The child was by this time the joyous10 little husky heart of the family. John had noticed him dutifully at first because he was Wully’s, but he came speedily to love him for his own diverting charms. There had been an evening nearly two years ago, when he came into the little room where[175] he and his sister cooked their meals, and had found her stretched out on the bed crying. He read the letter she gave him in explanation. His mother had written about the impending11 disgraceful baby. John hadn’t forgotten his sensation of amazement12, or the sharp wound that his disdainful sense of superiority sustained, but now he seldom recalled either. It outraged13 his sense of the fitness of things that he so well understood that scrape; that he had to wonder at times that passion was ever less rampant14, less controlled, than in the case he had to consider. The information encouraged a budding cynicism within him. If it had been anyone but Wully—even Allen—he would have understood it better. He had read the letter, and stood looking at it. Then without a word he went out, and walked about the streets through the dusk. And never a mention of it passed between the brother and sister. And then when he came home, and saw Wully—when that brotherly, honest geniality15 shone out simply towards him—he couldn’t think of that story. Wully’s presence denied it, obliterated16 it. That was all. And wee Johnnie justified17 himself.
John was, of course, keen about having his nephew speak English undefiled, and between their little games he begged him patiently to say “Uncle John.” But, after hours of slipping gleefully away from effort, the baby came no nearer the desired sounds than “Diddle!” He had lovely, twinkling ways of making light of instruction.[176] He would duck his curly head, and hold it reflectingly to one side, and purse up his little lips enough to have spoken volumes. Yet when he saw his uncle coming towards the house, he would sing out that absurd “Diddle,” delightedly, waiting an award for such perfect enunciation19. When his grandmother got him into her arms, she would beg him to say “Grannie.” And he would say it, in a way that satisfied him entirely20. Only he called the word “Pooh!” And in that absurdity21, too, he persisted. “Mama” he said, and “Papa” and “chickie” and “Diddle” and “Pooh.” And that was all. No coaxing22 could elicit23 more from him. Chirstie grew vexed24 at times hearing other women tell how early and plainly their children had talked. She longed to have Johnnie shine vocally25. Sometimes she almost wondered if he wasn’t “simple.” But her mother-in-law consoled her by telling about her John. He had spoken hardly a word till he was three, and she was really getting alarmed about it, when suddenly he seemed to join the family conversation, so rapidly he learned words and sentences.
So with that foolish “Ayn?” which was his question, and with the “Ayn” which was his consent, Bonnie Wee Johnnie went on ruling his domain26. The men never started to the fields with a team without letting the baby ride a few steps on the back of the old mare27. No one plowed28 into a bird’s nest without saving an egg to show the baby. No one ran across a long gaudy29 pheasant’s[177] feather without saving it for Johnnie’s soft fingers to feel. At noon John carried him out to pat the colt’s nose, or to see the little pigs nosing their way among one another to their mother’s milk. The baby had just naturally become Wully’s child. Wully could never bear the thought of Peter Keith. He kept it resolutely30 out of his mind. He had to. He shrank from it as he had never shrunk from the face of an enemy. Making the baby his own helped the forgetting. Barbara McNair said to Isobel McLaughlin that she had never seen a man with such a way with a baby as Wully had with that child. And Isobel McLaughlin answered that it was small wonder Wully had a way with babies, since he had carried one in his arms ever since he was three years old. Month by month Wully became in the eyes of that prairie-bound world a more exemplary and unsuspected father to Chirstie’s son.
June came and went. The corn began hiding the black soil at its roots entirely from sight. It was “knee-high by the Fourth of July” according to the Scriptures31. There was to be a great celebration that year in Woolsey’s woods, and Wully had, of course, planned to take his family to the picnic. All his army comrades would be there, and neighbors for thirty miles round, talking crops and prices, and the president’s troubles in Washington. It was to have been a grateful change from hoeing.
