The brightest thoroughfare in London, Piccadilly, was looking very bright that autumn day, with all the windows of the few houses which can lay claim to anything of the beauty of grandeur9 glittering in the sun, and an astounding10 display of carriages, considering the season, enlivening the broad sloping road. The Greek Park was dotted over with groups of people, as in the summer-time, and along the broad path beyond the iron railings solitary11 pedestrians12 walked or loitered, unmolested by weather, just as it suited their fancy. The few and far-between benches had their occupants, of whom some had books, some cigars, and some babies. Perambulators were not wanting, neither were irascible elderly gentlemen to swear at them. It was happily too hot for hoops13.
This exceptional day was at its best and brightest when Harriet Routh came down the street in which she lived, crossed Piccadilly, and entered the Park. She was, as usual, very plainly dressed, and her manner had lost none of its ordinary quietude. Nevertheless, a close observer would have seen that she looked and breathed like a person in need of free fresh air, of movement, of freedom; that though the scene, the place in which she found herself, was indifferent to her, perhaps wholly unobserved by her, the influence upon her physical condition was salutary. She did not cross the grass, but walked slowly, and with her eyes turned earthwards, along the broad path near the railings. Occasionally she looked up, and lifted her head, as if to inhale14 as much as possible of the fresh air, then fell into her former attitude again, and continued her walk. Her face bore an expression of intense thought--the look of one who had brought a subject out with her in her mind, which subject she was resolved to think out, to look at in every aspect, to bring to a final decision. She kept a straight, clear course in her walk, looking neither to the right nor to the left, pondering deeply, as might have been seen by the steady tension of her low white forehead and the firm set of her lips. At last she paused, when she had traversed the entire length of the walk several times, and looked about her for an unoccupied seat. She descried15 one, with no nearer neighbour than the figure of a boy, not exactly ragged16, but very shabby, extended on the grass beside it, resting on his elbows, with a fur cap pulled down over his eyes, leaving the greater portion of a tangled17 head exposed to view, and a penny illustrated18 journal, whose contents, judging by the intentness with which he was devouring19 them, must have been of a highly sensational20 character, stretched out on the ground before him. Harriet took no notice of the boy, nor did he perceive her, when she seated herself on the bench by which he lay. She sat down noiselessly, folded her hands, and let her head fall forward, looking out with the distant absorbed gaze which had become habitual21 to her. She sat very still, and never for a moment did the purpose in her face relax. She was thinking, she was not dreaming.
After a while she looked at her watch, and rose. At the first step which she made on the grass, and towards the railings, her silk dress rustled22 over the outspread paper from which the boy was reading. She looked down, apologetically; the boy looked up angrily, and then Mr. James Swain jumped up, and made the movement which in his code of manners passed for a bow to Harriet.
"Ah, is it you, Jim?" she said. "Are you not busy to-day?"
"No, mum, I ain't," said Jim. "Mr. Routh hadn't no messages this mornin', and I ain't been lucky since."
"It's a nice day for you to have a little time to yourself," said Harriet. "I hope you got all the commissions I left for you."
"I did, mum, and thank'ee," said Jim. Harriet had remembered the street-boy when she was leaving home, and had charged her servants to employ him. She had not the slightest suspicion of the extensive use which Routh was in the habit of making of his services.
"The windows is to be cleaned," said Jim, suggestively. "There warn't time, mum; you come home so unexpected."
"Very well," said Harriet. "I suppose you can clean them, can't you?"
"Mr. Harris said as I might try," returned Jim. Mr. Harris was the irreproachable23 man-servant attached to Routh's modest establishment in Mayfair.
