How old Miss Morganhurst really was, for how long she had been raising her lorgnette to gaze scornfully at Society, for how many years now she had been sitting down to bridge on fine sunny afternoons with women like Anne Carteledge and Mrs. Mellish and Mrs. Porter, for how many more years she had lived in No. 30 flat at Hortons, she alone had the secret—even Agatha, her sour and confidential5 maid, could not tell.
No one knew whence she came; years ago some young wag had christened her the "Morgue," led to that diminutive6 by the strange pallor of her cheeks, the queer[Pg 70] bone-cracking little body she had and her fashion of dressing7 herself up in jewellery and bright colours that gave her a certain sort of ghastliness. She had been for years an intimate of all sorts of sets in London: no one could call her a snob—she went just everywhere, and knew just everyone; she was after two things in life—scandal and bridge—and whether it were the old Duchess of Wrexe's drawing-room (without the Duchess of course) or the cheapest sort of provincial8 tea-party, she was equally at home and satisfied. She was like a ferret with her beady eyes—a dressed-up ferret. Yes, and like the "Morgue" too, a sniff9 of corruption10 about her somewhere.
People had said for many years that she was the best bridge-player in London, and that she lived by her winnings. That was, I daresay, true enough. Her pale face looked as though it fed on artificial light, and her over-decorated back was always bent11 a little, as though she were for ever stooping over a table.
I've seen her play bridge, and it's not a sight one's likely to forget—bent almost double, her hooky fingers of a dull yellow loaded with rings pointing towards some card and her eyes literally12 flashing fire. Lord! how these women played! Life and death to them truly ... no gentle card-game for them. She was a woman who hated sentiment; her voice was hard and dry, with a rasp in it like the movement of an ill-fitting gate. She boasted that she cared for no human being alive, she did not believe in human affection. Her maid, Agatha, she said, would cut her throat for twopence; but, expecting[Pg 71] to be left something in the will, stayed on savagely13 hoping.
It is hard, however, for even the dryest of human souls to be attached to nothing. Miss Morganhurst had her attachment—to a canine14, fragment of skin and bone known as Tiny-Tee. Tiny-Tee was so small that it could not have been said to exist had not its perpetual misery15 given it a kind of spasmodic loveliness. It is the nature of these dogs to shiver and shake and tremble, but nothing ever lived up to its nature more thoroughly16 than Tiny-Tee. Miss Morganhurst (in her own fierce rasping way) adored this creature. It never left her, and sat on her lap during bridge shuddering17 and shivering amongst a multitude of little gold chains and keys and purses that jangled and rattled18 with every shiver.
Then came the war, and it shook the world to pieces. It did not shake Miss Morganhurst.
For one bad moment she fancied that bridge would be difficult and that it might not be easy to provide Tiny-Tee with her proper biscuits. She consulted with Mrs. Mellish and Mrs. Porter, and after looking at the thing from every side they were of opinion that it would be possible still to find a "four." She further summoned up Mr. Nix from the "vasty deeps" of the chambers19 and endeavoured to probe his mind. This she did easily, and Mr. Nix became quite confidential. He thoroughly approved of Miss Morganhurst, partly because she knew such very grand people, which was good for his chambers, and partly because Miss Morganhurst had no kind of morals and you could say anything you liked. Mr. Nix was a kindly20 little man and[Pg 72] a diplomatic, and he suited himself to his company; but he did like sometimes to be quite unbuttoned and not to have "to think of every word."
With Miss Morganhurst you needn't think of anything. She found his love of gossip very agreeable indeed; she approved, too, of his honourable21 code. You were safe with him. Not a thing would he ever give away about any other inhabitant of Hortons. She asked him about the food for Tiny-Tee, and he assured her that he would do his best. And the little dinners for four?... She need not be anxious.
After which she dismissed the war altogether from her mind. It would, of course, emphasise22 its more unagreeable features in the paper. That was unfortunate. But very soon the press cleverly discovered a kind of camouflage23 of phrase which covered up reality completely. "The honourable gentleman, speaking at Newcastle last night, said that we would not sheathe24 the sword until——" "Over the top! those are the words for which our brave lads are waiting——" "Our offensive in these areas inflicted25 very heavy losses on the Germans and resulted in the capture of important positions by the Allied26 troops."
