude | |
v.躲避,困惑 | |
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94 jovial | |
adj.快乐的,好交际的 | |
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95 embittered | |
v.使怨恨,激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96 embitterment | |
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97 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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98 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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99 mortifying | |
adj.抑制的,苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 );伤害(人的感情);克制;抑制(肉体、情感等) | |
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100 musingly | |
adv.沉思地,冥想地 | |
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101 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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102 demurely | |
adv.装成端庄地,认真地 | |
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103 demure | |
adj.严肃的;端庄的 | |
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104 taunting | |
嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 ); 嘲弄; 辱骂; 奚落 | |
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105 devotedly | |
专心地; 恩爱地; 忠实地; 一心一意地 | |
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106 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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107 crookedly | |
adv. 弯曲地,不诚实地 | |
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108 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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109 flickered | |
(通常指灯光)闪烁,摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110 spectral | |
adj.幽灵的,鬼魂的 | |
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111 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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112 bustled | |
闹哄哄地忙乱,奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 ); 催促 | |
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113 vault | |
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室 | |
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114 vaults | |
n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 );地下室;撑物跳高;墓穴 | |
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115 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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116 caverns | |
大山洞,大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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117 doorway | |
n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
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118 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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119 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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120 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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121 whining | |
n. 抱怨,牢骚 v. 哭诉,发牢骚 | |
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122 watchful | |
adj.注意的,警惕的 | |
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123 crackers | |
adj.精神错乱的,癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 );薄脆饼干;(认为)十分愉快的事;迷人的姑娘 | |
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124 romped | |
v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的过去式和过去分词 );(尤指在赛跑或竞选等中)轻易获胜 | |
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125 bonnet | |
n.无边女帽;童帽 | |
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126 withdrawn | |
vt.收回;使退出;vi.撤退,退出 | |
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127 snug | |
adj.温暖舒适的,合身的,安全的;v.使整洁干净,舒适地依靠,紧贴;n.(英)酒吧里的私房 | |
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128 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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129 gaily | |
adv.欢乐地,高兴地 | |
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130 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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131 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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132 blithely | |
adv.欢乐地,快活地,无挂虑地 | |
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133 lank | |
adj.瘦削的;稀疏的 | |
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134 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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135 scampering | |
v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑,惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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136 peal | |
n.钟声;v.鸣响 | |
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137 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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138 shreds | |
v.撕碎,切碎( shred的第三人称单数 );用撕毁机撕毁(文件) | |
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139 corrugated | |
adj.波纹的;缩成皱纹的;波纹面的;波纹状的v.(使某物)起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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140 ornamental | |
adj.装饰的;作装饰用的;n.装饰品;观赏植物 | |
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141 underneath | |
adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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142 daydream | |
v.做白日梦,幻想 | |
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143 bray | |
n.驴叫声, 喇叭声;v.驴叫 | |
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144 moiety | |
n.一半;部分 | |
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145 dint | |
n.由于,靠;凹坑 | |
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146 insignificant | |
adj.无关紧要的,可忽略的,无意义的 | |
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147 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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148 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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149 protagonists | |
n.(戏剧的)主角( protagonist的名词复数 );(故事的)主人公;现实事件(尤指冲突和争端的)主要参与者;领导者 | |
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150 withheld | |
withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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151 gravy | |
n.肉汁;轻易得来的钱,外快 | |
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152 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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153 provincial | |
adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
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154 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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155 stink | |
vi.发出恶臭;糟透,招人厌恶;n.恶臭 | |
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156 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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157 impudent | |
adj.鲁莽的,卑鄙的,厚颜无耻的 | |
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158 manly | |
adj.有男子气概的;adv.男子般地,果断地 | |
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159 mincing | |
adj.矫饰的;v.切碎;切碎 | |
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160 diplomacy | |