Harriet moved on, and Jim Swain stood still, looking after her. She was a puzzle to him, and an object of constant interest. By little and little Jim had come to know a good deal about Stewart Routh and his daily life, and he had abandoned the first theory which had presented itself to his mind, and which had owed its inspiration to the illustrated penny literature which formed his intellectual food. He no longer believed Harriet a persecuted24 victim of her husband's groundless jealousy25. For reasons of his own, equally strong and secret, Mr. James Swain had taken a lively interest in George Dallas, had experienced certain emotions on seeing him, and had taken very kindly26 to the business of espionage27 in which Routh had engaged his services, without affording him any indication of its purpose. At first the boy had conceived an idea that Dallas was the object of Harriet's supposed preference and Routh's supposed jealousy, but he abandoned that notion very speedily, and since then he had not succeeded in forming any new theory to his satisfaction. From the conversation of the servants, Jim had learned that Mr. Dallas and Mr. Felton, with whose personal appearance the boy was equally familiar, had gone to the same place in foreign parts as that to which Mr. and Mrs. Routh had gone a little later, and knowing this, Jim thought more and more frequently over certain circumstances which he had kept to himself with extraordinary discretion--discretion, indeed, which nothing but the strongest possible sense of self-interest, as inseparable from its observance, could have enabled him to preserve.
"He don't like him," Jim would say to himself, with frequent repetition, "he don't like him, can't abear him; I knows that precious well. And he can't be afraid of him, as I can see, for he certainly warn't neither in nor near that business, and I'm blest if he knows anythin' about it. Wotever can he want to know all about him for, and keep a-follerin' him about? It ain't for no good as he follers anybody, I'll take my davy." And Mr. James Swain's daily reflections invariably terminated with that formula, which was indeed a simple and accurate statement of the boy's belief. His abandonment of his theories concerning Harriet had worked no change in his mind towards Routh. His familiarity with Routh's servants, his being in a manner free of the house--free, but under the due amount of inspection28 and suspicion justified29 by his low estate--enlightened him as to Harriet's domestic position, and made him wonder exceedingly, in his half-simple, half-knowing way, how "the like of her could be spoony on sich a cove30 as him," which was Mr. James Swain's fashion of expressing his sense of the moral disparity between the husband and wife.
This was the second time that Jim had seen Mrs. Routh since her return from the trip which he had been told was specially31 undertaken for the benefit of her health. The first time was on the day of her arrival, when Jim had fortunately been "handy," and had helped with the luggage. He had made his observations then upon Harriet's appearance with all his native impudence32; for though the element of suspicion, which lent his interest in Harriet something tragic33, had died out of it, that interest continued lively; but he had admitted that it was pardonable that she should look "precious blue and funky34" after a journey.
But looking at her more attentively35 on this second occasion, and when there was no journey in the case, Jim arrived at the conclusion that whatever had "ailed36" Mrs. Routh before she left home ailed her still.
"Uncommon37 ill she do look, to be sure," he said to himself, as he crumpled38 up the exciting fiction which he had been reading, and which "left off" at a peculiarly thrilling crisis, and wedged the illustrated journal into his cap; "uncommon ill. Wot's the good of all them baths and things, if she's to come back lookin' like this--a deal worse, I call it, and much miserabler in her mind? Wotever ails8 her?"
At this point in his cogitations Jim began to move on, slowly indeed, and keeping his eye on Harriet, who had reached one of the gates of the Park opening into Piccadilly, had passed through it, and was just about to cross to the opposite side. She stood for a moment irresolute39, then turned, came through the gate again, and rapidly approached Jim, beckoning40 him towards her as she came.
She stood still as the boy ran up to her, and pointed41 to one of the smaller but much decorated houses on the opposite side of the way.
"Jim," she said, "you see that house, where the wide windows are, all one pane42, and the bright balconies there, the house with the wide door, and the heavy carved railings?"
"Yes, mum, I see," said Jim.
"Go to that house, and ask if anything has been heard from Mr. Felton. Ask when he is expected--he has taken lodgings43 there--whether any other gentleman is expected to come with him--and, Jim, be sure to ask in particular whether any letters have been received for Mr. Felton, and sent on to him."
