His remark was made in answer to his reiterated4 question as to why he had not sooner broken away. He heartily6 disliked any kind of “scene,” and, being a fatalist, he had preferred to “let things rip,” as he termed it, than to make a bid for that freedom which he had so recklessly abandoned. It was true that he had gone up to London more frequently of late; but any longer absences from home had caused such an intolerable display either of temper or of feminine jobbery on Dolly’s part that Jim had found the game hardly worth the candle.
She had no great reason to be jealous of her husband, for he was not a man who gave much thought to women. But she was violently jealous of her position as his wife; and anything which suggested that Jim was not dependent on her for companionship, or had any sort of existence in which she played no part, aroused her pique7 and led her to assert herself with a horrible sort of assurance. Men and women are capable of many inelegances; but there is nothing within the masculine range so gross as a silly woman’s view of wedlock8.
[134]
Jim, as he trudged9 home between the budding hedges of the lane, and heard the call of the spring reverberating10 through his deadened heart, wished fervently11 that he had never inherited his uncle’s estate. The afternoon was warm, and the power of the sun, considering the time of the year, was remarkable12. It beat into his eyes, and its brilliance13 seemed to penetrate14 into his brain, compelling him to rouse himself from his shadowed inaction, and to look about him.
He had been a total failure as a married man, and as a Squire15 his success had been negligible. His only real friend was Smiley-face, and, though they had little to say to one another, there was always an unspoken understanding between them. Real friendship is occasioned by a mutual17 sympathy which penetrates18 through that external skin whereon the artificialities of civilization are stamped, and reaches the heart within, where dwell the reason behind reason, the intelligence beyond intellect, and the clear “Yes” which masters the brain’s insistent19 “No.” Jim and the poacher understood one another; and on the part of the latter this understanding was supplemented by gratitude20, for it chanced that Jim had saved him on one occasion from arrest and imprisonment21. The circumstances need not here be related, and indeed they would not be pleasant to recall; for Smiley-face had thieved, and Jim had lied to save him, and the whole affair was highly prejudicial to law and public safety.
Often, when he was bored, he would go down into the woods and utter a low whistle, like the hoot22 of an owl23, which had become his recognized signal[135] for calling Smiley-face; and together they would prowl about, sometimes even poaching on other property beyond the lane which curved around the manor24 estate. This whistle had been heard more than once by villagers walking in the lane, and the story had gone about that the place was haunted, a rumour25 which Jim encouraged, since it deterred26 the ever-nervous Dolly from following him into its shadowed depths.
Besides this disreputable friendship, there was little comradeship for him in Eversfield. A few of the villagers liked him he believed, especially the children; but the majority of the inhabitants misunderstood him, and there were those who regarded him with marked hostility27. The gipsies who camped on Ot Moor, however, found in him a valuable friend; and the tramps and wandering beggars who visited these parts never went empty from his door.
Presently, as he rounded a corner, he encountered one of those who disliked him in the person of Mrs. Spooner, the doctor’s wife, who was riding towards him on her bicycle. Dazzled by the sun in his eyes, he stepped to one side—the wrong side, to give her room, but unfortunately she turned in the same direction and only avoided a collision by applying her brakes with vigour28 and alighting awkwardly in the rough grass at the roadside.
She was a fiery30, sandy-haired little woman, who always reminded him of an Irish terrier; and her weather-beaten face was wrinkled with anger as she answered him. “I was on my proper side,” she barked; “but I don’t suppose it has ever occurred to[136] you that there is such a thing as the Rule of the Road.”
Jim was taken aback. “I’m awfully sorry,” he repeated. “I’m afraid I’ve made you angry.”
“Angry!” she snapped. “It’s no good being angry with you; it makes no impression. And, besides, a doctor’s wife has to learn to keep her temper. And then, again, you’re my landlord, and one mustn’t quarrel with one’s landlord.”
“Am I a bad landlord?” he asked.
“Well, you’re not exactly attentive,” she snarled31, showing her teeth. “But then you don’t seem to understand English ways. You haven’t much idea of obligation, have you? When those little girls of yours were ill you ignored my husband and sent for an Oxford32 doctor. That was hardly polite, was it?”