It seemed that Miss Morganhurst read these phrases for a week or two, and easily persuaded herself that the war was non-existent. She was happy that it was so. It appears incredible that anyone could have dismissed the war so easily, but then Miss Morganhurst was surely impenetrable.
I have heard different explanations given by people, who knew her well, of Miss Morganhurst's impenetrability.[Pg 73] Some said that it was a mask, assumed to cover and defeat feelings that were dangerous to liberate27; others, that she was so selfish and egoistic that she really did not care about anybody. This is the interesting point about Miss Morganhurst. Did she banish28 the war entirely29 from her consciousness and give it no further consideration, or was she, in truth, desperately30 and with ever-increasing terror aware of it and unable to resist it?
She gave no sign until the very end; but the nature of that end leads me to believe that the first of the two theories is the correct one. People who knew her have said that her devotion to that wretched little canine remnant proves that she had no heart, but only a fluent sentimentality. I believe it to have proved exactly the opposite. I believe her to have been the cynic she was because she had, at some time or other, been deeply disappointed. She had, I imagine, no illusions about herself, and saw that the only thing to be, if she were to fight at all, was ruthless, harsh, money-grubbing, and, above all, to bury herself in other people's scandal. She was, I rather fancy, one of those women for whom life would have been completely changed, had she been given beauty or even moderate good looks. As life had not given her that, she would pay it back. And after all, life was stronger than she knew....
She did not refuse to discuss the war, but she spoke31 of it as of something remotely distant, playing itself out in the sands of the Sahara, for instance. Nothing stirred her cynical32 humour more deeply than the heroics on both sides. When politicians or kings or generals[Pg 74] got up and said before all the world how just their cause was and how keen they were about honour and truth and self-sacrifice, and how certain they were, after all, to win, Miss Morganhurst gave her sinister33 villainous chuckle34.
She became something of a power during the bad years, when the air-raids came and the casualties mounted higher and higher, and Roumania came in only to break, and the Russian revolution led to the sinister ghoulishness of Brest-Litovsk. People sought her company. "We'll go and see the 'Morgue,'" they said; "she never mentions the war." She never did; she refused absolutely to consider it. She would not even discuss prices and raids and ration-books. Private history was what she cared for, and that generally on the scabious side, if possible. What she liked to know was who was sick of her, why so-and-so had left such-and-such a place, whether X—— was really drinking, and why Z—— had taken to cocaine35. Her bridge got better and better, and it used to be a real trial of strength to go and play with her in the untidy, over-full, over-garish little flat. The arrival of the Armistice36 was, I believe now, her first dangerous moment. She was suddenly forced to pause and consider; it was not so easy to shut her eyes and ears as it had been, and the things that she had, against her will, seen and heard were now, in the new silence, insistent37. She suddenly, as I remember noticing about this time, got to look incredibly old.
Her nose seemed longer, her chin hookier, her hands[Pg 75] bonier, and little brown spots like sickly freckles38 appeared on her forehead.
The Armistice seemed to disappoint her. It would have done us people a lot of good to get a thorough trouncing, I remember her saying. What would have happened to herself, and her bridge, had we had that trouncing I don't think she reflected. So far as one could see, she regarded herself as an inevitable40 permanency. I wonder whether she really did. She developed, too, just about this time, an increased passion for her wretched little dog. It was as though, now that the war was really nearing its close, she was twice as frightened about that animal's safety as she had been before? Of what was she afraid? Was it some ghostly warning? Was it some sense that she had that fate was surely going to get her somewhere, and that now that it had missed her through air-raids it must try other means? Or was it simply that she had more time now to spend over the animal's wants and desires? In any case she would not let the dog out of her sight unless on some most imperative41 occasion. She trusted Agatha, but no one would take so much care as one would oneself. The dog itself seemed now to be restless and alarmed as though it smelt42 already its approaching doom43. It got, so far as one could see, no pleasure from anything. There were no signs that it loved its mistress, only it did perhaps have a sense that she could protect it from outside disaster. Every step, every word, every breath of wind seemed to drive its[Pg 76] little soul to the very edge of extinction—then, with shudderings and shiverings and tremblings, back it came again. They were a grim pair, those two.
