He knew precisely4 what was the matter with him, and his dark, angry eyes rolled around the dirty pink-washed room, as would those of a criminal around the place of execution. Yesterday he had arrived in from the desert, tired out by a four-days’ journey on camel-back across the furnace of rocks and sand which separated the gold-mines, where he had been working, from the nearest bend of the Nile. There had been an outbreak of cholera5 at the camp; and, being the only white man then remaining at the works, which were in process of being shut down for the summer, he had been obliged to stay at his post until, as he supposed,[10] the epidemic6 had been stamped out. Then, with a handful of natives he had set out for the Nile Valley; but on the journey his personal servant had contracted the dreaded7 sickness, and the man had died pitifully in his arms, in the stifling8 shadow of a wayside rock.
The little town of K?m-es-Sultan was a mere9 jumble10 of mud-brick houses surrounding a whitewashed11 mosque12; and so great was the summer heat that one might have expected the whole place suddenly to burst into flames and utterly13 to be consumed. No Europeans lived there, with the exception of a nondescript Greek, who kept a grocery store and lent money to the indigent14 natives at outrageous15 interest; but at the village of El Aish, on the other side of the Nile, there was a small sugar-factory, in charge of an amplitudinous and bearded Welshman named Morgan, who, presumably, was now at his post, since, but a few minutes ago, the siren announcing the end of the day’s work had sounded across the water. Although six hundred miles above Cairo, K?m-es-Sultan was not so isolated16 as its primitive17 appearance suggested; for it was no more than five miles distant from a railway-station, where, once a day, the roasting little narrow-gauge train halted in its long journey down to Luxor.
Jim cursed his suddenly active conscience that it had not permitted him to take this train as it passed in the morning, for already then he had realized the probability that calamity18 was upon him; but he had been constrained19 to remain where he was, alone in the ramshackle and parboiled rest-house outside[11] the town, for fear of spreading the sickness, and he had determined20 to wait until an answer came from the Public Health official at Luxor, to whom he had sent a telegram stating that his party was infected, and that he was keeping the men together until instructions were received. He seldom did the correct thing; but on this occasion, when lives were at stake, he had felt that for once the freedom of the individual had to be subordinated to the interests of the community, repugnant though such a thought was to his independent nature.
A dismal21 sort of place, he thought to himself, in which to fight for one’s life! There were two doors in the room, one bolted and barred since the Lord knows when, the other creaking on its hinges as the scorching22 wind fluttered up against it through the outer hall. A window near the floor, with cracked, cobwebbed panes23 of glass, stood half open, and a towel hung loosely from a nail in the outside shutter24 to another in the inside woodwork. In the morning it had served to keep out the early sun; but now the last rays struck through the cracks of the opposite doorway25 in dusty shafts26.
He had told his Egyptian overseer that he was tired, and that he did not wish to be disturbed again until the morning; and he bade him keep the men in the camp amongst the rocks a few hundred yards back in the desert, and prevent them from entering the town. But in thus desiring to be alone he had not been prompted merely by his regard for the safety of others: he had followed also that primitive instinct which his wandering, self-reliant manner of life had nurtured27 in him, that instinct[12] which leads a man to hide himself from, rather than to seek, his fellows when illness is upon him. Like a sick animal he had slunk into this desolate28 place of shelter; and he now prepared himself for the battle with a sense almost of relief that he was unobserved.
He went across to the door and bolted it; then to the window, and pulled the shutters29 to: but the bolt was broken and the woodwork, eaten by white-ants, was falling to pieces. He took from his medicine-box a large flask30 of brandy, a bottle of carbolic, a little phial of chlorodyne, and a thermometer. There was a tin jug31 in the corner of the room, full of water; and into this he emptied the carbolic, shaking it viciously thereafter. Then he saturated32 the towel with the liquid, and replaced it across the window.
As the first spasms34 attacked him and left him again, he gulped35 down a stiff dose of brandy, stripped off most of his clothes, and rolled them up in a bundle in the corner of the room; uncorked the chlorodyne, and lay down on his mattress36. His heart was beating fast, and for a while he was shaken with fear. All his life he had smiled at death as at a friend, and, like Marcus Aurelius, had called it but “a resting from the vibrations37 of sensation and the swayings of desire, a stop upon the rambling38 of thought, and a release from all the drudgery39 of the body.” Yet now, when he was to do battle with it, he was afraid.