n.外交;外交手腕,交际手腕 | |
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161 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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162 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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163 ushered | |
v.引,领,陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164 countless | |
adj.无数的,多得不计其数的 | |
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166 jack | |
n.插座,千斤顶,男人;v.抬起,提醒,扛举;n.(Jake)杰克 | |
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167 vaulting | |
n.(天花板或屋顶的)拱形结构 | |
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168 deference | |
n.尊重,顺从;敬意 | |
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169 pedagogue | |
n.教师 | |
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170 stature | |
n.(高度)水平,(高度)境界,身高,身材 | |
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171 sergeant | |
n.警官,中士 | |
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172 rattle | |
v.飞奔,碰响;激怒;n.碰撞声;拨浪鼓 | |
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173 hustling | |
催促(hustle的现在分词形式) | |
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174 nervously | |
adv.神情激动地,不安地 | |
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175 laggards | |
n.落后者( laggard的名词复数 ) | |
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176 copious | |
adj.丰富的,大量的 | |
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177 wig | |
n.假发 | |
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178 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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179 rouged | |
胭脂,口红( rouge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180 murmurs | |
n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 );低语声;怨言;嘀咕 | |
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181 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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182 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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183 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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184 brazen | |
adj.厚脸皮的,无耻的,坚硬的 | |
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185 lashes | |
n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 );鞭子;突然猛烈的一击;急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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186 upwards | |
adv.向上,在更高处...以上 | |
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187 festive | |
adj.欢宴的,节日的 | |
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188 frail | |
adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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189 shaft | |
n.(工具的)柄,杆状物 | |
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190 prelude | |
n.序言,前兆,序曲 | |
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191 languor | |
n.无精力,倦怠 | |
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192 supple | |
adj.柔软的,易弯的,逢迎的,顺从的,灵活的;vt.使柔软,使柔顺,使顺从;vi.变柔软,变柔顺 | |
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193 evoked | |
[医]诱发的 | |
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194 evoke | |
vt.唤起,引起,使人想起 | |
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195 dwarf | |
n.矮子,侏儒,矮小的动植物;vt.使…矮小 | |
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196 artillery | |
n.(军)火炮,大炮;炮兵(部队) | |
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197 speck | |
n.微粒,小污点,小斑点 | |
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198 aromatic | |
adj.芳香的,有香味的 | |
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199 salaamed | |
行额手礼( salaam的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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200 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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201 lark | |
n.云雀,百灵鸟;n.嬉戏,玩笑;vi.嬉戏 | |
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202 pedantic | |
adj.卖弄学问的;迂腐的 | |
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203 bass | |
n.男低音(歌手);低音乐器;低音大提琴 | |
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204 holder | |
n.持有者,占有者;(台,架等)支持物 | |
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205 bazaars | |
(东方国家的)市场( bazaar的名词复数 ); 义卖; 义卖市场; (出售花哨商品等的)小商品市场 | |
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206 flirt | |
v.调情,挑逗,调戏;n.调情者,卖俏者 | |
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207 beaked | |
adj.有喙的,鸟嘴状的 | |
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208 ruffled | |
adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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209 crest | |
n.顶点;饰章;羽冠;vt.达到顶点;vi.形成浪尖 | |
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210 beads | |
n.(空心)小珠子( bead的名词复数 );水珠;珠子项链 | |
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211 waned | |
v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 );(月)亏;变小;变暗淡 | |
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212 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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213 rout | |
n.溃退,溃败;v.击溃,打垮 | |
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214 timorous | |
adj.胆怯的,胆小的 | |
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215 expressively | |
ad.表示(某事物)地;表达地 | |
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216 urbanely | |
adv.都市化地,彬彬有礼地,温文尔雅地 | |
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217 inquisitive | |
adj.求知欲强的,好奇的,好寻根究底的 | |
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218 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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219 allusions | |
暗指,间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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220 moody | |
adj.心情不稳的,易怒的,喜怒无常的 | |
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221 moodiness | |
n.喜怒无常;喜怒无常,闷闷不乐;情绪 | |
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222 eddies | |
(水、烟等的)漩涡,涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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223 calf | |
n.小牛,犊,幼仔,小牛皮 | |
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224 reproof | |
n.斥责,责备 | |
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225 banter | |
n.嘲弄,戏谑;v.取笑,逗弄,开玩笑 | |
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226 tingle | |
vi.感到刺痛,感到激动;n.刺痛,激动 | |
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227 irreverence | |
n.不尊敬 | |
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228 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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229 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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230 disquieted | |
v.使不安,使忧虑,使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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231 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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232 allured | |