Jim Swain looked at Harriet. There was something strange as well as intelligent in the look, but she saw only the intelligence. It harmonized with the thought in her own mind, and she replied to it:
"You think, perhaps, they may not like to tell you," she said. "Perhaps they may not. But you may tell whoever answers you that Mr. Felton's sister wishes to know--" Jim still looked at her, and Harriet felt that he did so, but this time she did not catch his eye. "Be quick," she said, "and bring me the answer yonder." She pointed to the bench on which she had been sitting, and which was beyond the reach of observation from the house she had indicated, and walked away towards it as she ceased speaking. "It cannot be helped," she said. "The risk is a trifling44 one at worst, and must be run. I could not put Harris in communication with any one on a false pretext45, and I can trust this boy so far not to say he has asked this question for me. I cannot bear it any longer. I must know how much time there is before me. I must have so much certainty; if not, I shall go mad."
She had reached the bench now, and sat down in the former attitude.
"Once before I asked myself," she muttered, "if I was going mad. I did not feel more like it then than now--not so like it, indeed. I knew what he was doing then, I had found him out. But I don't know now--I don't know now. I am in the dark, and the tide is rising."
Jim came back from his errand. He had been civilly answered by a woman-servant. Mr. Felton was expected in a few days; the exact day was not yet named. No letters had been received for him. He had sent no orders relative to the forwarding of any. Having delivered his message so far, Jim Swain hesitated. Harriet understood the reticence46, and spared a momentary47 thought for passing wonderment at this little touch of delicacy48 in so unpromising a subject for the exhibition of the finer emotions.
"Did the person who answered you ask you any question?" she said.
"No, mum," said Jim, relieved. Harriet said no more, she knew he had not made the false statement which had proved to be needless, and something assured her that there was no necessity that she should caution Jim to say nothing concerning this commission. Now she went away in reality--went home. She ascended49 the stairs to her room, and looked at her face in a glass as she took her bonnet50 off, and thought, "I wonder if people can see in my face that I am turning into a coward, and am going mad? I could not knock at that door and ask that simple, natural question for myself--I could not: and a little while ago, since--ay, long-since--I could have done anything. But not now--not now. When the time comes, when the waiting is over, when the suspense51 is ended, then I may be strong again, if indeed I am not quite mad by then; but now--now I cannot do anything--I cannot even wait."
The fixed52 look had left her face, and was succeeded by a painful wildness, and an expression almost like that of some present physical terror. She pressed her hands upon her temples and rocked herself to and fro, but there was no wild abandonment of grief in the gesture. Presently she began to moan, but all unconsciously; for catching53 the sound after a little, she checked it angrily. Then she took up some needlework, but it dropped from her hands after a few minutes. She started up, and said, quite aloud, "It's no use--it's no use; I must have rest!" Then she unlocked her dressing-case, took out a bottle of laudanum, poured some of the contents into a glass of water, drank the mixture, and lay down upon her bed. She was soon in a deep sleep which seemed peaceful and full of rest. It was undisturbed. A servant came into the room, but did not arouse her, and it was understood in the house that "master" would probably not return to dinner.
Mr. James Swain turned his steps in the direction of the delectable54 region in which his home was situated55. He was in so far more fortunate than many of his class that he had a home, though a wretched one. It consisted of a dingy56 little room at the back of the third story in a rickety house in Strutton-ground, and was shared with a decrepit57 female, the elder sister of the boy's dead mother, who earned a frightfully insufficient58 subsistence by shoe-binding. More precarious59 than ever was this fragile means of living now, for her sight was failing, as her strength had failed. But things had been looking up with Jim of late, odd jobs had been plenty, his services had reached in certain quarters the status of recognized facts, and the street-boy was kind to his old relative. They were queer people, but not altogether uninteresting, and, strange to say, by no means unhappy. Old Sally had never been taught anything herself but shoe-binding, or she would have imparted instruction to Jim. Now Jim had learned to read in his mother's lifetime, and before his father had "come to grief" and been no more heard of, and it was consequently he who imparted instruction to his aunt. She was as fond of penny romances as the boy himself, and was wonderfully quick at discovering the impenetrable mysteries and unwinding the labyrinthine60 webs of those amazing productions. So Jim, cheered by the prospect61 of a lucrative62 job for the morrow, purchased a fresh and intensely horrible pennyworth by the way, and devoted63 himself for the evening to the delectation of old Sally, who liked her murders, as she liked her tea and her snuff, strongly flavoured.