“Oh, that’s the trouble, is it?” said Jim. “I say, I’m awfully sorry....”
She interrupted him with a gesture. “No, that’s only an example of the sort of thing you do. It’s your behavior in general we all object to. You haven’t got a friend in the place, except the village idiot.”
“Yes,” she replied, still allowing her anger to give rein34 to her tongue. “Smiley-face, the thief and poacher. He loves you dearly: he nearly knifed Ted5 Barnes the other day for saying what he thought of you. I congratulate you on your champion!”
“Now, what have I done to Ted Barnes?” Jim asked. Ted was the postman.
[137]
“That wretched little Dachs of yours bit him,” she replied, “and you didn’t so much as inquire.”
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” said Jim. “And, anyway, it’s my wife’s dog, not mine.”
“Oh, blame it on to your wife,” she sniffed35. “It seems to me that the poor dear soul has to take the blame for everything. It’s very unfair on her.”
This was staggering, and Jim stared at her with mingled36 anger and astonishment37 in his dark eyes. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well, we can all guess what she suffers,” she said. “Only last week she nearly cried in my house.... Oh, you needn’t think she gave away any secrets, the poor little angel. She said herself ‘a wife must make no complaints.’ She’s the soul of loyalty38. But we’re not blind, Mr. West.”
Mrs. Spooner pulled herself together. “It’s the last straw that breaks the camel’s back,” she growled40. “But I suppose I’m putting my foot into it as usual. I’ll say no more.” And therewith she mounted her bicycle and rode off with her nose in the air. Had she possessed41 a tail it would have appeared as an excited stump42, sticking out from behind the saddle, and vibrating with the thrill of battle.
Jim walked homewards feeling as though he had been bitten in several places. “What is wrong with me?” he muttered aloud. He was, of course, aware that he had not been sociable43; for the rank and fashion of Eversfield and its neighbourhood combined the dreary44 conservatism of English country life with the intellectual affectations of Oxford; and[138] Oxford, as the Master of Balliol once said, represented “the despotism of the superannuated45, tempered by the epigrams of the very young.” But he had always thought that he had something in common with Ted Barnes and his friends; for he had overlooked the fact that village opinion is still dictated46 in England by the “gentry.”
The realization47 was presently borne in on him that Dolly, failing to play with any success the part of the indispensable wife and helpmate, had assumed the r?le of martyr48, and had confided50 her fictitious51 sorrows to her neighbours. It was a bitter thought; and he slashed52 at the hedges with his stick as it took hold of his mind.
He determined53 to tax her with this new delinquency at once; but when he reached the manor he found her sitting in the drawing-room with Mr. Merrivall, the tenant54 of Rose Cottage, who was lying back in an armchair, smoking a fat cigar which Dolly had evidently fetched for him from the cabinet in the study.
George Merrivall was a mysterious bachelor of middle age, whom Jim could not fathom55. He had a heavy, grey face; a weak mouth; round, fish-like eyes, which looked anywhere but at the person before him; and thin brown hair, smoothed carefully across a central area of baldness. He had lived at Rose Cottage for the last ten years or more, and was in receipt of a monthly cheque, which might be interpreted as coming from some person or persons who desired his continued rustication56.
There was nothing against him, however, save that after the receipt of each of the cheques he was[139] said to shut himself up in his cottage for a few days, and the belief was general that at such times he was dead drunk. This, however, might be merely gossip; and his housekeeper57, Jane Potts, was a woman of such extremely secretive habits that the truth was not likely to be known. Some people thought that she was, or had been, his mistress; but if this were true this secret, likewise, was well kept. He appeared to be a man of studious habits, a judge of pictures, a collector of rare books, and a regular church-goer.
Dolly had made his acquaintance before she had met Jim, and, since their marriage, he had been one of the few frequent visitors at the manor. Jim, however, did not like him or trust him, thinking him, indeed, somewhat uncanny; and he now greeted him with no enthusiasm.
“Hullo, Squire,” drawled the visitor, without rising from his chair. “Been out tramping as usual? You look as though you’d been sleeping under a hedge!”
