There was a certain window between the kitchen and the pantry that was Hamlet’s favourite. Thirty years ago—these chronicles are of the year 1894—the basements of houses in provincial1 English towns, even of large houses owned by rich people, were dark, chill, odourful caverns2 hissing3 with ill-burning gas and smelling of ill-cooked cabbage. The basement of the Coles’ house in Polchester was as bad as any other, but this little window between the kitchen and the pantry was higher in the wall than the other basement windows, almost on a level with the iron railings beyond it, and offering a view down over Orange Street and, obliquely4, sharp to the right and past the Polchester High School, a glimpse of the Cathedral Towers themselves.
Inside the window was a shelf, and on this shelf Hamlet would sit for hours, his peaked beard interrogatively a-tilt, his leg sticking out from his square body as though it were a joint-leg and worked like the limb of a wooden toy, his eyes, sad and mysterious, staring into Life. . . .
It was not, of course, of Life that he was thinking; only very high-bred and in-bred dogs are conscious philosophers.
His ears were stretched for a sound of the movements of Mrs. Hounslow the cook, his nostrils5 distended6 for a whiff of the food that she was manipulating, but his eyes were fixed7 upon the passing show, the pageantry, the rough-and-tumble of the world, and every once and again the twitch8 of his Christmas-tree tail would show that something was occurring in this life beyond the window that could supervene, for a moment at any rate, over the lust9 of the stomach and the lure10 of the clattering11 pan.
He was an older dog than he had been on that snowy occasion of his first meeting with the Cole family—two years older in fact. Older and fatter. He had now a round belly12. His hair hung as wildly as ever it had done around his eyes, but beneath the peaked and aristocratic beard there was a sad suspicion of a double chin.
He had sold his soul to the cook.
When we sell our souls we are ourselves, of course, in the main responsible. But others have often had more to do with our catastrophe13 than the world in general can know. Had Jeremy, his master, not gone to school, Hamlet’s soul would yet have been his own; Jeremy gone, Hamlet’s spiritual life was nobody’s concern. He fell down, deep down, into the very heart of the basement, and nobody minded.
He himself did not mind; he was very glad. He loved the basement.
It had happened that during the last holidays Jeremy had gone into the country to stay with the parents of a school friend—Hamlet had had therefore nearly nine months’ freedom from his master’s influence. Mr. and Mrs. Cole did not care for him very deeply. Helen hated him. Mary loved him but was so jealous of Jeremy’s affection for him that she was not sorry to see him banished14, and Barbara, only two and a half, had as yet very tenuous15 ideas on this subject.
Mrs. Hounslow, a very fat, sentimental16 woman, liked to have something or someone at her side to give her rich but transient emotions—emotions evoked17 by a passing band, the reading of an accident in the newspaper, or some account of an event in the Royal family. The kitchen-maid, a girl of no home and very tender years, longed for affection from somebody, but Mrs. Hounslow disliked all kitchen-maids on principle—therefore Hamlet received what the kitchen-maid needed, and that is the way of the world.
Did there run through Hamlet’s brain earlier stories of an emotion purer than the lust for bones, of a devotion higher and more ardent19 than the attachment20 to a dripping saucepan?
Did he sometimes, as he sat reflectively beside the kitchen fire, see pictures of his master’s small nose, of woods when, at his master’s side, he sniffed21 for rabbits, of days when he raced along shining sands after a stone that he had no real intention of finding? Did he still feel his master’s hand upon his head and that sudden twitch as that hand caught a tuft of hair and twisted it? . . .
No one can tell of what he was thinking as he sat on the shelf staring out of his window at old Miss Mulready, burdened with parcels, climbing Orange Street, at the lamplighter hurrying with his flame from post to post, of old Grinder’s war-worn cab stumbling across the cobbles past the High School, the old horse faltering22 at every step, at the green evening sky slipping into dusk, the silver-pointed stars, the crooked23 roofs blackening into shadow, the lights of the town below the hill jumping like gold jack-in-the-boxes into the shadowy air.