诱引,吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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233 alluring | |
adj.吸引人的,迷人的 | |
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234 subversive | |
adj.颠覆性的,破坏性的;n.破坏份子,危险份子 | |
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235 gibes | |
vi.嘲笑,嘲弄(gibe的第三人称单数形式) | |
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236 ferment | |
vt.使发酵;n./vt.(使)激动,(使)动乱 | |
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237 outstrip | |
v.超过,跑过 | |
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238 patchwork | |
n.混杂物;拼缝物 | |
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239 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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240 heresy | |
n.异端邪说;异教 | |
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241 hush | |
int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
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242 thighs | |
n.股,大腿( thigh的名词复数 );食用的鸡(等的)腿 | |
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243 starched | |
adj.浆硬的,硬挺的,拘泥刻板的v.把(衣服、床单等)浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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244 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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245 delving | |
v.深入探究,钻研( delve的现在分词 ) | |
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246 submission | |
n.服从,投降;温顺,谦虚;提出 | |
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247 appease | |
v.安抚,缓和,平息,满足 | |
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248 appeased | |
安抚,抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 ); 绥靖(满足另一国的要求以避免战争) | |
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249 malignant | |
adj.恶性的,致命的;恶意的,恶毒的 | |
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250 chiding | |
v.责骂,责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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251 cleft | |
n.裂缝;adj.裂开的 | |
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252 cardinal | |
n.(天主教的)红衣主教;adj.首要的,基本的 | |
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253 freckled | |
adj.雀斑;斑点;晒斑;(使)生雀斑v.雀斑,斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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254 vows | |
誓言( vow的名词复数 ); 郑重宣布,许愿 | |
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255 slates | |
(旧时学生用以写字的)石板( slate的名词复数 ); 板岩; 石板瓦; 石板色 | |
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256 pony | |
adj.小型的;n.小马 | |
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257 lieutenants | |
n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 );副职官员;空军;仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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258 immoral | |
adj.不道德的,淫荡的,荒淫的,有伤风化的 | |
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259 buck | |
n.雄鹿,雄兔;v.马离地跳跃 | |
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260 onset | |
n.进攻,袭击,开始,突然开始 | |
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261 pinioned | |
v.抓住[捆住](双臂)( pinion的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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262 stump | |
n.残株,烟蒂,讲演台;v.砍断,蹒跚而走 | |
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263 gutter | |
n.沟,街沟,水槽,檐槽,贫民窟 | |
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264 knotty | |
adj.有结的,多节的,多瘤的,棘手的 | |
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265 plunges | |
n.跳进,投入vt.使投入,使插入,使陷入vi.投入,跳进,陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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266 wrenched | |
v.(猛力地)扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 );扭伤;使感到痛苦;使悲痛 | |
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267 jeering | |
adj.嘲弄的,揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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268 clenching | |
v.紧握,抓紧,咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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269 sob | |
n.空间轨道的轰炸机;呜咽,哭泣 | |
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270 sobbing | |
<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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271 malice | |
n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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272 tormented | |
饱受折磨的 | |
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273 cowardice | |
n.胆小,怯懦 | |
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274 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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275 divesting | |
v.剥夺( divest的现在分词 );脱去(衣服);2。从…取去…;1。(给某人)脱衣服 | |
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276 divested | |
v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 );脱去(衣服);2。从…取去…;1。(给某人)脱衣服 | |
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277 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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278 lighter | |
n.打火机,点火器;驳船;v.用驳船运送;light的比较级 | |
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279 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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280 seduced | |
诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 ); 勾引; 诱使堕落; 使入迷 | |
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281 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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282 turbulence | |
n.喧嚣,狂暴,骚乱,湍流 | |
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283 anticipation | |
n.预期,预料,期望 | |
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284 phantoms | |
n.鬼怪,幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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285 irresolution | |
n.不决断,优柔寡断,犹豫不定 | |
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286 revival | |
n.复兴,复苏,(精力、活力等的)重振 | |
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287 profane | |
adj.亵神的,亵渎的;vt.亵渎,玷污 | |
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288 irresolutely | |
adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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289 dabbling | |
v.涉猎( dabble的现在分词 );涉足;浅尝;少量投资 | |
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290 furtive | |
adj.鬼鬼崇崇的,偷偷摸摸的 | |
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291 rhythmically | |
adv.有节奏地 | |
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292 glossy | |
adj.平滑的;有光泽的 | |
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293 decency | |
n.体面,得体,合宜,正派,庄重 | |
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294 likeness | |
n.相像,相似(之处) | |
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295 desecration | |
n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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296 pungent | |
adj.(气味、味道)刺激性的,辛辣的;尖锐的 | |
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297 jaws | |
n.口部;嘴 | |
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298 humiliated | |
感到羞愧的 | |
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299 scruples | |