“James, dear,” said Dolly, “you really do look very untidy. And you’re all covered over with bits of twigs58 and things.”
“Yes,” said Jim, wishing to shock. “I’ve been having a roll in the grass.”
Merrivall laughed. “Who with, you young rascal59?” he said, pointing at him with the wet, chewed end of his cigar.
Dolly drew in her breath quickly, and stared with round eyes at her friend, and then with a suspicious frown at her husband. “Where have you been?” she asked deliberately60.
[140]
“Oh, nowhere in particular,” he answered. “Have a drink, Merrivall?”
“Thanks,” the other replied. “Whisky and water for me.”
Jim rang the bell; and presently, excusing himself by saying that he must change his clothes, left the room.
Now, anyone who had seen him, five minutes later, as he walked across the garden, would have thought him entirely61 mad; for he was carrying his guitar across his shoulder, drum uppermost, and his stealthy step might have suggested that he was about to use it as a weapon with which to bash in the head of some lurking62 enemy.
Actually, however, he was in the habit of strumming upon this instrument when his nerves were on edge; and, indeed, there was a melancholy63 charm in his playing, and a still greater in his singing. But to-day his desire thus to relieve his feelings was accompanied by an anxiety not to be overheard by his wife or Merrivall. Moreover, the twilight64 outside was as warm and mellow65 as a summer evening, whereas the interior of the manor was grey and dismal66. He had therefore indulged an impulse, and was now slinking off, like a sick dog, to his beloved woods to bay to the rising moon.
Passing through the gates at the end of the lower garden, where the hedges of gorse in full flower formed a golden mass, he entered the silent shadow of the trees; and for some distance he pushed forward between the close-growing trunks until he had reached a favourite resort of his, where there was a fallen oak spanning a little stream. Here, through[141] a cleft67 in the trees, he could see the moon, nearly at its full, rising out of the violet haze68 of the evening; and as he sat down, with his legs dangling69 above the murmuring water, he listened in silence to the last notes of a thrush’s nesting-song that presently died away into the hush70 of contented71 rest.
Around him the silent oaks were arrayed, their boughs72 extending outwards73 and upwards74 from the gnarled trunks in fantastic shapes, like huge claws and fingers and probosces, feeling for the departed sunlight. Little leaves were just beginning to appear upon the branches, and here and there beneath them, where the ground was free of undergrowth, bluebells75 and violets appeared amongst the dead bracken and foliage76 of last year, and the small white wood-anemones like stars were scattered77 in profusion78. The primroses79 were nearly over, but bracken shoots, curled like young ferns, were pushing up through the brown remnants of a former generation; low-growing creepers and brambles were sprouting80 into greenness; and the moss81 and grasses were tender with new life.
Jim’s mood was melancholy, but not sorrowful. It seemed to him that his heart was dead, crushed flat by the flabby hand of that leering figure which personified domestic life, and responded not to the spring. He was so appallingly82 lonely that if there had been tears within him they now would have overflowed83; but there were not. He had no self-pity, no desire to confide49 his misery84 to another, no power, it seemed, either to laugh at himself or to weep.
For three long years he had carried his distress[142] about with him all day long, had gone for lonely walks with it, had sat at home with it, had slept with it, had wakened with it. At first he had obtained relief from within: he had fallen back on his own mind’s great reserves of inward entertainment. But now he was no longer self-sufficient, self-supporting. He was utterly85 barren: without emotion, without love, without the power to write his beloved verses, without a heart, without even despair. He had always been capable of feeling sorrow for, and sympathy with, the griefs of others: he wished now to God that he could lament86 over his own; but even lamentation87 was denied him.
Presently, taking up his guitar, he began to sing the first song that came to his head. It was an old Italian refrain to which he had set his own words; and so softly did the strings88 vibrate under his practised fingers, so sorrowful was his rich voice, that a listener might have imagined him to be a lovelorn minstrel of Florence in the forests of Fiesole. Yet there was no love in his heart.
