to avoid the town, and, crossing the wooden bridge that goes over the canal to Starling’s Cottages, was presently alone in the damp pinewoods and out of sight and
sound of human habitation. He would stand it no longer. He repeated aloud with blasphemies1 unusual to him that he would stand it no longer.
He was a pale-faced little man, with dark eyes and a fine and very black moustache. He had a very stiff, upright collar slightly frayed2, that gave him an illusory
double chin, and his overcoat (albeit3 shabby) was trimmed with astrachan. His gloves were a bright brown with black stripes over the knuckles4, and split at the
finger-ends. His appearance, his wife had said once in the dear, dead days beyond recall,—before he married her, that is,—was military. But now she called him— It
seems a dreadful thing to tell of between husband and wife, but she called him “a little grub.” It wasn’t the only thing she had called him, either.
327The row had arisen about that beastly Jennie again. Jennie was his wife’s friend, and, by no invitation of Mr. Coombes, she came in every blessed Sunday to dinner,
and made a shindy all the afternoon. She was a big, noisy girl, with a taste for loud colours and a strident laugh; and this Sunday she had outdone all her previous
intrusions by bringing in a fellow with her, a chap as showy as herself. And Mr. Coombes, in a starchy, clean collar and his Sunday frock-coat, had sat dumb and
wrathful at his own table, while his wife and her guests talked foolishly and undesirably6, and laughed aloud. Well, he stood that, and after dinner (which, “as usual,
” was late), what must Miss Jennie do but go to the piano and play banjo tunes7, for all the world as if it were a week-day! Flesh and blood could not endure such
goings-on. They would hear next door; they would hear in the road; it was a public announcement of their disrepute. He had to speak.
He had felt himself go pale, and a kind of rigour had affected8 his respiration9 as he delivered himself. He had been sitting on one of the chairs by the window—the new
guest had taken possession of the arm-chair. He turned his head. “Sun Day!” he said over the collar, in the voice of one who warns. “Sun Day!” What people call a
“nasty” tone it was.
Jennie had kept on playing; but his wife, who 328was looking through some music that was piled on the top of the piano, had stared at him. “What’s wrong now?” she
said; “can’t people enjoy themselves?”
“I don’t mind rational ’njoyment, at all,” said little Coombes; “but I ain’t a-going to have week-day tunes playing on a Sunday in this house.”
“What’s wrong with my playing now?” said Jennie, stopping and twirling round on the music-stool with a monstrous10 rustle11 of flounces.
Coombes saw it was going to be a row, and opened too vigorously, as is common with your timid, nervous men all the world over. “Steady on with that music-stool!”
said he; “it ain’t made for ’eavy weights.”
“Never you mind about weights,” said Jennie, incensed12. “What was you saying behind my back about my playing?”
“Surely you don’t ’old with not having a bit of music on a Sunday, Mr. Coombes?” said the new guest, leaning back in the arm-chair, blowing a cloud of cigarette
smoke and smiling in a kind of pitying way. And simultaneously13 his wife said something to Jennie about “Never mind ’im. You go on, Jinny.”
“I do,” said Mr. Coombes, addressing the new guest.
“May I arst why?” said the new guest, evidently enjoying both his cigarette and the prospect14 of an argument. He was, by-the-by, a lank15 329young man, very stylishly
dressed in bright drab, with a white cravat17 and a pearl and silver pin. It had been better taste to come in a black coat, Mr. Coombes thought.
“Because,” began Mr. Coombes, “it don’t suit me. I’m a business man. I ’ave to study my connection. Rational ’njoyment—”
“His connection!” said Mrs. Coombes, scornfully. “That’s what he’s always a-saying. We got to do this, and we got to do that—”
“If you don’t mean to study my connection,” said Mr. Coombes, “what did you marry me for?”
“I wonder,” said Jennie, and turned back to the piano.
“I never saw such a man as you,” said Mrs. Coombes. “You’ve altered all round since we were married. Before—”
Then Jennie began at the tum, tum, tum again.