n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 );顾虑,顾忌v.感到于心不安,有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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300 awry | |
adj.扭曲的,错的 | |
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301 garish | |
adj.华丽而俗气的,华而不实的 | |
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302 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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303 rehearsals | |
n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 );排练;复述;重复 | |
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304 rift | |
n.裂口,隙缝,切口;v.裂开,割开,渗入 | |
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305 deformed | |
adj.畸形的;变形的;丑的,破相了的 | |
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306 onward | |
adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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307 flickering | |
adj.闪烁的,摇曳的,一闪一闪的 | |
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308 exodus | |
v.大批离去,成群外出 | |
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309 incense | |
v.激怒;n.香,焚香时的烟,香气 | |
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310 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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311 anguished | |
adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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312 dense | |
a.密集的,稠密的,浓密的;密度大的 | |
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313 fumes | |
n.(强烈而刺激的)气味,气体 | |
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314 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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315 glimmering | |
n.微光,隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光,发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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316 sentries | |
哨兵,步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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317 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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318 backwards | |
adv.往回地,向原处,倒,相反,前后倒置地 | |
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319 evocation | |
n. 引起,唤起 n. <古> 召唤,招魂 | |
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320 draughts | |
n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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321 flask | |
n.瓶,火药筒,砂箱 | |
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322 evoker | |
产生,引起; 唤起 | |
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323 auction | |
n.拍卖;拍卖会;vt.拍卖 | |
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324 sleepers | |
n.卧铺(通常以复数形式出现);卧车( sleeper的名词复数 );轨枕;睡觉(呈某种状态)的人;小耳环 | |
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325 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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326 insistent | |
adj.迫切的,坚持的 | |
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327 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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328 galloping | |
adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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329 allayed | |
v.减轻,缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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330 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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331 jingle | |
n.叮当声,韵律简单的诗句;v.使叮当作响,叮当响,押韵 | |
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332 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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333 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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334 tremors | |
震颤( tremor的名词复数 ); 战栗; 震颤声; 大地的轻微震动 | |
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335 garrulous | |
adj.唠叨的,多话的 | |
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336 gravel | |
n.砂跞;砂砾层;结石 | |
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337 anatomy | |
n.解剖学,解剖;功能,结构,组织 | |
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338 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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339 jaded | |
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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340 capered | |
v.跳跃,雀跃( caper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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341 malady | |
n.病,疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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342 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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343 thronging | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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344 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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345 abase | |
v.降低,贬抑 | |
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346 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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347 harry | |
vt.掠夺,蹂躏,使苦恼 | |
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348 agile | |
adj.敏捷的,灵活的 | |
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349 flannels | |
法兰绒男裤; 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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350 battered | |
adj.磨损的;v.连续猛击;磨损 | |
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351 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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352 leisurely | |
adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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353 apron | |
n.围裙;工作裙 | |
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354 slab | |
n.平板,厚的切片;v.切成厚板,以平板盖上 | |
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355 limestone | |
n.石灰石 | |
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356 futile | |
adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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357 loathe | |
v.厌恶,嫌恶 | |
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358 bloody | |
adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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359 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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360 graveyard | |
n.坟场 | |
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361 elastic | |
n.橡皮圈,松紧带;adj.有弹性的;灵活的 | |
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362 meekly | |
adv.温顺地,逆来顺受地 | |
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363 importuned | |
v.纠缠,向(某人)不断要求( importune的过去式和过去分词 );(妓女)拉(客) | |
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364 eldest | |
adj.最年长的,最年老的 | |
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365 rattled | |
慌乱的,恼火的 | |
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366 shameful | |
adj.可耻的,不道德的 | |