He sang next a melancholy negro dirge89, and, after a long silence, followed on with his own setting of those lines from Shelley’s Ode to the West Wind, which tell of one who, looking down into the blue waters of the bay of Bai?, saw
... Old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave’s intenser day,
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them.
As he sang there rose before his inward eye a vision of the sun-bathed lands through which he had wandered so happily in the past. He saw again[143] the white houses reflected in the still waters of Mediterranean91, the olive-groves passing up the hillsides, the hot roads leading through the red-roofed villages, and the dark-skinned peasants driving their goats along the mountain tracks. He saw the lights of the city of Alexandria twinkling across the bay, and heard the surge of the breakers beating on the rocks. And then, quietly and vaguely92, out of the picture there came the serene93, mysterious face of a woman, a face he had thought forgotten. Her black hair drifted back into his recollection, her grey eyes seemed to gaze into his, and in his inward ear the one word “Monimé” reverberated94 like an echo of a dream. And suddenly a door seemed to open within him, and with an overwhelming onset95, his captive emotions, his feelings, his long-forgotten joys and sorrows, broke out from their prison and surged through him.
He laid his guitar aside, and for a while sat wrapt in a kind of ecstasy96. It was as though he had risen from the grave: it was as though his heart had come back to life within him.
He scrambled97 to his feet and stood for a moment, staring up at the moon, his fists clenched98 and drumming upon his breast. Then, to his amazement99, he felt his eyes filled with tears—tears which he had not shed since he was a small boy. He uttered a laugh of embarrassment101, but it broke in his throat, and all the cynic in him collapsed102.
Throwing himself upon the ground, he spread his arms out before him and buried his face in the young violets. He did not care now how foolish nor how unmanly his emotion might seem to be.[144] Here, in the woods, he was alone, and only the understanding earth should receive his tears.
For some time he lay thus upon his face; but at length the paroxysms passed. He raised his head, and as he did so he became aware, intuitively, that he was being watched.
“Who’s there?” he exclaimed, staring into the surrounding undergrowth.
There was a crackling of twigs, and a moment later Smiley-face emerged into the moonlight, and stood before him, touching103 his forelock.
Jim clambered to his feet. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, angrily. He was ashamed that he had been observed, and the colour mounted threateningly into his face.
The poacher grinned. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “I heerd you singin’, and I came to listen. And then I saw you was in trouble, and....” He took a crouched104 step forward, his face puckered105 up, and his hands twitching106. “Oh, sir, my dear, what be the matter? Tell I, sir, tell I!” His voice was passionately107 insistent. “Tell I! Don’t keep it from your friend. Friends stick to one another through thick and thin—you said it yourself, sir: them’s your werry words, what you said when we shook ’ands. I’d do anything in the world for you, sir, I would, so ’elp me God! I’m a poacher, and maybe I’m a thief, too, like you said; but s’elp me, I can’t see you a’weeping there with your face in the ground—I can’t see that, and not say nothin’. Tell I, my dear!-tell your friend. If it’s that you’ve lost all your money, I’ll work for you, sir. I don’t want no wages. If it’s your enemies, say the word and I’ll[145] kill ’em, I will. I’d swing for you, and gladly, too.”
Jim stared at him in amazement. The words poured from the man’s lips in such a torrent108 that there could be no question of their boiling sincerity109. “Why, Smiley-face,” he said at length, “what makes you feel like that about me? I don’t deserve it.”
Smiley-face laughed aloud. “When I makes a friend,” he replied, “I makes a friend. You done things for I what I can’t tell you of. You’re the first man as ever treated I fair; and now you’re breaking your ’eart, and you’re letting it break and not tellin’ nobody. Tell I, sir, tell I, my dear, I’m askin’ you, please.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” smiled Jim, putting his hand on his friend’s tattered110 shoulder. “It’s only that people like you and me are failures in life. We don’t seem to fit in with English ways. I suppose I got thinking too much about other lands, about the old roads, and the sea, and the desert, and all that sort of thing. But you wouldn’t understand: you’ve never been far away from Eversfield, have you?”
He sat down and motioned Smiley-face to do likewise.