The pennyworth lasted a good while, for Jim read slowly and elaborately, and conversational64 digressions occurred frequently. The heroine of the story, a proud and peerless peeress, was peculiarly fascinating to the reader and the listener.
"Lor, Jim," said old Sally, when the last line had been spelled over, and Jim was reluctantly obliged to confess that that was "all on it"--"lor, Jim, to think of that sweet pretty creetur, Rorer."--the angelic victim of the story was known to mortals as Aurora,--"knowing as how her ladyship 'ad been and done it all, and dyin' all alone in the moonshine, along o' thinkin' on her mother's villany."
Ordinarily, when Jim Swain lay down on his flock bed in the corner, he went to sleep with enviable rapidity; but the old woman's words had touched some chord of association or wonder in his clumsily arranged but not unintelligent mind; so that long after old Sally, in her corner of her little room, was sound asleep, Jim sat up hastily, ran his hands through his tangled hair, and said aloud:
"Good Lord! that's it! She's sure she knows it, she knows he did it, and she hidin' on it, and kiverin' of it up, and it's killing65 her."
The stipulated66 hour in the morning beheld Jim Swain engaged in the task of window-cleaning, not very unpleasant in such weather. He pursued his occupation with unusual seriousness; the impression of the previous night remained upon him.
The back parlour, called, of course, the "study" in Routh's house, deserved the name as much or as little as such rooms ordinarily merit it. The master of the house, at least, used the room habitually67, reading there a little, and writing a great deal. He had been sitting before a bureau, which occupied a space to the right of the only window in the apartment, for some time, when Harriet came to ask him if the boy, who was cleaning the windows, might go on with that one.
"Certainly," said Routh, absently; "he won't disturb me."
It would have required something of more importance than the presence of a boy on the other side of the window to disturb Routh. He was arranging papers with the utmost intentness. The drawers of the bureau were open on either side, the turned-down desk was covered with papers, some tied up in packets, others open: a large sheet, on which lines of figures were traced, lay on the blotting-pad. The dark expression most familiar to it was upon Stewart Routh's face that morning, and the tightly compressed lips never unclosed for a moment as he pursued his task. Jim Swain, on the outside of the window, which was defended by a narrow balcony and railing, could see him distinctly, and looked at him with much eagerness while he polished the panes68. It was a fixed belief with Jim that Routh was always "up to" something, and the boy was apt to discover confirmation69 in the simplest actions of his patron. Had another observer of Routh's demeanour been present, he might, probably, have shared Jim's impression; for the man's manner was intensely preoccupied70. He read and wrote, sorted papers, tied them up, and put them away, with unremitting industry.
Presently he stretched his hand up to a small drawer in the upper compartment71 of the bureau; but, instead of taking a paper or a packet from it, he took down the drawer itself, placed it on the desk before him, and began to turn over its contents with a still more darkly frowning face. Jim, at the corner of the window furthest from him, watched him so closely that he suspended the process of polishing; but Routh did not notice the cessation. Presently he came upon the papers which he had looked for, and was putting them into the breast-pocket of his coat, when he struck the drawer with his elbow, and knocked it off the desk. It fell on the floor, and its contents were scattered72 over the carpet. Among them was an object which rolled away into the window, and immediately caught the attention of Jim Swain. The boy looked at it, through the glass, with eyes in which amazement73 and fear contended. Routh picked up the contents of the drawer, all but this one object, and looked impatiently about in search of it. Then Jim, desperately74 anxious to see this thing nearer, took a resolution. He tapped at the window, and signed to Routh to open it and let him in. Routh, surprised, did so.
"Here it is, sir," said Jim, not entering the room, but sprawling75 over the window-sill, and groping with his long hands along the border of a rug which sheltered the object of Routh's search from his observation--"here it is, sir. I see it when it fell, and I knowed you couldn't see it from where you was."