No one could tell of what he was thinking.
II
He was aware that in the upper regions something was preparing. He was aware of this in general by a certain stir that there was, of agitated24 voices and hurrying footsteps and urgent cries; but he was aware more immediately because of the attentions of Mary, Jeremy’s younger sister.
He had always hated Mary. Are dogs, in their preferences and avoidances, guided at all by physical beauty or ugliness? Was Helen of Troy adored by the dogs of that town and did Sappho command the worship of the hounds of Greece? We are told nothing of it and, on the other hand, we know that Lancelot Gobbo had a devoted26 dog and that Charon, who cannot have been a handsome fellow, was most faithfully dog-attended. I do not think that Hamlet minded poor Mary’s plainness, her large spectacles, her sallow complexion27, colourless hair and bony body. His dislike arose more probably from the certainty that she would always stroke him the wrong way, would poke28 her fingers into his defenceless eyes, would try to drag him on to her sharp, razor-edged knees and would talk to him in that meaningless sing-song especially invented by the sentimental of heart and slow of brain for the enchantment29 of babies and animals.
She was talking to him in just that fashion now. He had slipped upstairs, attracted by a smell in the dining-room. Watching for the moment when he would be undetected, he had crept round the dining-room door and had stood, his nose in air, surrounded by a sea of worn green carpet, sniffing30. Suddenly he felt a hand on his collar and there followed that voice that of all others he most detested31. “Why, here’s Hamlet! Helen, here’s Hamlet! . . . We can get him ready now, Helen; there’s only two hours left anyway, and Jeremy will care much more about that than anything. I’d like to leave him downstairs, but Jeremy will be sure to ask where he is. Which colour shall I use for the ribbon, Helen? I’ve got blue and red and orange.”
A pause. Then again:
“Which shall I use? Do say.”
Then from a great distance:
“Oh, don’t bother, Mary. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
A heavy sigh. “Oh, well, you might. Never mind. I think the blue’s best.” All this time Hamlet was desperately32 wriggling33, but the hand, with knuckles34 that pressed into the flesh and hurt, had firm hold.
“Oh, do keep still, Hamlet. Can’t you see that your master’s coming home and you’ve got to be made nice? Oh, bother! I’ve gone and cut the piece too short. . . . Helen, have you got another piece of blue?”
A pause. Then again: “Oh, Helen, you might say. I’ve cut the piece too short. Haven’t you got another bit of blue?”
Then again from a long distance:
“Don’t bother, Mary. Can’t you see that I’m so busy?”
“Oh, very well, then.” A terribly deep sigh that made Hamlet shiver with discomfort35. “Come here, Hamlet. On to my lap, where I can tie it better. There, that’s right. Oh, do keep your head still—and how fat you are now!”
Insult upon insult heaped. He raised his eyes to heaven, partly in indignation, partly because the entrancing smell could be caught more securely now from the elevation36 of Mary’s lap! But the discomfort of that lap, the hard boniness, the sudden precipitate37 valley, the shortness of its surface so that one was for ever slipping two legs over, the moist warmth of the surrounding hand, the iron hardness of the fingers at the neck! He played his best game of wriggle38, slipping, sliding, lying suddenly inert39, jerking first with his paws, then with his hind40 legs, digging his head beneath his captor’s arm as the flamingo41 did in “Alice.”
Mary, as so often occurred, lost her patience. “Oh, do keep still, Hamlet! How tiresome42 you are, when I’ve got such a little time too! Don’t you like to have a ribbon? And you’ll have to be brushed too. Helen, where’s the brush that we used to have for Hamlet?”
No answer.
“Oh, do keep still, you naughty dog!” She dug her knuckles into his eyes. “Oh, Helen, do say! Don’t you know where it is?”
Then from a great distance: “Oh, don’t bother, Mary. No, I don’t know where it is. How stupid you are! Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Oh, Helen, he’s bit me!”
“It’s bitten, not bit.