However, when the day came, it was out of the[178] question to take Chirstie, who had been having fever, and the baby, who was unhappily teething, for a twenty-five mile ride through the heat, even with the new spring seat which Wully had bought for the wagon—extravagantly, according to Alex McNair. John, therefore, rode away on horseback before dawn. Not that John would have condescended32 to care to go if it had been only what he would have called in our day a gathering33 of “neighborhood fatheads.” But there was to be a speaker there who helped to make laws and thwart34 the president in Washington, and John wanted to hear what he had to say, and how he managed to say it.
Wully and Chirstie accordingly began their holiday by a most unusually long sleep in the morning, the baby for some reason allowing it. They had a late and lazy breakfast. If Chirstie cared to, they would drive down to the creek35 and look for some blackberries, Wully said. He dallied36 about, playing with the baby, who was better than they had expected him to be. They sauntered out to their garden of little trees, after Wully had wiped the breakfast dishes, and spent some time there, weeding it, and cultivating it, playing together. Were not the two of them quite content to spend their holiday at home together now? It was not as if they were young, unmated things, running about experimentally, investigatingly. When it grew warm, and they sought the shade of the house to rest in, a Sabbath peace brooded[179] over them. Wully stretched out on the grass, and the baby sat contentedly37 on his chest.
Chirstie looked at the morning-glories blooming on the fence of the little vegetable garden. There were but few of them. The hens had got into the garden earlier and scratched them almost all out. She hated to kill the hens she had had the trouble of raising, just because they spoiled her morning-glories. Her stepmother, she reflected, had no such hesitations38. If a rash hen flew into Barbara McNair’s garden, she caught it and cut its wing feathers. If it repeated the offense39, into the boiling kettle it went. She had scarcely a hen left. That famous wee white fowl-house was really little more than an ornament40. Yet when Chirstie sighed over her morning-glories, Wully said at once that he would get a better fence around a bigger garden by the next spring. He, too, was thinking of the McNair place. Everyone thought of that place that summer, and planned to make his own less desolate-looking. That McNairs’ was now the very show place of the country. One driving up to it, unless he had heard reports, could scarcely believe his eyes. No sty now! No bony cows trampling41 knee-deep in mud! One saw a trim white house, inside a smart white fence, upon a jaunty42 rise of ground, with a gay white fowl-house in the rear, and in the front yard—what sights for pioneer eyes! Crimson43 hollyhocks, just beginning to open, almost as high as the lean-to, screening the porch. A grapevine halfway[180] across the main part of the building. Morning-glories on cunning arrangements of hidden wires. Scarlet44 poppies and magenta45 petunias46 romping47 all along the front walk, laughing to the confederate heavens, flaunting48 their uselessness flippantly before the eyes of those who lived slavishly, blossoms with the Scriptures behind them to justify49 their toiling50 not, their spinning not, their being arrayed beyond kings’ glory—not economically. The garden scouted51 the very principles of the hard-working, of those who would “get ahead.” It hooted52 aloud at frugality53. Barbara McNair kept a lamb, to be sure, but for no utilitarian54 purpose. She kept it to mow55 her lawn. And when its hunger had shaved its environments, she moved the stake which held it, to another spot. She kept hens languidly, perhaps only to justify artistically56 that supernumerary luxury, the white fowl-house. But let those chickens beware how they turned their eyes towards her garden spaces, lest they discover fatally her feelings towards them and their like. No useless and ungardening orphan57 calf58 would she mother. No bereaved59 young pigs owed their life to her. She did only what she elected to do. Though there was at that time scarcely a servant girl west of the Mississippi, Barbara McNair was almost never without some neighbor girl to do her work for her, while in return she taught her sewing, or made some pretty garment for her. Just now Wully’s sister Mary, who was to marry a Yankee minister that fall,[181] was working at the McNairs’, while Barbara, in spite of Isobel McLaughlin’s protests, was making her a famous blue silk dress, equaled in grandeur60 only by that red wool one of Chirstie’s. Always some girl or other eating that helpless McNair’s good bread, while his wife knit tidies, and watered her trifling61 wee flowers—from a pump all painted and handy just outside the kitchen door—and lived like a lady, envied by all the women in the neighborhood, and distrusted by nearly all the men.
