To unlock the heart and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceal’d
Their thoughts....
But we, my love—does a like spell benumb
Our hearts, our voices? Must we, too, be dumb?
Other lovers, then, had experienced that blank-wall feeling: it was just human nature. But soon he began to realize that in this case the trouble was more serious. He had nothing[118] to say to her. She did not understand him, nor call forth6 his confidences.
For months he had struggled against the consciousness that he had made a fatal mistake; but at length the horror of his marriage, of his inheritance, and of society in general as he saw it here in England, became altogether too large a presence to hide itself in the dark corners of his mind. It came out of the shadows and confronted him in the daylight of his heart—an ugly, menacing figure, towering above him, threatening him, arguing with him, whithersoever he went. He attributed features to it, and visualized7 it so that it took definite shape. It had a lewd8 eye which winked9 at him; it had a ponderous10, fat body, straining at the buttons of the black clothing of respectability; it had heavy, flabby hands which stroked him as though urging him to accept its companionship. It was his gaoler, and it wanted to be friends with him.
At length one autumn day, while he was sitting in the woods among the falling leaves, he turned his inward eyes with ferocious11 energy upon the monster, and set his mind to a full study of the situation it personified.
In the first place, Dolly held views in regard to the position and status of wife which offended Jim’s every ideal. She was firmly convinced that marriage was, first and foremost, designed by God for the purpose of producing in the male creature a disinclination for romance. It involved a mutual duty, a routine: the wife had functions to perform with condescension12, the husband had recurrent requirements to be indulged in order that his life might pursue its[119] way with the least possible excitement. The whole thing was an ordained13 and prescriptive business, like a soldier’s drill or a patient’s diet; nor did she seem to realize that there was no room for real love in her conception of their relationship, no sweet enchantment14, no exaltation.
Then, again, he was very much disappointed that Dolly had no wish to have a child of her own. She had explained to him early in their married life how her doctor had told her there would be the greatest possible danger for her in motherhood; but it had not taken Jim long to see that a combination of fear, selfishness and vanity were the true causes of her disinclination to maternity15. She was always afraid of pain and in dread16 of death; she always thought first of her own comfort; and she was vain of her youthful figure.
These two facts, that she asserted herself as his wife and that she shunned17 parenthood, combined to produce a condition of affairs which offended Jim’s every instinct. In these matters men are so often more fastidious than women, though the popular pretence18 is to the contrary; and in the case of this unfortunate marriage there was an appalling19 contrast between the crudity21 of the angel-faced little wife and the delicacy22 of the hardy23 husband.
A further trouble was that she regarded marriage as a duality incompatible24 with solitude25 or with any but the most temporary separation. One would have thought that she had based her interpretation26 of the conjugal27 state upon some memory of the Siamese Twins. When Jim was writing verses in the study—an occupation which, by the way, she[120] endeavoured to discourage—she would also want to write there; when he was entertaining a male friend she would enter the room, and refuse to budge—not because she liked the visitor, but because she must needs assert her standing28 as wife and as partner of all her husband’s amusements; when he went into Oxford29 or up to London she would insist on going too; even when he was talking to the gardener she would come up behind him, slip her arm through his, and immediately enter the conversation.
At first, when he used to tell her that he was going alone into Oxford to have a drink and a chat in the public room at one of the hotels, she would burst into tears, or take offence less liquid but more devastating30. Later she accused him of an intrigue31 with a barmaid, and went into tantrums when in desperation he replied: “No such luck.” For the sake of peace he found it necessary at last to give up all such excursions except when they were unavoidable, and gradually his life had become that of a prisoner.
She carried this assertion of her wifely rights to galling32 and intolerable lengths. She would look over his shoulder when he was writing letters, and would be offended if he did not let her do so, or if he withheld33 the letters he received. On two or three occasions she had come to him, smiling innocently, and had handed him some opened envelope, and had said: “I’m so sorry, dear; I opened this by mistake. I thought it was for me.”