“No, it isn’t; it’s bit. . . . Perhaps he’s mad or something, and I’ll suddenly bark like a dog. I know they do. I read about it in ‘Hopes and Fears.’ You’re a horrid44 dog and I don’t care whether Jeremy sees you or not. Oh, Helen, you might help. It’s four o’clock and Jeremy will be nearly here.”
Hamlet was free, free of Mary, but not of the room. The door behind him was closed. He sat there thinking, the piece of blue ribbon hanging loosely round his neck. Something was stirring within him—something that was not an appetite nor a desire nor a rebellion. A memory. He shook his head to escape from his ribbon. The memory came closer. From that too he would like to escape. He gazed at the door. Had he never smelt45 that alluring46 smell? . . .
He slipped beneath the dining-room table, and, lying flat, resting his head on his paws, stared resentfully in front of him. The memory came closer.
III
Two hours later he was sitting in a ridiculous position two steps from the bottom of the hall stairs—ridiculous because the stair was not broad enough for his figure, because the blue ribbon was now firmly tied and ended in a large blue bow, because Mary’s hand was upon him, restraining him from his quite natural intention of disappearing.
They were grouped about the stair, Helen and Mary, Barbara and the nurse, Mr. and Mrs. Cole and Aunt Amy in the hall below. Helen, Mary and Barbara were wearing cocked hats made of coloured paper and carried silver tissue wands in their hands. Barbara was eating her tissue paper with great eagerness and a vivid, absorbed attention. Helen looked pretty and bored; Mary was in a state of the utmost nervousness, clutching Hamlet with one hand while in the other she held a toy trumpet47 and a crumpled48 piece of paper.
Everyone waited, staring at the door. Mr. Cole said:
“Five minutes late. I must go back to my sermon in a moment.”
Aunt Amy said: “I hope nothing can have happened.”
Mrs. Cole said tranquilly49: “We should have heard if it had.”
The front door bell rang; a maid appeared from nowhere and opened the door. From the dusk there emerged a small, heavily coated figure. Mr. and Mrs. Cole moved forward. There were embraces. Mr. Cole said: “Well, my boy.” A husky voice was heard: “Oh, I say, mother, that old squeak50 of a cabman——”
The short, thick-set figure turned towards the staircase.
Instantly Mary blew on her trumpet. Barbara, suddenly disliking the tissue paper, began to cry. Hamlet barked.
“Thee, returning to your home,
??Back from school and football too,
Coming to us all alone,
??Mary, Helen and Barbara welcome you.
Hail to thee, then, Jeremy dear,
Over you we shed a tear
Just because you are so dear.
??Welcome to your home.”
There should then have followed a blast on the trumpet and three rousing cheers. Alas51! the welcome was a complete and devastating52 failure.
Jeremy could be heard to say:
Barbara’s howls were now so terrible as to demand immediate25 attention from everyone. Hamlet had slipped from control and was barking at Aunt Amy, whom he delighted to annoy. Mrs. Cole said: “Now that’s enough, children dear. I’m sure Jeremy’s tired now.” No one had heard Mary’s verses; no one noticed the cocked hats; no one applauded the silver wands. The work of weeks was disregarded. No one thought of Mary at all. She crept away to her room at the top of the house, flung herself upon her bed and howled, biting the counterpane between her teeth.