“Tell I about them places, sir,” said the poacher, “like what you sings about.” Instinctively112, and without reasoning, he knew that a long talk was the best remedy for his friend; and gradually, by careful questioning, he launched him forth113 upon distant seas, and led him to speak of countries far away from the catalepsy of his present existence.
Jim spoke16 of the winding114 roads which lead up to the hills of Ceylon, where the ground is covered with[146] little crimson115 blossoms of the Laritana, and where the peacocks, sitting in rows by the wayside, utter their wild cries as the bullock-bandies go lurching by, and the monkeys swing from tree to tree, chattering116 at the travellers. He spoke of the Aroe Islands, where, once a year, the pearl merchants are gathered; and he pictured in words the scene at night on the still waters when every kind of craft is afloat, and every kind of lantern sways under the stars in the warm breath of the wind.
Thence his memory leapt over the seas to the southern coasts of Italy, where, upon a hot summer’s night, the little harbour of Brindisi was gay with lanterns in like manner, and the sound of mandolins floated across the water; while the narrow streets were thronged117 with townspeople taking the air after the heat of the day. Later, he wandered to the slopes of Lebanon, where clear rivulets118 rush down from the hills, through thickets119 of oleander, and tumble at last into the blue Mediterranean. He spoke of mulberry orchards120, and open tracts121 covered with a bewildering maze100 of flowers and flowering bushes: poppies, broom, speedwell, lupin, and many another, so that the hillsides, overhanging the sea, are dazzling to the eyes.
And so he came to Egypt and the desert, and told of the jackal-tracks which lead back from the Nile into the barren, mysterious hills, where a man may lose himself and die of thirst within a mile or two of hidden wells; where the mirage122 rises like a lake from the parched123 sand, and lures111 the thirsty traveller to his doom124; and where the vultures circle[147] in the blue heavens, waiting for the men and the camels who fall and lie still.
For a long time he sat talking thus, while the moon rose above the trees; but at length the chill of the air reminded him that he ought to be returning to the manor, and, picking up his guitar, he rose to his feet. Smiley-face, however, did not move. He was staring in front of him, his two hands thrust into the grass.
“Come along,” said Jim. “I must go back to the house now.”
The poacher looked up at him with a curious expression upon his face. “Reckon you baint agoin’ to tell I what your trouble is, sir,” he smiled.
Jim shook his head. “No,” he answered. “I can’t talk about it, somehow. But I’ll tell you this, Smiley-face: if I ever do talk to anybody about it all it’ll be to you.”
When he reached the manor, Jim found that he was late for dinner; and at the foot of the stairs he was confronted by Dolly, who was much annoyed at seeing him still in his day clothes.
“Oh, James!” she exclaimed, angrily. “Where have you been? Dinner has already been kept back a quarter of an hour for you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m quite impossible. Don’t wait for me: I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“Don’t hurry,” she replied, icily. “Mr. Merrivall is going to dine with us. I shan’t be lonely.”
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1
meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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reverberating
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的现在分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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penetrates
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| v.穿过( penetrate的第三人称单数 )；刺入；了解；渗透 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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owl
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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40
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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41
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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42
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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43
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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44
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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45
superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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46
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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47
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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48
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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49
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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50
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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51
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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52
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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53
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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54
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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55
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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56
rustication
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| n.被罚休学，定居农村；乡村生活 | |
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57
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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58
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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59
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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60
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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61
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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62
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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63
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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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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66
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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67
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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68
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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69
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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70
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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71
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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72
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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73
outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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75
bluebells
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| n.圆叶风铃草( bluebell的名词复数 ) | |
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76
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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77
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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79
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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80
sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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81
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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82
appallingly
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| 毛骨悚然地 | |
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83
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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84
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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86
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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87
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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88
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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89
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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90
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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91
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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92
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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93
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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94
reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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95
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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96
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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97
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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98
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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99
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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100
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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101
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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102
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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103
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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104
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
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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106
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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107
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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108
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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109
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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110
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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111
lures
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| 吸引力，魅力（lure的复数形式） | |
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112
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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113
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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114
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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115
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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116
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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117
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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119
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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120
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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121
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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122
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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123
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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124
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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