Christmas came and passed, and the world began to shake itself together again. That same shaking was a difficult business, attended with strikes and revolutions and murder and despair; but out of the chaos44 prophets might discern a form slowly rising, a shape that would stand for a new world, for a better world, a kindlier, a cleaner, honester....
But Miss Morganhurst was no prophet. Her sallow eyes were intent on her bridge-cards—so, at least, they appeared to be.
After the catastrophe45, I talked with only one person who seemed to have expected what actually occurred. This was a funny old thing called Miss Williams, one of Miss Morganhurst's more shabby friends—a gossip and a sentimentalist—the last person in the world, as I would have supposed, to see anything interesting.
However, this old lady insisted that she had perceived, during this period, that Miss Morganhurst was "keeping something back."
"Keeping what back?" I asked. "A guilty secret?"
"Oh, not at all," said Miss Williams. "Dear me, no. Dahlia wouldn't have minded anything of that kind. No, it's my belief she was affected by the war long before any of us supposed it, and that she wouldn't think of it or look at it because she knew what would happen if she did. She knew, too, that she was being haunted by it all the time, and that it was all piling up, ready,[Pg 77] waiting for the moment.... I do hope you don't think me fantastical——"
I didn't think her "fantastical" at all, but I must confess that when I look back I can see in the Miss Morganhurst of these months nothing but a colossal46 egotism and greed.
However, I must not be cruel. It was towards the end of April that fate, suddenly tired of waiting, took her in hand, and finished her off.
One afternoon when, arrayed in a bright pink tea-gown, she was lying on her sofa, taking some rest before dressing for dinner, Agatha came in and said that her brother was there and would like to see her. Now Miss Morganhurst had a very surprising brother—surprising, that is, for her. He was a clergyman who had been for very many years the rector of a little parish in Wiltshire. So little a parish was it that it gave him little work and less pay, with the result that he was, at his advanced age, shabby and moth-eaten and dim, like a poor old bird shut up for many months in a blinded cage and let suddenly into the light. I don't know what Miss Morganhurst's dealings with her brother had been, whether she had been kind to him or unkind, selfish or unselfish; but I suspect that she had not seen very much of him. Their ways had been too different, their ambitions too separate. The old man had had one passion in his life, his son, and the boy had died in a German prison in the summer of 1918. He had been, it was gathered, in one of the more unpleasant German prisons. Mr. Morganhurst was a widower47, and this blow had simply finished him—the thread that[Pg 78] connected him with coherent life snapped, and he lived in a world of dim visions and incoherent dreams.
He was not, in fact, quite right in his head.
Agatha must have thought the couple a strange and depressing pair as they stood together in that becoloured and becrowded room, if, that is to say, she ever thought of anything but herself. Poor old Morganhurst was wearing an overcoat really green with age, and his squashy black hat was dusty and unbrushed.
He wore large spectacles, and his chin was of the kind that seems always to have two days' growth upon it. The bottoms of his trousers were muddy, although it was a dry day. He stood there uneasily twisting his hat round and round in his fingers and blinking at his sister.
"Sit down, Frederick," said his sister. "What can I do for you?"
It seemed that he had come simply to talk to her. He was going down to Little Roseberry that evening, but he had an hour to spare. The fact was that he was besieged48, invaded, devastated49 by horrors of which he could not rid himself.
If he gave them to someone else might they not leave him? At any rate he would share them—he would share them with his sister. It appeared that an officer, liberated50 from Germany after the Armistice, had sought him out and given him some last details about his son's death.
These "details" were not nice. There are, as we all know, German prisons and German prisons. Young Morganhurst seemed to have been sent to one of the[Pg 79] poorer sort. He had been rebellious51 and had been punished; he had been starved, shut up for days in solitary52 darkness ... at the end he had found a knife somewhere and had killed himself.
The old man's mind was like a haystack, and many details lost their way in the general confusion. He told what he could to his sister. It must have been a strange meeting: the shabby old man sitting in one of those gaudy53 chairs trying to rid himself of his horror and terror and, above all, of his loneliness. Here was the only relation, the only link, the only hope of something human to comfort him in his darkness; and he did not know her, could not see how to appeal to her or to touch her ... she was as strange to him as a bird of paradise. She on her side, as I now can see, had her own horror to fight. Here at last was the thing that throughout the war she had struggled to keep away from her. She knew, and she alone, how susceptible54 she was! But she could not turn him away; he was her brother, and she hated him for coming—shabby old man—but she must hear him out.