“Look here!” said Mr. Coombes, driven at last to revolt, standing18 up and raising his voice. “I tell you I won’t have that.” The frock-coat heaved with his
indignation.
“No vi’lence, now,” said the long young man in drab, sitting up.
“Who the juice are you?” said Mr. Coombes, fiercely.
Whereupon they all began talking at once. The new guest said he was Jennie’s “intended,” and meant to protect her, and Mr. Coombes said he 330was welcome to do so
anywhere but in his (Mr. Coombes’) house; and Mrs. Coombes said he ought to be ashamed of insulting his guests, and (as I have already mentioned) that he was getting
a regular little grub; and the end was, that Mr. Coombes ordered his visitors out of the house, and they wouldn’t go, and so he said he would go himself. With his
face burning and tears of excitement in his eyes, he went into the passage, and as he struggled with his overcoat—his frock-coat sleeves got concertinaed up his arm—
and gave a brush at his silk hat, Jennie began again at the piano, and strummed him insultingly out of the house. Tum, tum, tum. He slammed the shop-door so that the
house quivered. That, briefly19, was the immediate20 making of his mood. You will perhaps begin to understand his disgust with existence.
As he walked along the muddy path under the firs,—it was late October, and the ditches and heaps of fir-needles were gorgeous with clumps21 of fungi22,—he recapitulated
the melancholy23 history of his marriage. It was brief and commonplace enough. He now perceived with sufficient clearness that his wife had married him out of a natural
curiosity and in order to escape from her worrying, laborious24, and uncertain life in the workroom; and, like the majority of her class, she was far too stupid to
realise that it was her duty to co-operate with him in his business. She was greedy of 331enjoyment, loquacious25, and socially-minded, and evidently disappointed to
find the restraints of poverty still hanging about her. His worries exasperated26 her, and the slightest attempt to control her proceedings27 resulted in a charge of
“grumbling28.” Why couldn’t he be nice—as he used to be? And Coombes was such a harmless little man, too, nourished mentally on “Self-Help,” and with a meagre
ambition of self-denial and competition, that was to end in a “sufficiency.” Then Jennie came in as a female Mephistopheles, a gabbling chronicle of “fellers,” and
was always wanting his wife to go to theatres, and “all that.” And in addition were aunts of his wife, and cousins (male and female), to eat up capital, insult him
personally, upset business arrangements, annoy good customers, and generally blight29 his life. It was not the first occasion by many that Mr. Coombes had fled his home
in wrath5 and indignation, and something like fear, vowing30 furiously and even aloud that he wouldn’t stand it, and so frothing away his energy along the line of least
resistance. But never before had he been quite so sick of life as on this particular Sunday afternoon. The Sunday dinner may have had its share in his despair—and the
greyness of the sky. Perhaps, too, he was beginning to realise his unendurable frustration31 as a business man as the consequence of his marriage. Presently bankruptcy,
and after that— Perhaps she might have reason to repent32 332when it was too late. And destiny, as I have already intimated, had planted the path through the wood with
evil-smelling fungi, thickly and variously planted it, not only on the right side, but on the left.