Wully lay playing with the baby, who liked tickling62 his face with a long spear of grass, and thinking just how he would make that fence, and grinning, at times, to himself. The Sabbath before he had taken Chirstie home for dinner, and when she had seen how the flowers were blooming there, she had explained in vexation about her morning-glories. Wully had been walking with his father-in-law and the women among the trifling flowers, when Chirstie had spoken of the accident, in answer to Barbara McNair’s question. And Alex had turned to Wully, and remonstrated63 with him for not having a better fence for Chirstie! A man ought to see that the women had such things, McNair had assured him solemnly. That was one of the best things he had had to tell his mother for a long time! Alex McNair telling him, Wully McLaughlin, how to treat a wife! McNair strutted64 about, taking all the credit for that garden, extremely proud of having the best-looking[182] place for miles around. As if he had been able to help himself! Wully had said nothing about the incident to Chirstie. He couldn’t seem always to be laughing at her father. Just then she went on to tell him about the new dress Barbara had made for little Jeannie. Whatever the neighbors might say enviously65 about Barbara McNair, they must in justice agree that she was an excellent stepmother to her husband’s children. The way she loved Jeannie and Dod, and was loved in return, was a source of deep satisfaction to Chirstie. And so she gossiped contentedly and harmlessly on about the neighbors, and the baby kicked the protesting Wully gleefully in the ribs66. They felt cosily67 shut in to themselves by the sense of the countryside emptied of its patriotic68 and picnicking dwellers69. Wully lounged about till almost eleven. There was a little hay cut which he wanted to turn. He would be back by dinner time, he said.
He started down the path to the hayfield, taking the scythe70 with him. It was a hot day, but there was a lively breeze blowing the grass into waves and billows, and momentary71 disappearing swift maelstroms. Safe white clouds were sailing on high, but along the horizon hints of much rain were gathering slowly. It wouldn’t be safe to cut much hay in face of them. He really need not have brought the scythe. He began turning what was cut, forkful by forkful. Then he cut a few swathes. Working, he lay bare a marsh72 hawk’s[183] nest. He stopped for breath, and stood watching the catlike birdlings turn on their backs and offer fight with their pawing, scrawny claws, while the mother circled angrily about him. He must tell Chirstie about those warlike babies. He went on, to leave them in peace. He kept getting farther and farther away from the house, towards the far edge of the plot of prairie they had chosen for hay. He worked away, scarcely lifting his head from his task, wondering occasionally if the rain, undoubtedly73 gathering, would come by night.
Suddenly he heard a cry. He looked up. He threw down his scythe. He started running. Chirstie was running towards him. She was crying out to him, too far away to be heard. He gave a look towards the house. There seemed to be no sign of fire. He tore on towards her. It must be the baby. He saved his breath till he got near her. She stumbled against him, gasping74, fainting. What she managed to say brought the contentment of his life crashing down to ruin.
“It’s Peter! Peter Keith! He’s back!”
She would have fallen. He caught her. He held her against him. She couldn’t speak. He couldn’t believe his ears.
“You said he wouldn’t come back!” she began, again. “Wully, he took hold of me! He—” She Was weeping with rage and terror. “Look here!” Her sleeve was torn half off. “You said he wouldn’t come back!” she cried, shaking.
[184]“You’re dreaming!” he cried. He couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t possible.
“He came to the door,” she sobbed75. “I didn’t see him till then. I’m not dreaming! Look at my dress! Where you going? Don’t leave me alone!”
He had started for his gun. Rage came over him like a fever mounting. The sight of that torn sleeve made him suddenly blind with anger. He couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t possible that man had dared to come back and lay violent hands on his wife. It simply couldn’t be. She was calling to him to wait for her. She wouldn’t be left alone.