The boy looked greedily at the object in his hand, and rolled it about once or twice before he handed it to Routh, who took it from him with a careless "Thank you." His preoccupied manner was still upon him. Then Jim shut down the window again from the outside and resumed his polishing. Routh replaced the drawer. Jim tried very hard to see where he placed the object he had held for a moment in his hand, but he could not succeed. Then Routh locked the bureau, and, opening a door of communication with the dining-room, Jim caught a momentary sight of Harriet sitting at the table, and went to his breakfast.
The seriousness of the previous night had grown and deepened over the boy. Abandoning the pursuit of odd jobs precisely76 at the hour of the day when he usually found them most plentiful77, Jim took his way homewards with headlong speed. Arrived within sight of the wretched houses, he paused. He did not wish any one to see what he was going to do. Fortune favoured him. As he stood irresolute at one end of the narrow street, his aunt came out of the door. She was going, he knew, to do her humble78 shopping, which consisted, for the most part, in haggling79 with costermongers by the side of their carts, and cheapening poor vegetables at the stalls. She would not be coming back just yet. He waited until she had turned the opposite corner, and then plunged80 into the open doorway81 and up the dark staircase. Arrived at the room which formed his sole habitation, Jim shut the door, and unceremoniously pulled away his flock bed, rolled up neatly82 enough in a corner, from the wall. This wall was covered with a paper once gaudy83, now dreary84 with the utter dreariness85 of dirt charged on bright colour, and had a wooden surbase about a foot in depth. Above the surbase there was a hole, not so large as to be easily remarked in a place where dilapidation86 of every sort was the usual state of things, and in this hole Jim insinuated87 his hand. There was suggestive dexterity88 in the way he did this; the lithe89 fingers had suppleness90 and readiness, swiftness and accuracy of touch, which, if there had been any one to care for the boy, that one would doubtless have noticed with regret. If he were not already a thief, Jim Swain possessed91 some of the physical requisites92 for that profession. Presently he withdrew the lithe hand, and looked steadfastly93 at the object which it had extracted from the hole in the wall. He turned it over and over, he examined it within and without, then he put it back again in the hiding-place, and replaced his bed.
Old Sally was much surprised, when she returned from her "marketing," to find her nephew at home. The apparition94 of Jim in the daytime, except on stray occasions, when, fortune being unpropitious, he would come home to see what his aunt could do for him in the way of dinner, was exceedingly rare. But he explained it now by saying he was tired, and had been well paid for a job he had done that morning. He proposed that he should get something choice that day for dinner, and stay "in" until evening.
"There's a new play at the 'Delphi to-night," said Jim, "and there'll be plenty of jobs down that way, callin' cabs and helpin' visitors to the hupper circles, as can't afford 'em, across the street. They're awful bewildered, mostly, when they come out of the theayter, and dreadful timid of the 'busses."
Very silent, and apparently95 sleepy, was Mr. James Swain all day; and as his old aunt sat patiently toiling96 by the window, he lay upon his bed with his knees up, and his hands crossed on the top of his tousled head. Allowing for the difference created by refinement97, education, and the habit of thinking on a system, only possible to the educated, there was some resemblance in the expression of the boy's face to that which Harriet Routh's had worn yesterday, when she had carried the burden of her thoughts, under the clear sky and the sunshine, in the Green Park. Jim Swain, too, looked as if he alone, unaided as she, was thinking it out.
The new play at the Adelphi was very successful. The theatre was crowded; the autumnal venture had turned out admirably; and though the audience could not be called fashionable, it was perhaps rather more animated98 and satisfactory in consequence. Jim Swain's most sanguine99 hopes were realized. The night was fine; people did not mind waiting a few minutes; good humour and threepenny-pieces were abundant. A tolerable sprinkling of private carriages relieved the plebeian100 plenitude of cabs, and these vehicles were called up with an energy to which, in the season, human nature would hardly have been equal. Tim was extremely active in summoning them, and had just returned breathless to the portico101 of the theatre to catch another name, and rush away again to proclaim it to the listening flunkies, when he was arrested by the sight of a gentleman whose face he knew, who was standing102 under the garish103 light of the entry with a lady, whose hand rested on his arm, and whose face was turned upward towards him, so that the full glare of the light fell upon it. Her tall figure, the splendour of her dress, the careless grace of her attitude, the appearance of unconsciousness of the general observation she was attracting, even in that self-engrossed crowd--pardonably self-engrossed, considering that it was occupied with the care of getting home as soon as possible--would have made her a sufficiently104 remarkable105 object to attract Jim's attention; but there was more than perception of all these things in the look which he fixed upon her. He stood still, a little in the shade. Routh did not see him. The lady was looking at him, and he saw nothing but her face--nothing but the brilliant dark eyes, so bright for all the world, so soft for only him; nothing but the crimson106 lips, which trembled; the rose-tinted cheek, which paled only at his words--only under his glance.