He endeavoured to laugh, and as it were mentally to snap his fingers; and presently, perhaps under the influence of the brandy, he got up from the bed and[13] fetched from the outer room his guitar, which had been his solace40 on many a trying occasion. Some years ago, in South Africa, he had set to a lilting tune41 the lines of Procter in praise of Death; and now, sitting on the edge of the bed, a wild haggard figure with sallow face and black hair tumbling over his forehead, he twanged the strings42 and sang the crazy words with a sort of desperation.
King Death was a rare old fellow;
He sat where no sun could shine,
And he lifted his hand so yellow,
And poured out his coal-black wine
Whose eyes had forgot to shine,
And widows with grief o’erladen,
Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!
The heat of the room was abominable46, and he mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, and groaned47 aloud. Then, returning to his song, he skipped a verse and proceeded.
All came to the rare old fellow,
Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,
And he gave them his hand so yellow,
And pledged them in Death’s black wine.
Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!
The sun set and the stars came out. At length, overcome with sickness, he thrust the guitar aside, and staggered across the room; and presently, when he was somewhat recovered, he groped for a candle, lit it, stuck it in an empty bottle, and lay down again with a gasp48 of pain.
[14]
Now the battle began in earnest, and he made no further attempt to laugh. Taut49 and racked, he stared up at the dim, cobwebbed ceiling, and swore that no man should come near him so long as there was danger of infection. He was, perhaps, a little pig-headed on this point; but such was his nature. “Live, and let live” had ever been his motto; and now he was putting into practice the second half of that maxim50.
The thought occurred to him that he ought to write a will, or some general instructions, in case the “rare old fellow” were triumphant51; but, on consideration, he abandoned the idea for the good reason that he had neither property worth mentioning to leave, nor relations to whom he would care to address his last message. Moreover, in his momentary52 relief from pain, he felt extraordinarily53 disinclined to bother himself.
He had an uncle—Stephen—who was in possession of a little estate at Eversfield, a small English village in the neighbourhood of Oxford54, where the Tundering-Wests had lived for many generations; but he had not seen much of this correct and conventional personage during his childhood, and nothing at all for the last ten years, since he had been a grown man and a wanderer. This uncle had two sons, his cousins: one of them, Mark by name, was, he believed, in India; the other, called James like himself, lived at home. They were his sole relations, he being an only child, and his father and mother having died two or three years ago, leaving him a few hundred pounds, which he had quickly lost.
[15]
There was nobody who would care very much if he pegged55 out, and in this thought there was a sort of gloomy comfort. Moreover, he was known by his few friends in Egypt and elsewhere as Jim Easton; for, many years ago, at a time when he was reduced to utter penury56, he had thought it best to hide his identity, lest interfering57 persons should communicate with his relations. In the name of Jim Easton he had wandered from place to place, and in that name he had obtained this job at the gold mines; and if now he were to die, the fate of James Tundering-West would remain a matter of speculation58. That was as it should be: ever since he left England he had been a bird of passage, and is it not a rarity to see a dead bird? Nobody knows where they all die, or how: with few exceptions, they seem, as it were, to fade away; and thus he, too, would disappear.
He rolled his eyes around his prison, and clapped his hand with pathetic drama to his burning forehead. “Wretched bird!” he muttered, addressing himself. “It was in you to soar to the heights, to go rushing up to the sun and the planets, with strong, driving wings. But the winds were always contrary, or the attractions of the lower air were too alluring59; and now you are sunk to the earth, and may be you will never make that great assault upon the stars of which you had always dreamed.”
He dismissed these useless ruminations. He was not going to die: life and the lure60 of the unattained were still before him.
Another and another spasm33 smote61 him, tore him asunder62, and left him shaking upon the bed. With[16] a trembling hand he mixed the brandy and chlorodyne, making little attempts to measure the dose. The candle spluttered on the floor near by, and strange insects buzzed around it, singed63 themselves, and fell kicking on their backs.
He opened his eyes and watched them as he lay on his side, his knees drawn64 up, and his hands gripping the edge of the bed. Their agonies, no doubt, were as great as his, but, being small, they did not matter. He, too, as Englishmen go, was not large; and it was very apparent that he did not much matter. He was of the lean and medium-sized variety of the race, and was of the swarthy type which is often to be found in the far south-west of England, where his family had had its origin. Some people might have termed him picturesque65: others might have said, and most certainly just now would have said, that he looked a bit mad.