A small shopman is in such a melancholy position, if his wife turns out a disloyal partner. His capital is all tied up in his business, and to leave her, means to join
the unemployed33 in some strange part of the earth. The luxuries of divorce are beyond him altogether. So that the good old tradition of marriage for better or worse
holds inexorably for him, and things work up to tragic34 culminations35. Bricklayers kick their wives to death, and dukes betray theirs; but it is among the small clerks
and shopkeepers nowadays that it comes most often to a cutting of throats. Under the circumstances it is not so very remarkable—and you must take it as charitably as
you can—that the mind of Mr. Coombes ran for awhile on some such glorious close to his disappointed hopes, and that he thought of razors, pistols, bread-knives, and
touching36 letters to the coroner denouncing his enemies by name, and praying piously37 for forgiveness. After a time his fierceness gave way to melancholia. He had been
married in this very overcoat, in his first and only frock-coat that was buttoned up beneath it. He began to recall their courting along this very walk, his years of
penurious38 saving to get capital, and the 333bright hopefulness of his marrying days. For it all to work out like this! Was there no sympathetic ruler anywhere in the
He thought of the canal he had just crossed, and doubted whether he shouldn’t stand with his head out, even in the middle, and it was while drowning was in his mind
that the purple pileus caught his eye. He looked at it mechanically for a moment, and stopped and stooped towards it to pick it up, under the impression that it was
some such small leather object as a purse. Then he saw that it was the purple top of a fungus40, a peculiarly poisonous-looking purple: slimy, shiny, and emitting a sour
odour. He hesitated with his hand an inch or so from it, and the thought of poison crossed his mind. With that he picked the thing, and stood up again with it in his
hand.
The odour was certainly strong—acrid, but by no means disgusting. He broke off a piece, and the fresh surface was a creamy white, that changed like magic in the space
of ten seconds to a yellowish-green colour. It was even an inviting-looking change. He broke off two other pieces to see it repeated. They were wonderful things, these
fungi, thought Mr. Coombes, and all of them the deadliest poisons, as his father had often told him. Deadly poisons!
There is no time like the present for a rash resolve. Why not here and now? thought Mr. 334Coombes. He tasted a little piece, a very little piece indeed—a mere41 crumb42.
It was so pungent43 that he almost spat44 it out again, then merely hot and full-flavoured,—a kind of German mustard with a touch of horse-radish and—well, mushroom. He
swallowed it in the excitement of the moment. Did he like it or did he not? His mind was curiously45 careless. He would try another bit. It really wasn’t bad—it was
good. He forgot his troubles in the interest of the immediate moment. Playing with death it was. He took another bite, and then deliberately46 finished a mouthful. A
curious tingling47 sensation began in his finger-tips and toes. His pulse began to move faster. The blood in his ears sounded like a mill-race. “Try bi’ more,” said
Mr. Coombes. He turned and looked about him, and found his feet unsteady. He saw and struggled towards a little patch of purple a dozen yards away. “Jol’ goo’
stuff,” said Mr. Coombes. “E—lomore ye’.” He pitched forward and fell on his face, his hands outstretched towards the cluster of pilei. But he did not eat any
more of them. He forgot forthwith.
He rolled over and sat up with a look of astonishment48 on his face. His carefully brushed silk hat had rolled away towards the ditch. He pressed his hand to his brow.
Something had happened, but he could not rightly determine what it was. Anyhow, he was no longer dull—he 335felt bright, cheerful. And his throat was afire. He
laughed in the sudden gaiety of his heart. Had he been dull? He did not know; but at any rate he would be dull no longer. He got up and stood unsteadily, regarding the
universe with an agreeable smile. He began to remember. He could not remember very well, because of a steam roundabout that was beginning in his head. And he knew he
had been disagreeable at home, just because they wanted to be happy. They were quite right; life should be as gay as possible. He would go home and make it up, and
reassure49 them. And why not take some of this delightful50 toadstool with him, for them to eat? A hatful, no less. Some of those red ones with white spots as well, and a
few yellow. He had been a dull dog, an enemy to merriment; he would make up for it. It would be gay to turn his coat sleeves inside out, and stick some yellow gorse
into his waistcoat pockets. Then home—singing—for a jolly evening.
After the departure of Mr. Coombes, Jennie discontinued playing, and turned round on the music-stool again. “What a fuss about nothing,” said Jennie.
“You see, Mr. Clarence, what I’ve got to put up with,” said Mrs. Coombes.
“He is a bit hasty,” said Mr. Clarence, judicially51.