He could keep nothing from her prying34 eyes; and yet, in contrast to this curiosity, she showed no interest whatsoever35 in his life previous to his[121] marriage, a fact which indicated clearly enough that her concern was solely36 in regard to her relationship with him, and was not prompted by any desire to enter into his personality. At first he had wanted to tell her of his early wanderings; but she had been bored, or even shocked, by his narrations38, and had told him that his adventures did not sound very “nice.” Thus, though now she watched his every movement, she had no idea of his early travels, nor knew, except vaguely39, what lands he had dwelt in, nor was she aware that in those days he had passed under the name of Easton.
Now Jim enjoyed telling a story: he was, in fact, a very interesting and vivacious40 raconteur41; and he felt, at first, sad disappointment that his roaming life should be regarded as a subject too dull or too unrespectable for narration37. “It’s a funny thing,” he once said to himself, “but that girl, Monimé, at Alexandria knows far more about me than my own wife, and I only knew her for a few hours!”
And then her poses and affectations! He discovered early in their married life that her offers to teach the cook her business, or to knit him waistcoats, were entirely42 fraudulent. She had none of the domestic virtues—a fact which only troubled him because she persisted in seeing herself in the r?le of practical housewife: he had no wish for her to be a cook or a sewing woman. She went through a phase in which she pictured herself as a sun-bonneted poultry43-farmer. She bought a number of Rhode Island Reds and Buff Orpingtons; she caused elaborate hen-houses to be set up; and she subscribed44 to various poultry fanciers’ journals. But[122] it was not many weeks before the pens were derelict and their occupants gone. For some months she played the part of the Lady Bountiful to the village, and might have been seen tripping down the lanes to visit the aged45 cottagers, a basket on her arm. This occupation, however, soon began to pall20, and her apostacy was marked by a gradual abandonment of the job to the servants. Later she had attached herself to the High Church party in Oxford, and had added new horrors to the state of wedlock46 by regarding it as a mystic sacrament....
The most recent of her phases had followed on from this. She had asked Jim to allow her to bring to the house the orphaned47 children of a distant relative of her mother’s: two little girls, aged four and five. “It will be so sweet,” she had said, “to hear their merry laughter echoing about this old house. It will be some compensation for my great sorrow in not being allowed to have babies of my own.”
Jim had readily consented, for he was very fond of children; and soon the mites48 had arrived, very shy and tearful at first, but presently well content with their lot. Dolly declared that no nurse would be necessary, as she would delight in attending to them herself, and for two weeks she had played the little mother with diminishing enthusiasm. But the day speedily came when help was found to be necessary, and now a good-natured nursery-governess was installed at the manor49.
Having thus regained50 her leisure, she bought a notebook, and labelling it “The Tiny Tot’s Treasury,” spent several mornings in dividing the pages[123] into sections under elaborate headings written in a large round hand. Jim chanced upon this book one day—it lay open upon a table—and two section-headings caught his eye. They read:—
Hands, games with Toes, games with
“Can you keep a secret?” “This little pig went to market.”
“Pat-a-cake.”
The book was abandoned within a week or two; but the recollection of its futility51, its pose, remained in Jim’s memory for many a day.
The presence of these two little girls, while being a considerable pleasure to Jim in itself, had been the means of irritating him still further in regard to his wife. Sometimes, when she remembered it, she would go up to the nursery to bid them “good-night” and to hear their prayers; and when he accompanied her upon this mission his spontaneous heart was shocked to notice how her attitude towards them was dictated52 solely by the picture in her own mind which represented herself as the ideal mother. There was a long mirror in the nursery, and, as she caressed53 the two children, her eyes were fixed54 upon her own reflection as though the vision pleased her profoundly.
And then, only a few days ago, a significant occurrence had taken place which had led to a painful scene between Dolly and himself. One morning at breakfast the elder of the two little girls had told him that she had had an “awfully awful” dream.
“It was all about babies,” she had said, and then, pausing shyly, she had added: “But I mustn’t tell you about it, because it’s very naughty.”
[124]
He was alone in the room with them at the time, and he had questioned the round-eyed little girl, and had eventually extracted from her the startling information that on the previous evening Dolly had been telling them “how babies grew,” but had warned them that it would be naughty to talk about it.