At length he slept for a few minutes; but his dreams were hideous66, and full of faces, which came close to him, growing bigger and bigger, until, with strange and melancholy67 grimaces68, they receded69 once more into infinite distance. Somebody grey, ponderous70, and very fearful, counted endless numbers, now slowly and portentously71, now with such increasing rapidity that his brain reeled.
In this manner the seemingly endless night passed on: a few moments of sleep, a disjointed procession of horrible fantasies, convulsions of pain, staggerings across the room, fallings back on the bed, brandy, and exhausted72 sleep again. But all the while he knew that he was growing weaker.
Presently the candle went out, and the darkness[17] closed over his agony. The thought came to him that soon he would no longer have the power to dose himself, and with it came that human desire for aid which no animal instinct of segregation73 can wholly stifle74 in a heart weary with pain. It was now long past midnight, and from this time till sunrise he fought a terrible double battle, on the one hand with Death, on the other with Self. It would not be impossible, he knew, to crawl from the room into the silent desert outside, and a cry for help would possibly be heard by his men.
But what would happen? They would go into the town, doubtless carrying the infection with them, and would engage a boat in which they would row across the Nile to fetch Morgan, who had the reputation of being somewhat of a doctor. But Morgan had a wife and child in Wales, who were dependent on him: only last autumn that hairy giant had told him all about them as they sat drinking warm lager in the dusty garden by the river, one hot night, just before the mining party had set out for the distant works.
Thus, when at long last the sun rose and glared into the room, above and below the fluttering towel, he was still alone.
At nine o’clock, as the day’s heat and the onslaught of the flies began again to be intolerable, he gave up hope. Until that hour he had fought his fight with decency75; but now convulsion on convulsion had dragged the strength out of him, and he was no longer able to crawl back on to the bedstead. The last drops of brandy in a tumbler by his side, he lay limply on the floor; and where he lay, there the[18] spasms racked him, and there he fainted. With the hope for life went also the desire, and each time that he came to himself he prayed to God for the mercy of unconsciousness. The dying words of Anne Boleyn, which he had read years ago, recurred76 again and again to his mind: “O Death, rocke me aslepe; bringe me on quiet rest.” He kept saying them over to himself, not with his lips, for they were parched77, but somewhere deep down in the nightmare of his wandering brain.
Presently a gust78 of blistering79 wind flicked80 the towel from its nail in the window, and with that the creaking shutter slammed back on its hinges, and the sun streamed full on to the white figure on the floor. Jim opened his eyes, bloodshot and wild, and stared out on to the rocks and sandy drifts. A few sparrows were hopping81 about languidly in the shade of a ruinous wall, their beaks82 open as though they were panting for breath. The sky was leaden, for the glare of the sun seemed to have sucked out the colour from all things, even from the yellow sand, which now had the neutral hue83 of Egyptian dust.
This, then, was the end!—and he could shut up his life as a book that has been read. At the age of nineteen he had abandoned the humdrum84 but respectable City career towards which he was being headed by his father, and, having nigh broken the parental85 heart, had gone out to Korea as handyman to a gold-mining company. He had dreamed of riches; his mind had been full of the thought of gold and its power. He had imagined himself buying a kingdom for his own, as it were.
[19]
Two years later, utterly disillusioned86, he had taken ship to California, and had earned his living in many capacities, until chance had carried him to the Aroe Islands in the pearl trade, and later to the diamond mines of South Africa. Incidentally, he had become, after three or four years, something of an expert in estimating the value of diamonds, and had made a few hundred pounds by barter87; but with this sum in the bank he had failed to resist the vagrancy88 of his nature and the enticement89 of his dreams, and had returned to Europe to wander through Italy, France, and Spain: not altogether in idleness, for being addicted90 to scribbling91 his thoughts in rhyme, and twisting and turning his speculations92 into the various shapes of recognized verse, he had filled many notebooks with jottings and impressions which he believed to be more or less worthless.
Then he had inherited his father’s small savings93, and had been induced by a persuasive94 friend to invest them in an expedition to Ceylon in search of a mythical95 field of moonstones. Returning in absolute poverty, owning nothing but his guitar and the threadbare clothes in which he stood, he had landed at Port Said, and so had taken reluctant service in this somewhat precarious96 gold-mining company at a salary which had now placed a small sum to his credit on the company’s books.