“He ain’t got the slightest sense of our position,” 336said Mrs. Coombes; “that’s what I complain of. He cares for nothing but his old shop; and if I have a bit
of company, or buy anything to keep myself decent, or get any little thing I want out of the housekeeping money, there’s disagreeables. ‘Economy,’ he says;
‘struggle for life,’ and all that. He lies awake of nights about it, worrying how he can screw me out of a shilling. He wanted us to eat Dorset butter once. If once
I was to give in to him—there!”
“Of course,” said Jennie.
“If a man values a woman,” said Mr. Clarence, lounging back in the arm-chair, “he must be prepared to make sacrifices for her. For my own part,” said Mr. Clarence,
with his eye on Jennie, “I shouldn’t think of marrying till I was in a position to do the thing in style. It’s downright selfishness. A man ought to go through the
rough-and-tumble by himself, and not drag her—”
“I don’t agree altogether with that,” said Jennie. “I don’t see why a man shouldn’t have a woman’s help, provided he doesn’t treat her meanly, you know. It’s
meanness—”
“You wouldn’t believe,” said Mrs. Coombes. “But I was a fool to ’ave ’im. I might ’ave known. If it ’adn’t been for my father, we shouldn’t have had not a
carriage to our wedding.”
“Lord! he didn’t stick out at that?” said Mr. Clarence, quite shocked.
337“Said he wanted the money for his stock, or some such rubbish. Why, he wouldn’t have a woman in to help me once a week if it wasn’t for my standing out plucky52.
And the fusses he makes about money—comes to me, well, pretty near crying, with sheets of paper and figgers. ‘If only we can tide over this year,’ he says, ‘the
business is bound to go.’ ‘If only we can tide over this year,’ I says; ‘then it’ll be, if only we can tide over next year. I know you,’ I says. ‘And you don’t
catch me screwing myself lean and ugly. Why didn’t you marry a slavey,’ I says, ‘if you wanted one—instead of a respectable girl?’ I says.”
So Mrs. Coombes. But we will not follow this unedifying conversation further. Suffice it that Mr. Coombes was very satisfactorily disposed of, and they had a snug
little time round the fire. Then Mrs. Coombes went to get the tea, and Jennie sat coquettishly on the arm of Mr. Clarence’s chair until the tea-things clattered
outside. “What was that I heard?” asked Mrs. Coombes, playfully, as she entered, and there was badinage53 about kissing. They were just sitting down to the little
circular table when the first intimation of Mr. Coombes’ return was heard.
“’Ere’s my lord,” said Mrs. Coombes. “Went out like a lion and comes back like a lamb, I’ll lay.”
338Something fell over in the shop: a chair, it sounded like. Then there was a sound as of some complicated step exercise in the passage. Then the door opened and
Coombes appeared. But it was Coombes transfigured. The immaculate collar had been torn carelessly from his throat. His carefully-brushed silk hat, half-full of a crush
of fungi, was under one arm; his coat was inside out, and his waistcoat adorned56 with bunches of yellow-blossomed furze. These little eccentricities57 of Sunday costume,
however, were quite overshadowed by the change in his face; it was livid white, his eyes were unnaturally58 large and bright, and his pale blue lips were drawn59 back in a
cheerless grin. “Merry!” he said. He had stopped dancing to open the door. “Rational ’njoyment. Dance.” He made three fantastic steps into the room, and stood
bowing.
“Tea,” said Mr. Coombes. “Jol’ thing, tea. Tose-stools, too. Brosher.”
“He’s drunk,” said Jennie, in a weak voice. Never before had she seen this intense pallor in a drunken man, or such shining, dilated64 eyes.
Mr. Coombes held out a handful of scarlet65 agaric to Mr. Clarence. “Jo’ stuff,” said he; “ta’ some.”
At that moment he was genial66. Then at the 339sight of their startled faces he changed, with the swift transition of insanity67, into overbearing fury. And it seemed as
if he had suddenly recalled the quarrel of his departure. In such a huge voice as Mrs. Coombes had never heard before, he shouted, “My house. I’m master ’ere. Eat
what I give yer!” He bawled68 this, as it seemed, without an effort, without a violent gesture, standing there as motionless as one who whispers, holding out a handful
of fungus.