She sat there, the dog clutched, shivering to her skinny breast. I don't suppose that she said very much, but she listened. Against her will she listened, and it must have been with her as it is with some traveller when, in the distance, he hears the rushing of the avalanche55 that threatens to overwhelm him. But she didn't close her ears. From what she said afterwards one knows that she must have heard everything that he said.
He very quickly, I expect, forgot that he had an audience[Pg 80] at all. The words poured out. There was some German officer who had been described to him and he had grown, in his mind, to be the very devil himself. He was a brute56, I daresay, but there are brutes57 in every country....
"He had done simply nothing—just spoken back when they insulted him. They took his clothes off him—everything. He was quite naked. And they mocked him like that, pricking58 him with their swords.... They put him into darkness ... a filthy59 place, no sanitation61, nothing.... They twisted his arms. They made him imagine things, horrible things. When he had dysentery they just left him.... They made him drink ... forced it down his throat...."
How much of it was true? Very little, I daresay. Even as the old man told it details gathered and piled up. "He had always been such a good boy. Very gentle and quiet—never any trouble at school.... I was hoping that he would be ordained62, as you know, Dahlia. He always loved life ... one of the happiest boys. What did they do it for? He hadn't done them any harm. They must have made him very angry for him to say what he did—and he didn't say very much.... And he was all alone. He hadn't any of his friends with him. And they kept his parcels and letters from him. I'd just sent him one or two little things...."
This, more than anything else, distressed63 the old man: that they'd kept the letters from the boy. It was the loneliness that seemed to him the most horrible of all.
"He had always hated to be alone. Even as a very[Pg 81] little boy he didn't like to be left in the dark. He used to beg us.... Night-lights, we always left night-lights in his room.... But what had he done? Nothing. He had never been a bad boy. There was nothing to punish him for."
The old man didn't cry. He sniffed64 and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, and once he brought out a dirty handkerchief. The thing that he couldn't understand was why this had happened to the boy at all. Also he was persecuted65 by the thought that there was something still that he could do. He didn't know what it might be, but there must be something. He had no vindictiveness66. He didn't want revenge. He didn't blame the Germans. He didn't blame anybody. He only felt that he should "make it up to his boy" somehow. "You know, Dahlia," he said, "there were times when one was irritated by the boy. I haven't a very equable temper. No, I never have had. I used to have my headaches, and he was noisy sometimes. And I'm afraid I spoke sharply. I'm sorry enough for it now—indeed, I am. Oh, yes! But, of course, one didn't know at the time...."
Then he went back to the horrors. They would not leave him, they buzzed about his brain like flies. The darkness, the smell ... the smell, the filth60, the darkness. And then the end! He could not forget that. What the boy must have suffered to come to that! Such a happy boy!... Why had it happened? And what was to be done now?
He stopped at last and said that he must go and catch his train. He was glad to have talked about it. It had[Pg 82] done him good. It was kindly of Dahlia to listen to him. He hoped that Dahlia would come down one day and see him at Little Roseberry. It wasn't much that he could offer her. It was a quiet little place, and he was alone, but he would be glad to see her. He kissed her, gave her a dim bewildered smile, and went.
Soon after his departure Mrs. Mellish arrived. It is significant of Mrs. Mellish's general egotism and ignorance that she perceived nothing odd in Miss Morganhurst! Just the same as she always was. They talked bridge the next afternoon. Bridge. Four women. What about Norah Pope? Poor player. That's the worst of it. Doesn't see properly and won't wear glasses. Simply conceit67. But still, who else is there? To-morrow afternoon. Very difficult. Mrs. Mellish admits that on that particular day she was preoccupied68 about a dress that she couldn't get back from the dressmakers. These days. What has come to the working-classes? They don't care. They don't care. Money simply of no importance to them. That's the strange thing. In the old days you could have done simply everything by offering them a little more.... But not now. Oh, dear no!... She admits that she was preoccupied about the dress, and wasn't noticing Dahlia Morganhurst as she might have done. She saw nothing odd. It's my belief that she'll see nothing odd at the last trump69. She went away.