He helped her along blindly. He had never known such murderous anger. He wanted her to hurry. He lusted76 for that gun. He felt her trembling against him. By God, his wife wouldn’t have to tremble much longer!
It seemed to him long before they came to their house—very long. “Don’t you let him hurt you!” she moaned as they came up to it. He strode into the kitchen. There the baby slept in his cradle, and flies walked leisurely77 over the piecrust scattered78 over the floor. He seized his gun. He went to the east door, and looked out. He went to the west door. He stood looking. Before his eyes hens scratched for their broods in peace. He searched the house. He turned to go to the barn. She cried after him, “Oh, don’t let him hurt you!” He went without caution, madly. But in the barn[185] there was no enemy. No sign of a man behind the barn, where the grass billows chased one another. No one hiding about the haystack. He strode about seeking. There was no enemy in any place. But beyond the little tree bed, and the garden, beyond the wheat fields—what might be there, to the east to the west, to the north and the south, in those wild man-high grasses! There a thousand men might hide and laugh at pursuers. Looking at those baffling stretches, Wully choked. He was helpless.
He went back to his wife. She was trying vainly to compose herself. “I never thought he would come! I never imagined it! You said he wouldn’t, Wully!” Didn’t she see how that reproach must madden him! “I was just standing79 there, making the pie. He came to that door. I thought it was you. And when I looked up, he was looking at me, Wully!” She wailed80 out that last. “He was looking at me. I didn’t know what to do. He just grabbed me!” She buried her face in her arms, and sobbed.
God! If only he could get hold of that snake who hid in the grasses! He turned abruptly81 again to the search.
“Stay with me!” she cried. “Where you going?”
“There’s no one here,” he answered, beside himself, wanting to comfort her. “Come and see for yourself!” Trembling and crying she came out with him to the barn. That morning there was no[186] great cement-floored barn to search through, in whose loft82 a hundred men might lie, nor long feeding sheds for steers83, nor any tower-like silos. There were no scattered groups of lighted hog-houses, nor garages nor heated drinking tanks. There were no machine sheds, nor ventilated corn-cribs, nor power plants nor icehouses, as now there are. Only that one little unconcealing barn, those small slight plantings, that innocent wheat, that shaved patch of the prairie which was the hayfield.
“He’s run out there!” Chirstie moaned, pointing to the distances. Somewhere out there he had lain in wait, perhaps, seeing Wully depart, maybe watching their just caresses84. Somewhere out there he must be pausing now, watching them hunt for him. Wully was shaking with incredulous fury. It simply wasn’t possible that Peter Keith should so have underestimated him! But no wonder, after he had been such a fool as to let him go unpunished once! Oh, all Wully needed was one more chance at him....
They ate no dinner. Chirstie lay down wearily. Wully with his gun in hand, stood watching, promising85 her he wouldn’t go far, or leave her alone more than a minute. She moaned as he came to her during the afternoon, to give her the baby;
“Oh, what’ll we ever do now, Wully!”
“Leave that to me!” he said, in such a voice that she could say no more just then.
[187]“You won’t hurt him, Wully!” she begged again, thinking only of her husband’s safety.
“Will I not!” he answered grimly. She wept.
“There’s Aunt Libby!” she moaned.
“Is there!” he cried. There was no auntie in his intentions. He was thinking only of his wife—who trembled and wept, temporarily.
“Wully, you’ll get into trouble! If he won’t bother us, let him come back!”
“He does bother me!” She dared not answer that tone. Wully choked, and turned away, to look out over the prairies again. A rattlesnake, that man was, hiding in the grass, a damned poison snake, and like a snake he should be treated. If it had been a windless day, one might have traced him through the grasses. But now one second of the wind swept away any trace of him. A good dog might have trailed him. But there was no dog at hand. In many places before Wully’s very eyes, a man—a snake—might walk upright and unperceived. Inside, Chirstie lay moaning in fever. Outside, Wully patrolled his premises86, frustrated87, raging.