Clarence approved himself a coward. He could not meet the mad fury in Coombes’ eyes; he rose to his feet, pushing back his chair, and turned, stooping. At that
Coombes rushed at him. Jennie saw her opportunity, and, with the ghost of a shriek61, made for the door. Mrs. Coombes followed her. Clarence tried to dodge69. Over went
the tea-table with a smash as Coombes clutched him by the collar and tried to thrust the fungus into his mouth. Clarence was content to leave his collar behind him,
and shot out into the passage with red patches of fly agaric still adherent70 to his face. “Shut ’im in!” cried Mrs. Coombes, and would have closed the door, but her
supports deserted71 her; Jennie saw the shop-door open, and vanished thereby72, locking it behind her, while Clarence went on hastily into the kitchen. Mr. Coombes came
heavily against the door, and Mrs. Coombes, finding the key was inside, fled upstairs and locked herself in the spare bedroom.
340So the new convert to joie de vivre emerged upon the passage, his decorations a little scattered73, but that respectable hatful of fungi still under his arm. He
hesitated at the three ways, and decided74 on the kitchen. Whereupon Clarence, who was fumbling with the key, gave up the attempt to imprison75 his host, and fled into the
scullery, only to be captured before he could open the door into the yard. Mr. Clarence is singularly reticent76 of the details of what occurred. It seems that Mr.
Coombes’ transitory irritation77 had vanished again, and he was once more a genial playfellow. And as there were knives and meat-choppers about, Clarence very
generously resolved to humour him and so avoid anything tragic. It is beyond dispute that Mr. Coombes played with Mr. Clarence to his heart’s content; they could not
have been more playful and familiar if they had known each other for years. He insisted gaily78 on Clarence trying the fungi, and after a friendly tussle79, was smitten
with remorse80 at the mess he was making of his guest’s face. It also appears that Clarence was dragged under the sink and his face scrubbed with the blacking-brush,—
he being still resolved to humour the lunatic at any cost,—and that finally, in a somewhat dishevelled, chipped, and discoloured condition, he was assisted to his
coat and shown out by the back door, the shopway being barred by Jennie. Mr. Coombes’ wandering thoughts then turned to 341Jennie. Jennie had been unable to unfasten
the shop-door, but she shot the bolts against Mr. Coombes’ latch-key, and remained in possession of the shop for the rest of the evening.
It would appear that Mr. Coombes then returned to the kitchen, still in pursuit of gaiety, and, albeit a strict Good Templar, drank (or spilt down the front of the
first and only frock-coat) no less than five bottles of the stout81 Mrs. Coombes insisted upon having for her health’s sake. He made cheerful noises by breaking off the
necks of the bottles with several of his wife’s wedding-present dinner-plates, and during the earlier part of this great drunk he sang divers82 merry ballads83. He cut
his finger rather badly with one of the bottles,—the only bloodshed in this story,—and what with that, and the systematic84 convulsion of his inexperienced physiology
by the liquorish brand of Mrs. Coombes’ stout, it may be the evil of the fungus poison was somehow allayed85. But we prefer to draw a veil over the concluding incidents
of this Sunday afternoon. They ended in the coal cellar, in a deep and healing sleep.
An interval86 of five years elapsed. Again it was a Sunday afternoon in October, and again Mr. Coombes walked through the pinewood beyond the canal. He was still the
same dark-eyed, black-moustached little man that he was at the outset of the story, but his double chin was now scarcely so 342illusory as it had been. His overcoat
was new, with a velvet87 lapel, and a stylish16 collar with turndown corners, free of any coarse starchiness, had replaced the original all-round article. His hat was
glossy88, his gloves newish—though one finger had split and been carefully mended. And a casual observer would have noticed about him a certain rectitude of bearing, a
certain erectness89 of head that marks the man who thinks well of himself. He was a master now, with three assistants. Beside him walked a larger sunburnt parody90 of
himself, his brother Tom, just back from Australia. They were recapitulating91 their early struggles, and Mr. Coombes had just been making a financial statement.