Agatha is the other witness. After Mrs. Mellish's departure she came in to her mistress. The only thing that she remarked about her was that "she was very quiet." Tired, I supposed, after talking to that Mrs.[Pg 83] Mellish. And then her old brother and all. Enough to upset anyone.
Miss Morganhurst sat on the edge of her gaudy sofa looking in front of her. When Agatha came in she said that she would not dress just yet. Agatha had better take the dog out for a quarter of an hour. The maid wondered at that because that was a thing that she was never allowed to do. She hated the animal. However, she pushed its monstrous70 little head inside its absurd little muzzle71, put on her hat and went out.
I don't know what Miss Morganhurst thought about during that quarter of an hour, but when at the end of that time Agatha returned, scared out of her life with the dog dead in her arms, the old lady was sitting in the same spot as before. She can't have moved. She must have been fighting, I fancy, against the last barrier—the last barrier that kept all the wild beasts back from leaping on her imagination.
Well, that slaughtered73 morsel74 of skin and bone finished it. The slaughtering75 had been the most natural thing in the world. Agatha had put the creature on the pavement for a moment and turned to look in a shop window. Some dog from the other side of the street had enticed76 the trembling object. It had started tottering77 across, uttering tiny snorts of sensual excitement behind its absurd muzzle. A Rolls-Royce had done the rest. It had suffered very little damage, and laid out on Miss Morganhurst's red lacquer table, it really looked finer than it had ever done. Agatha, of course, was terrified. She knew better than anyone how deeply her mistress had loved the poor trembling image. Sobbing,[Pg 84] she explained. She was really touched, I think—quite truly touched for half a minute. Then, when she saw how quietly Miss Morganhurst took it, she regained78 her courage. Miss Morganhurst said nothing but "Yes." Agatha regained, with her courage, her volubility. Words poured forth79. She could needs tell madame how deeply, deeply she regretted her carelessness. She would kill herself for her carelessness if madame preferred that. How she could! Madame might do with her what she wished....
But all that Miss Morganhurst said was "Yes."
Miss Morganhurst went into her bedroom to dress for dinner, and Tiny-Tee was left, at full length in all her glory, trembling no longer, upon the red lacquer table.
Agatha went downstairs for something, spoke to Fanny, the portress, and returned. Outside the bedroom door, which was ajar, she heard a strange sound, like someone cracking nuts, she described it afterwards. She went in. Miss Morganhurst, her thin grey hair about her neck, clad only in her chemise, was sitting on her bed swinging her bare legs. At sight of Agatha she screeched80 like a parrot. As Agatha approached she sprang off the bed and advanced at her—her back bent, her fingers bent talon-wise. A stream of words poured from her lips. Every horror, every indecency, every violation81 of truth and honour that the war had revealed through the press, through books, through letters, seemed to have lodged82 in that brain. Every murder, every rape83, every slaughter72 of innocent children, every violation of girls and old women—they were all there. She stopped close to Agatha and the words[Pg 85] streamed out. At the end of every sentence, with a little sigh, she whispered—"I was there! I was there!... I've seen it."
Agatha, frozen with horror, remained; then, action coming back to her, she fled—Miss Morganhurst pursued her, her bare feet pattering on the carpet. She called Agatha by the name of some obscure German captain.
Agatha found a doctor. When they returned Miss Morganhurst was lying on her face on the floor in the darkness, hiding from what she saw. "I was there, you know," she whispered to the doctor as he put her to bed.
She died next day. Perhaps, after all, many people have felt the war more than one has supposed....
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commentators
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| n.评论员( commentator的名词复数 )；时事评论员；注释者；实况广播员 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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rationing
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| n.定量供应 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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canine
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| adj.犬的，犬科的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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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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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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emphasise
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| vt.加强...的语气，强调，着重 | |
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camouflage
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| n./v.掩饰，伪装 | |
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sheathe
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| v.（将刀剑）插入鞘；包，覆盖 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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liberate
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| v.解放，使获得自由，释出，放出；vt.解放，使获自由 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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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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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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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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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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cocaine
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| n.可卡因，古柯碱（用作局部麻醉剂） | |
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armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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sanitation
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| n.公共卫生，环境卫生，卫生设备 | |
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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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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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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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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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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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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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slaughtering
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的现在分词 ) | |
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enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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screeched
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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