In his excitement details came rushing back to his mind to which he had long and obstinately88 refused entrance. He remembered all the bits of confession89 that Chirstie had made to him the first night that, knowing her trouble, he had gone to claim her. Peter had loved her, he had wanted her for his, she had told him. But she wouldn’t listen to him, because she thought of Wully.[188] She thought of herself as his. That was when she was living at her aunt’s, after her mother had died. Then once Aunt Libby had gone to stay with her sister who was having a baby. Wully could curse that woman’s name for having so blindly, so fondly, trusted her knavish90 son. Why couldn’t she have at least left Dod with his sister! But Chirstie hadn’t been afraid. Wasn’t Peter her cousin? She hadn’t been at all afraid. And that night, when there was no help within a mile, she had run out of the house, undressed, barefooted, across the snow—till Peter caught her, and brought her back. Wully hadn’t often thought of that, because he couldn’t think of it and live. But it had no mercy on him now. That story cried aloud to him, shrieking91 through his mind. He would kill that man, and go to the sheriff and give himself up. He would stand up and tell any twelve men in the county that story, and come home acquitted92. If only he could find the man! He went beating through the grasses nearer him, maddened by the feeling that it was in vain. To the west the treacherous93 grasses jeered94 at him wavingly, and to the east. North and south they mocked him.
The afternoon passed. Neither of them could eat at supper time. Chirstie wouldn’t stay alone in the house while he went to milk. She insisted on crawling out to the barn, to be near him. She could scarcely sit up, so worn and weak she was. The baby howled bitterly, being neglected.[189] Wully put him to sleep, laying him on the bed beside his mother. He shut the door to the east. It had no lock. It had never needed one. He put a chair against it, and sat down on the step of the other door, fingering his gun as the stars came out, watching, thinking sorely.
There was no jury that would not set him free when he told the story. What sort of men would those be who would say he had not done right to kill a poison snake? He would just tell them—ah, but to tell that story, now, when it was being so well forgotten! To bring it all back to sneering95 ears, as it had been brought back to him so painfully fresh to-day! If only he could find the man, and kill him quietly, and bury him somewhere in the tall grasses, without anyone knowing! If only he might find him crouching96 there somewhere! So desirable did that consummation seem that he turned abruptly and went to the barn, to see if his spade, which his father had borrowed, had been returned to its place. Yes, there it was. He could laugh as he dug that grave in the farthest, most remote slough97! By God, only two years ago the government of the United States had been paying him for digging graves, graves for honest men, who made no women tremble. Oh, if he might find that man, and get it over quietly! That wish became a drunken cursing prayer in his mind. If only in the morning he might only say to her, “You needn’t be afraid he will ever come back again!”
[190]Terrible things rushed through his mind. Once when the baby had been a few days old, he had asked her a question curiously98, casually99. She had seemed so surprised in those days that she hadn’t had twins. He had asked her why she had supposed she would, and when she had not answered, he had asked her again. She said simply that after all that had happened that night, she thought she couldn’t have less. He had really so successfully pretended to make light of her situation that she didn’t know how that must rankle100 in his mind. He had turned and gone abruptly out into the darkness, when she had answered him so, and she never realized what she had done. He had wondered then why he had ever let that man go. He had wondered often at the time of the child’s birth. Well, once he got a chance now, he would be done with that regret forever....
He remained on guard, not realizing how the hours were passing, till he heard John riding hurriedly in home. He went to look at the clock then. It was midnight. The storm was almost upon them. The thunder was growling101 about its coming.