He was furious, and when his wife came downstairs at mid-morning—she always had her breakfast in bed—he had caught hold of her arm and had asked her what on earth she meant by talking in this manner to two infants of four and five years of age.
“It’s not your business,” was the reply. “You must trust a woman’s instinct to know when to reveal things to little girls.”
“Oh, rot” he had answered, angrily; and suddenly he had put into hot and scornful words his interpretation of Dolly’s untimely action. “The fact is, your motive55 is never disinterested56. You are always picturing yourself in one r?le or another. You didn’t even think what sort of impression you were making on the minds of those little girls: you were only play-acting for your own edification.”
“You pictured yourself,” he went on, with bitter sarcasm58, “as the sweet and wise mother revealing to the wide-eyed little girls the great secrets of Nature. I suppose some Oxford ass5 has been lecturing to a lot of you silly women about the duties of motherhood, and you at once built up your foolish picture, and thought it would make a charming scene—the[125] gentle mother, the two little babies at your knee, their lisping questions and your pure, sweet answer, telling them the wonderful vocation59 of womanhood. And then you went upstairs and forced it on the poor little souls, just to gratify your vanity; but afterwards you were frightened at what you had done, and told them they mustn’t speak about it, because it was naughty. Naughty!—Good God!—That one word has already sown the seed of corruption60 in their minds. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
He had not waited for her reply, but had left the room, and had gone with clenched62 fists into the woods, his usual refuge, sick at heart, and appalled63 that his life was linked to such a sham61 thing as his wife had proved herself to be.
He had longed to get away from her, away from Eversfield, back to his beloved high roads once more, out of this evil stagnation64; and all the while the ponderous, black-coated creature of his imagination had leered at him and stroked him.
When next he saw his wife he had found her in the rock-garden playing a game with the two children, as though she were determined65 to make him realize her ability to enter into their mental outlook. “We are playing a game of fairies,” she had told him, evidently not desiring to keep up the quarrel. “All the flowers are enchanted66 people, and the rockery there is an ogre’s castle. We’re having a lovely time.”
The two little girls actually were standing staring in front of them, utterly67 bored; for the ability to play with children is a delicate art in which few[126] “grown-ups” are at ease. But Dolly, as she crouched68 upon the ground, was not concerned with anybody save herself, and the game was designed for the applause of her inward audience and for the eye of her husband, and not at all for the entertainment of her charges.
“Well, when you’ve finished I want you to come and help me tidy my writing-table and tear things up,” he had said to the children; and thereat they had asked Dolly whether they might please go now, and had pranced69 into the house at his side, leaving her sighing in the rock-garden.
Thoughts and memories such as these paraded before his mind’s eye as he sat upon a fallen tree trunk, deep in the woods. The afternoon was warm and still, and the leaves which fell one by one from the surrounding trees seemed to drop from the branches deliberately70, as though each were answering an individual call of the earth. Sometimes his heavy thoughts were interrupted by the shrill71 note of a bird, and once there was a startled scurry72 amongst the undergrowth as a rabbit observed him and went bounding away.
The wood was not very extensive, but, with the surrounding fields, it afforded a certain amount of shooting; and one of Jim’s tenants73, Pegett by name, who lived in a cottage in a clearing at the far side, acted as a sort of gamekeeper, his house being given to him free of rent in return for his services.
The sun had set, and the haze74 of a windless twilight75 had gathered in the distant spaces between the trees when at length Jim rose to return to the manor. His ruminations had led him to no very[127] definite conclusion, save only that he had made a horrible mistake, and that he must adjust his life to this glaring fact, even though he offend Dolly’s dignity in the process.
As he stood for a moment in silence, stretching his arms like one awaking from sleep, he was suddenly aware of the sound of cracking twigs76 and rustling77 leaves, and, looking in the direction from which it came, he caught sight of the red-faced Pegett, the gamekeeper, emerging, gun in hand, from behind a group of tree-trunks. The man ran forward, and then, recognizing him, paused and touched his cap.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, breathing heavily, “I’m after that there poaching thief, Smiley-face. ’E’s at it again: I seen ’im slip in with ’is tackle. I seen ’im from my window.”