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367 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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368 flirted | |
v.调情,打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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369 unearthed | |
出土的(考古) | |
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370 complacently | |
adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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371 maker | |
n.制造者,制造商 | |
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372 tenor | |
n.男高音(歌手),次中音(乐器),要旨,大意 | |
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373 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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374 sundered | |
v.隔开,分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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375 vigour | |
(=vigor)n.智力,体力,精力 | |
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376 inhuman | |
adj.残忍的,不人道的,无人性的 | |
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377 colonnade | |
n.柱廊 | |
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378 highland | |
n.(pl.)高地,山地 | |
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379 sentry | |
n.哨兵,警卫 | |
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380 teller | |
n.银行出纳员;(选举)计票员 | |
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381 bestowed | |
赠给,授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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382 feigned | |
a.假装的,不真诚的 | |
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383 deferred | |
adj.延期的,缓召的v.拖延,延缓,推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 );服从某人的意愿,遵从 | |
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384 piously | |
adv.虔诚地 | |
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385 watery | |
adj.有水的,水汪汪的;湿的,湿润的 | |
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386 delicacies | |
n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 );精致;精美的食物;周到 | |
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387 bulged | |
凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 ); 充满; 塞满(某物) | |
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388 copper | |
n.铜;铜币;铜器;adj.铜(制)的;(紫)铜色的 | |
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389 overhauled | |
v.彻底检查( overhaul的过去式和过去分词 );大修;赶上;超越 | |
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390 commonwealth | |
n.共和国,联邦,共同体 | |
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391 enamel | |
n.珐琅,搪瓷,瓷釉;(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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392 upbraid | |
v.斥责,责骂,责备 | |
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393 squandering | |
v.(指钱,财产等)浪费,乱花( squander的现在分词 ) | |
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394 desuetude | |
n.废止,不用 | |
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395 elegance | |
n.优雅;优美,雅致;精致,巧妙 | |
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396 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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397 recurrence | |
n.复发,反复,重现 | |
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398 crumbled | |
(把…)弄碎, (使)碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 衰落; 坍塌; 损坏 | |
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399 mole | |
n.胎块;痣;克分子 | |
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400 isolation | |
n.隔离,孤立,分解,分离 | |
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401 longings | |
渴望,盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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402 subterfuge | |
n.诡计;藉口 | |
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403 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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404 cynically | |
adv.爱嘲笑地,冷笑地 | |
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405 exulted | |
狂喜,欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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406 exult | |
v.狂喜,欢腾;欢欣鼓舞 | |
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407 defile | |
v.弄污,弄脏;n.(山间)小道 | |
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408 lecherous | |
adj.好色的;淫邪的 | |
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409 transgression | |
n.违背;犯规;罪过 | |
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410 estrangement | |
n.疏远,失和,不和 | |
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411 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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412 doorways | |
n.门口,门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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413 irresistibly | |
adv.无法抵抗地,不能自持地;极为诱惑人地 | |
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414 murmurous | |
adj.低声的 | |
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415 besieged | |
包围,围困,围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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416 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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417 clenched | |
v.紧握,抓紧,咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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418 penetration | |
n.穿透,穿人,渗透 | |
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419 incited | |
刺激,激励,煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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420 wail | |
vt./vi.大声哀号,恸哭;呼啸,尖啸 | |
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421 entreaty | |
n.恳求,哀求 | |
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422 iniquitous | |
adj.不公正的;邪恶的;高得出奇的 | |
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423 scrawl | |
vt.潦草地书写;n.潦草的笔记,涂写 | |
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424 oozing | |
v.(浓液等)慢慢地冒出,渗出( ooze的现在分词 );使(液体)缓缓流出;(浓液)渗出,慢慢流出 | |
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425 maze | |
n.迷宫,八阵图,混乱,迷惑 | |
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426 hoarse | |
adj.嘶哑的,沙哑的 | |
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427 wrangling | |
v.争吵,争论,口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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428 awakened | |
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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429 slumber | |
n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
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430 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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431 Undid | |
v. 解开, 复原 | |
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432 hysterical | |
adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
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433 tinkling | |
n.丁当作响声 | |
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434 rascal | |
n.流氓;不诚实的人 | |
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435 caressed | |
爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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