John sat down on the step, and Wully sat down near him, intending not to let John know what had happened. The speaker, John began, had been traveling through the South, and strange things he had seen. He said Johnson ought to be impeached102. Wully had a vague idea what his[191] brother was saying. He didn’t want to excite his suspicion in the least. He rallied, and asked if Stowe had been there. John had seen Stowe, and Stowe had asked why Wully wasn’t there. Lots of friends had asked about Wully. John talked on. The thunder grew louder. Rain began falling, in big drops. They both rose to go in. Rising, John said;
“Yes! And as I was coming home, guess whom I met, Wully! Our esteemed103 kinsman104, Peter Keith! I stopped in at O’Brien’s, and there he was, drinking away as usual. Wasn’t that interesting, now, for us? And Aunt Libby was going about all day as usual, asking if anyone had seen her poor, sick blessed laddie. I brought him as far home as the McTaggerts’ corner. Maybe auntie will lapse105 into sanity106 now, comparative sanity, at least!”
Wully had risen with John, to follow him into the house, but at the sound of that name he had paused outside the door, to hide his face from his brother. John’s story made him heartsick. There seemed no chance now of getting it over secretly. Peter had gone home! It didn’t seem possible. He intended to defy Wully! He intended to hide behind his mother. Well, he would speedily find that no woman’s skirts could save him now from his deserts. He feigned107 a natural interest, and tarried outside till he heard John going up the stairs. Then he came in from the rain, and sat down. That room, that home of theirs, all spoiled,[192] all defiled18. Their table, their chairs, their clock, all the things that they had bought and enjoyed together, seemed alien and sinister108. He gave a look around all the little room wonderingly, and then it all faded from his thought. He laid his arms on the table, and buried his face in them, as if he was weeping. But he was not weeping. Until almost morning he sat that way, scarcely moving, not heeding109 the sharp breaking of the thunder. He was planning ghastly things. Chirstie called to him sometimes, and he answered. She called to him at length wearily to come to bed.
To take his place beside her! Oh, God!
She was his wife, and he hadn’t been able to defend her! But morning was coming. The new day’s light would make things right.
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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forthright
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| adj.直率的，直截了当的 [同]frank | |
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articulation
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| n.（清楚的）发音；清晰度，咬合 | |
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schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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romp
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| n.欢闹；v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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impending
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amazement
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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rampant
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geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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elicit
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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vocally
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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plowed
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| v.耕( plow的过去式和过去分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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30
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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31
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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32
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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33
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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34
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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35
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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36
dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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37
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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38
hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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39
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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40
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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41
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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42
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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43
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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44
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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45
magenta
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| n..紫红色（的染料）；adj.紫红色的 | |
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46
petunias
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| n.矮牵牛（花）( petunia的名词复数 ) | |
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47
romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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48
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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49
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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50
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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51
scouted
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| 寻找，侦察( scout的过去式和过去分词 )； 物色（优秀运动员、演员、音乐家等） | |
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52
hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
frugality
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| n.节约，节俭 | |
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54
utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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55
mow
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| v.割（草、麦等），扫射，皱眉；n.草堆，谷物堆 | |
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56
artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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57
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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58
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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59
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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60
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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61
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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62
tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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63
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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strutted
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| 趾高气扬地走，高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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66
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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cosily
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| adv.舒适地，惬意地 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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69
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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70
scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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71
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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72
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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73
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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74
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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75
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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76
lusted
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| 贪求（lust的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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77
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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79
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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80
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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82
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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83
steers
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| n.阉公牛，肉用公牛( steer的名词复数 )v.驾驶( steer的第三人称单数 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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84
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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85
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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86
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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87
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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88
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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89
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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90
knavish
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| adj.无赖（似）的，不正的；刁诈 | |
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91
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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92
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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93
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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94
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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96
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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97
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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98
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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99
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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100
rankle
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| v.（怨恨，失望等）难以释怀 | |
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101
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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102
impeached
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| v.控告（某人）犯罪( impeach的过去式和过去分词 )；弹劾；对（某事物）怀疑；提出异议 | |
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103
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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104
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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105
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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106
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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107
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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108
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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109
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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