Her carriage was called. She walked towards it with her dress sweeping107 round her, and the other people fell back, and let her pass, naturally, and not by the urgency of the dingy officials who brawl108 and fight on such occasions. When she had taken her seat in the carriage, Routh followed her, and then Jim started forward. There was no footman, so the man with the badge and the lantern, well known and prized of unprotected females with a taste for theatre-going, asked, "Where to?" Jim, quite close, and totally unobserved, listened eagerly. The lady's voice replied, "Home."
"Home," said the man with the lantern, and instantly turned his attention to the next departures. Jim Swain glanced at the carriage; it had no rumble109, only a footboard. As it drove off slowly, for the Strand110 was crowded, he dashed into the jumble111 of cabs and omnibuses and followed it, running desperately, but dexterously112 too, and succeeded in keeping up with it until, at a point of comparative obscurity, he clambered up on the footboard.
The carriage rolled westward113, and carried Jim Swain with it until it reached one of the small so-called squares which are situated between Brompton proper and Chelsea. Then it stopped before a house with a heavy stone portico and a heavy stone balcony. Jim slid lightly to the ground, and hid himself in the shelter of the heavy stone portico of the adjoining house. Routh got out of the carriage; and when the house-door was opened, and a flood of light issued from it, he handed out the lady. She stood breathing the sweet air a moment, and the light once more touched her face and her dress with a rich radiance.
"It's her," said Jim. "It's her--her and him."
"What a lovely night!" said Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge, and then the door closed on her and Routh, and Jim stood still in his hiding-place until the carriage had slowly departed to the adjacent mews. Then he emerged from the portico, went up the steps of the house the lady and her companion had entered, and looked at the number on the door, distinctly visible by the light of the gas-jet within.
"Number four," said Jim; "now for the name of the square;" and he crossed the road, skirted the railings of the enclosed patch of brown ground and stunted114 shrubs115, and took the opposite side of the way. The night was clear and bright, and the name of the square was distinctly legible.
"Hollington-square," said Jim. "They called Mrs. Bembridge's carriage. I have not a bad head for names, but I'll get Teddy Smith to write these down. And I can't stand it any longer; I must do something. I'll try and get Mr. Dallas to let me speak to him when he comes from abroad, and then I'll tell him all about it. I suppose," said Jim very ruefully, "if he thinks right to tell, they'll lag me; but it can't be helped. Almost every one as I've knowed gets lagged some time or other."
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1
beheld
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| 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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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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inhale
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| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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espionage
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| n.间谍行为，谍报活动 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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29
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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30
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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funky
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| adj.畏缩的，怯懦的，霉臭的；adj.新式的，时髦的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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36
ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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39
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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41
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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42
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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43
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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45
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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46
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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51
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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56
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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57
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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58
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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labyrinthine
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| adj.如迷宫的；复杂的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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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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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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71
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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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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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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78
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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haggling
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的现在分词 ) | |
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80
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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81
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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83
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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84
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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85
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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86
dilapidation
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| n.倒塌；毁坏 | |
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87
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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88
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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89
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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suppleness
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| 柔软； 灵活； 易弯曲； 顺从 | |
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91
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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92
requisites
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| n.必要的事物( requisite的名词复数 ) | |
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93
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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95
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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96
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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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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100
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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101
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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102
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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103
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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104
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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105
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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106
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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107
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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108
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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109
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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110
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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111
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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112
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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113
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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114
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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115
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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