A roaming, dreaming, sun-baked, Bedouin life!—and this ending of it in a stifling, tumbledown rest-house seemed to be the most natural wind-up of the whole business. Often he had enjoyed himself; he had played with romance; he had had his great moments; but at times he had suffered under a[20] sense of utter loneliness, and these last months at the mines in the desert had been a miserable97 exile, only relieved by those silent hours in his tent at night, when he had endeavoured to put into written words the tremendous thoughts of his teeming98 brain. And now death and oblivion appeared to him as something very eagerly to be desired—a great sleep, where the horrible sun and the flies could not reach him, and an eternal relief from all this agony, all this messiness.
He fumbled99 for the last of the brandy, knocked the glass over and smashed it. The liquid ran along the floor to his face, and he put out his dry tongue and licked up a little. Then, as though remembering his manners, he rolled away from it, and shut his eyes.
When consciousness came again to him somebody was knocking at the outer door in the hall beyond. A few minutes later there was a shuffling100 step, and a rap upon the inner door.
“Sir, are you awake?” It was the voice of his Egyptian overseer.
Jim raised himself on his elbows, thereby101 disturbing the crowd of crawling flies which had settled upon his face and body, and slowly turned his head in the direction of the speaker. “Go away, you idiot!” he husked. “I’ve got cholera. I’m dying.”
“What you say?” came the voice from the other side. “I cannot hear you.”
“I’ve got cholera,” he repeated, with an effort which seemed to be bursting his heart. Then, with another purpose: “I’m nearly well now ... all right in an hour ... keep away!”
[21]
The footsteps shuffled102 off hurriedly, then stopped. “I go fetch Meester Morgan: he is here this mornin’. I seen him comin’ ’cross the river,” the man called out; and the footsteps passed out of hearing.
Another convulsion: but this time there was no power of resistance remaining, and long before the spasm ceased he had fainted. The next thing of which he was aware was that the heavy footstep of Morgan was coming towards the house. That frightened rat of an overseer had fetched him, then, and the gigantic fool was going to take the risk! What use was he now? There was easy Death already almost in possession: not the laughing, rare old fellow of his song, but beautiful desirable Rest.
He was powerless to stop the man. His voice failed to rise above a whisper when he attempted to call out a warning. Suddenly his eye lighted on the jug of carbolic a yard away. At least he could lessen103 the danger. Slowly, and with infinite pain, he wormed himself over the floor, until his limp arm touched the jug, and his fingers closed over the mouth. A feeble pull, and the jug tottered104; another, and it fell over with a clatter105, and the strong disinfectant ran in a stream around him, under him, through his hair, through his scanty106 clothes, and away across the room.
The handle of the door rattled108. “Are you there, Easton? Let me in!—I know how to doctor you.” Another rattle107. “Let me in, or I’ll come round by the window.”
But Jim did not answer. He lay still and deathlike as the hulking figure of Morgan scrambled109 into[22] the room through the window, and knelt down by his side on the wet floor. The place reeked110 of carbolic: everything was saturated with it. Morgan stepped through it to the door, and pulled back the bolts. Then, slipping and sliding, he dragged the half-naked, dishevelled body by the armpits into the outer room, and, propping111 it up against his knees, felt for the pulse in the nerveless wrist.
The morning sun poured in through the broken-down verandah, glistening112 on the damp hair of the exhausted sufferer, and gleaming upon the bearded, sweating face of the good Samaritan.
Jim opened his eyes, and his cracked lips moved. “Don’t be a damned fool,” he whispered. “Don’t take such a risk ... every man for himself....” His head fell forward once more, and his eyes closed.
“Oh, rot!” said Morgan. “You brave little chap!—I think you’ve got a chance, please God.”
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收听单词发音
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1
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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3
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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7
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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10
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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11
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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indigent
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的 | |
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15
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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16
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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18
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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24
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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29
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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31
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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33
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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35
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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45
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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46
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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47
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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48
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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51
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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52
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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53
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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pegged
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| v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的过去式和过去分词 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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singed
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| v.浅表烧焦( singe的过去式和过去分词 )；（毛发）燎，烧焦尖端[边儿] | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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portentously
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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segregation
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| n.隔离，种族隔离 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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blistering
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| adj.酷热的；猛烈的；使起疱的；可恶的v.起水疱；起气泡；使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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beaks
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| n.鸟嘴( beak的名词复数 )；鹰钩嘴；尖鼻子；掌权者 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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vagrancy
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| （说话的，思想的）游移不定； 漂泊； 流浪； 离题 | |
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enticement
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| n.诱骗，诱人 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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101
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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102
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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103
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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104
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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105
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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106
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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107
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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108
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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109
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；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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111
propping
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| 支撑 | |
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112
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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