“It’s a very nice little business, Jim,” said brother Tom. “In these days of competition, you’re jolly lucky to have worked it up so. And you’re jolly lucky,
too, to have a wife who’s willing to help like yours does.”
“Between ourselves,” said Mr. Coombes, “it wasn’t always so. It wasn’t always like this. To begin with, the missus was a bit giddy. Girls are funny creatures.”
“Dear me!”
“Yes. You’d hardly think it, but she was downright extravagant92, and always having slaps at me. I was a bit too easy and loving, and all that, and she thought the
whole blessed show was run for her. Turned the ’ouse into a regular caravansary, 343always having her relations and girls from business in, and their chaps. Comic
songs a’ Sunday, it was getting to, and driving trade away. And she was making eyes at the chaps, too! I tell you, Tom, the place wasn’t my own.”
“Shouldn’t ’a’ thought it.”
“It was so. Well—I reasoned with her. I said, ‘I ain’t a duke, to keep a wife like a pet animal. I married you for ’elp and company.’ I said, ‘You got to ’elp
and pull the business through.’ She would n’t ’ear of it. ‘Very well,’ I says; ‘I’m a mild man till I’m roused,’ I says, ‘and it’s getting to that.’ But
she wouldn’t ’ear of no warnings.”
“Well?”
“It’s the way with women. She didn’t think I ’ad it in me to be roused. Women of her sort (between ourselves, Tom) don’t respect a man until they’re a bit afraid
of him. So I just broke out to show her. In comes a girl named Jennie, that used to work with her, and her chap. We ’ad a bit of a row, and I came out ’ere—it was
just such another day as this—and I thought it all out. Then I went back and pitched into them.” “You did?”
“I did. I was mad, I can tell you. I wasn’t going to ’it ’er, if I could ’elp it, so I went back and licked into this chap, just to show ’er what I could do. ’E
was a big chap, too. Well, I chucked him, and smashed things about, and gave 344’er a scaring, and she ran up and locked ’erself into the spare room.”
“Well?”
“That’s all. I says to ’er the next morning, ‘Now you know,’ I says, ‘what I’m like when I’m roused.’ And I didn’t ’ave to say anything more.”
“And you’ve been happy ever after, eh?”
“So to speak. There’s nothing like putting your foot down with them. If it ’adn’t been for that afternoon I should ’a’ been tramping the roads now, and she’d ’
a’ been grumbling at me, and all her family grumbling for bringing her to poverty—I know their little ways. But we’re all right now. And it’s a very decent little
business, as you say.”
They proceed on their way meditatively93. “Women are funny creatures,” said brother Tom.
“They want a firm hand,” says Coombes.
“What a lot of these funguses there are about here!” remarked brother Tom, presently. “I can’t see what use they are in the world.”
Mr. Coombes looked. “I dessay they’re sent for some wise purpose,” said Mr. Coombes.
And that was as much thanks as the purple pileus ever got for maddening this absurd little man to the pitch of decisive action, and so altering the whole course of his
life.
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1
blasphemies
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| n.对上帝的亵渎，亵渎的言词[行为]( blasphemy的名词复数 )；侮慢的言词（或行为） | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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undesirably
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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rustle
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incensed
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simultaneously
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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standing
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briefly
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immediate
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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22
fungi
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| n.真菌，霉菌 | |
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23
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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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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culminations
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| n.顶点，极点（culmination的复数形式） | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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38
penurious
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| adj.贫困的 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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fungus
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| n.真菌，真菌类植物 | |
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41
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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42
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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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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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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adherent
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| n.信徒，追随者，拥护者 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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tussle
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| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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82
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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83
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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87
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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88
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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89
erectness
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| n.直立 | |
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90
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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recapitulating
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| v.总结，扼要重述( recapitulate的现在分词 ) | |
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92
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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