“He’s not been this way,” Jim assured him. “I’ve been sitting here a long time.”
“’E’s a clever ’un!” Pegett muttered, “but I’ll get ’im one ’o these days, sir, I will; and I’ll put a barrel o’ shot into ’is legs.”
“He’s not quite right in his head, is he?” Jim asked.
“Oh, ’e’s wise enough,” the man replied; “wise enough to get ’is dinner off of your rabbits, sir. That’s been ’is game since ’e were no more’n a lad. And never done an honest day’s work in ’is life.”
Smiley-face, as has been said, was generally considered to be half-witted; but on the few occasions on which Jim had spoken to him he had answered intelligently enough, not to say cheekily, though there was something most uncanny about his continuous smile. Nobody seemed to know exactly how[128] he lived. He slept in a garret in a lonely cottage belonging to an aged and witch-like woman known as old Jenny, and it was to be presumed that he did odd jobs for her in return for his keep; but she herself was a mysterious soul, not inclined to waste words on the passer-by, and her cottage, which stood midway between Eversfield and the neighbouring village of Bedley-Sutton, was superstitiously78 shunned by the inhabitants of both places.
Pegett was eager to track down the malefactor79, and presently he disappeared among the trees, moving like a burlesque80 of a Red Indian, and actually making sufficient noise to rouse the woods for a hundred yards around. Jim, meanwhile, made his way towards the manor, walking quietly upon the moss-covered path, and pausing every now and then to listen to the distant commotion81 caused by the gamekeeper’s efforts to break a silent way through the brittle82 twigs and crisp, dead leaves.
He had just sighted the gate which led from the wood to the lower part of the garden of the manor when his eye was attracted by the swaying of the upper branch of an oak a short distance from the path. He paused, wondering what had caused the movement, which had sent a shower of leaves to the ground, and to his surprise he presently discerned a man’s foot resting upon it, the remainder of his body being hidden behind the broad trunk. He guessed immediately that he had chanced upon, and treed, Smiley-face, and, having a fellow feeling for the poacher, he called out to him, quite good-naturedly, to come down. He received no answer, however; and going therefore to the foot of the oak,[129] he looked up at the man, who was now hardly concealed83, and again addressed him.
“It’s no good pretending to be a woodpecker, Smiley-face,” he said. “Come down at once, or I’ll shy a stone at you.”
Smiley-face was a youngish man, with dirty red hair, puckered84 pink skin, and a smile which extended from ear to ear. His nose was snub, and his eyes were like two sparkling little blue beads85, cunning and merry. He now thrust this surprising countenance86 forward over the top of a branch, and stared down at Jim with an expression of intense relief.
“Lordee!—it’s the Squire,” he muttered. “You did give I a fright, sir: I thought it was Mr. Pegett with ’is gun. Shoot I dead, ’e said he would. ’E said it to my face, up yonder at the Devil’s Crossroads: would you believe it?”
“Yes, he told me he’d let you have an ounce of small shot, but only in the legs of course.”
“You’d better come down,” Jim advised. “He’s after you now; and you can see I myself haven’t got my gun with me, or I’d pepper you too.”
The man descended88 the tree, talking incoherently as he swung from branch to branch. Presently he dropped to the ground from one of the lower boughs89, and stood grinning before Jim, a dirty, ragged90 creature without a point to commend him.
“Fairly cotched I am,” he declared. “But I knows a gen’l’man when I sees un. I knows when it’s safe and when it baint. If I was to run now, d’you reckon you could catch I, sir?”
For answer Jim’s lean arm shot out, and his[130] hand gripped hold of the handkerchief knotted around the man’s neck. Smiley-face swung his fist round, but the blow missed; and Jim, who had learnt a trick or two from a little Jap in California, tripped him up with ease, and the next moment was kneeling upon his chest.
“What about that, Smiley-face?” he asked, laughing.
“Wonderful!” replied the poacher. “I should never ha’ thought it.”
Jim rose to his feet. “Get up,” he said, “and let me hear what you’ve got to say for yourself.” Then, as the man did as he was bid, he added: “If Pegett comes along, you can slip through that gate and across my garden. Nobody will see you.”
Smiley-face grinned. “Thank’ee kindly91, sir,” he said, touching92 his forelock. “I knew you was a kind gen’l’man.”
“Oh, cut that out,” Jim replied sharply. “What d’you mean by going after my rabbits?”
“O Lordee! Be they yours?” Smiley-face scratched his red head.
“You know very well they are. I own this place, don’t I?”
“And the rabbits, too?”
“Well, of course!”
“I reckon they don’t know it, sir,” Smiley-face muttered, still grinning broadly.
“Don’t be an idiot,” said Jim.
The poacher held up his forefinger93 as though in reproach. “I’m a poor man, me lord,” he murmured.
“You’re a thief.”
“Oh, no,” replied Smiley-face with assurance. “Poachers isn’t thieves, your highness.”
[131]
“Well they’re my rabbits.”
“But I’m a poor man,” the other repeated.
“So you said,” Jim answered. “That’s no excuse.”
Smiley-face shook his head. “You wouldn’t be like to understand a poor man—not with a big ’ouse, and ’undreds o’ rabbits, you wouldn’t.”
“Oh, wouldn’t I!” said Jim. “I’ve been poor myself. I’ve known what it is not to have a cent in the world. I’ve slept in hedges; I’ve tramped the roads....”
“You ’ave?” The poacher was incredulous, and thrust his head forward, staring at his captor with cunning little eyes.
“Yes, I have,” Jim declared.
“Lordee!” exclaimed Smiley-face. “Then you know....”
“Know what?” asked Jim.
The man made a non-committal gesture. “It’s not for me to say what you know, your worship. But you do know.”
Jim made an impatient movement. “Look here now, if I let you go this time will you promise not to do it again?”
Smiley-face shook his head, and again touched his forelock. “Oh, I couldn’t do that, sir. It’s tremenjus sport; and old Jenny she do cook rabbit fine, sir; and eat un, too. Don’t be angry, your highness,” he added quickly, as Jim turned threateningly upon him.
“Don’t keep calling me ‘your highness’ and ‘my lord.’ I’m a plain man, the same as you.”
“So you be, sir,” the other smiled. “You’ve walked the roads; you’ve lain out o’ nights. You[132] know. And now you’re a-askin’ o’ I not to poach! Oh, you can’t do that, sir....”
“Well, supposing I give you permission to poach every now and then?” Jim suggested.
“What?—and tell Mr. Pegett not to shoot I dead? Oh, no; there wouldn’t be no sport in that.”
Jim held out his hand. “Look here, Smiley-face,” he said. “You seem to be pulling my leg, but I rather like you. Let’s be friends.”
The man drew back. “Well, I don’t ’xactly ’old with friends, sir. Friends laughs at friends.”
“Nonsense,” Jim replied. “Friends are people who stand by one another through thick and thin. Friends are people who have something in common which they both defend. You and I have something in common, Smiley-face.”
“And what be that?” the man asked.
“Why,” laughed Jim, “we’re both up against it. We’re both failures in life, tramps by nature. As you say, we both know.”
Smiley-face stared at him, not altogether understanding his words.
“You’d better come across the garden with me now,” said Jim.
“But Pegett’s there with his gun.”
Smiley-face grinned. “’E’ll not get I, never you fear!”
Jim turned and walked towards the gate; and presently his friend the poacher moved stealthily away into the gathering96 dusk, and soon was lost amongst the trees.
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收听单词发音
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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visualized
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| 直观的，直视的 | |
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lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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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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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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crudity
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| n.粗糙，生硬；adj.粗略的 | |
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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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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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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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Oxford
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devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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whatsoever
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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narrations
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| 叙述事情的经过，故事( narration的名词复数 ) | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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raconteur
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| n.善讲故事者 | |
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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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poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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mites
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| n.（尤指令人怜悯的）小孩( mite的名词复数 )；一点点；一文钱；螨 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pranced
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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superstitiously
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| 被邪教所支配 | |
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malefactor
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| n.罪犯 | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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nettle
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| n.荨麻；v.烦忧，激恼 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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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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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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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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