But are not these home-comings always most disappointing affairs? For weeks Jeremy had been looking to this moment. On the frayed54 wallpaper just above his bed in the school dormitory he had made thick black marks with a pencil, every mark standing55 for a day. Hard and cynical56 during his school-day, a barbarian57 at war with barbarians58, at nights, when the lights were out, when the dormitory story-teller’s (unhappy Phipps minor) voice had died off into slumber59, in those last few minutes before he too slept, he was sentimental, full of home-sick longings60, painting to himself that very springing from the cab, his mother’s kiss, Hamlet’s bark, yes, and even the embraces of his sisters. On the morning of departure, after the excitement of farewells, the strange, almost romantic thrill of the empty schoolrooms, the race in the wagonette (his wagonette against the one with Cox major and Bates and Simpson) to the station, the cheeking of the station-master, the crowding into the railway carriage and leaning (five on top of you) out of the carriage window, the screams of “Bags I the corner,” the ensuing fights with Cox major, after all this gradual approach to known country, the gathering-in as though with an eager hand of remembered places and stations and roads, the half-hour stop at Drymouth (leaving now almost all your companions behind you—only young Marlowe and Sniffs61 major remaining), the crossing over into Glebeshire, then the beat of the heart, the tightening62 of the throat, as Polchester gradually approached—all this, yes and more, much more, than this, to end in that disappointment! Everyone looking the same as before, the hall the same, the pictures the same, father and mother and Aunt Amy the same, Mary and Helen the same only stupider! What did they dress up and make fools of themselves like that for? Mary always did the wrong thing, and now most certainly she would be crying in her bedroom because he had not said enough to her. . . .
In one way there had been too much of a reception, in another not enough. It was silly of them to make that noise, but on the other hand there should have been more questions. How had he done in football? He had played half-back twice for the school. He had told them that in three different letters, and yet they had asked no questions. And there was Bates who had stolen jam out of a fellow’s tuck box. One of his letters had been full of that exciting incident, and yet they had asked no questions. It was true that they had had but little time for questions, nevertheless his father, at once after kissing him, had murmured something about his sermon—as though an old sermon mattered!
Of course he did not think all this out. He only sat on his bed kicking his legs, looking at the well-remembered furniture of his room, vaguely63 discontented and unhappy. What fun it had been that morning, ragging Miss Taylor, laughing at the guard of the train, saying good-bye to old Mumpsey Thompson who recently spoke64 to him as though he were a man, asking him whether his parents had decided65 upon the public school to which, in two years’ time, he would be going—Eton, Harrow, Winchester, Craxton, Rugby, Crale and so on. Time to decide, time to decide!
One’s public! The world widening and widening, growing ever more terribly exciting—and here Mary, sobbing66 in her room, and father with his sermons and the long evenings. At least no work—only a silly holiday task, a book called “The Talisman,” or some rot. No work. His spirits revived a little. No work and lots of food, and Hamlet. . . .
Hamlet! He jumped off his bed. Why, he had never noticed the dog! He had forgotten. He rushed from the room.
When he was half-way down the stairs he caught the echo of a voice: “Tea, Jeremy. All ready in the schoolroom.” But he did not pause. In the hall he saw the housemaid. “I say, where’s Hamlet?” he cried.
“In the kitchen, I expect, Master Jeremy,” she answered.
In the kitchen, she expected! Why should she expect it? Hamlet never used to be in the kitchen. His heart began to beat angrily. The kitchen? That was not the place for a dog like Hamlet. He stumbled down the dark stairs into the basement. Mrs. Hounslow was standing beside the kitchen table, her sleeves rolled up above her elbows; she was pounding and pounding. Jeremy cried, at once challenging:
“I say, where’s my dog?”
His dog? Mrs. Hounslow, already too scarlet67 for further colour, nevertheless crimsoned68 internally. His dog! She hated little boys. Her sister, the one that married the postman, had had one. Two indeed. She loved Hamlet, who had become now, by the rights both of psychology69 and environment, hers.
“?’E’s lying there right in front of the fire, Master Jeremy—the poor little worm,” she added.
“He oughtn’t to be in front of the fire,” said Jeremy. “It’s bad for dogs. It gives them rheumatism71.”
She stopped her pounding. They had not met before, but it was one of those old hostilities72 born in the air, fostered by the crystal moon, roughened by the golden sun.
Jeremy stood, his legs apart, looking down upon his dog. He saw how fat he was, how deeply engrossed73 in his bone, how dribbling74 at the jaws75.
“Hamlet!” he said. He repeated the name three times. At the third call the dog looked up, then went back to his bone. Mrs. Hounslow sniffed.
Meanwhile in Hamlet’s soul something was stirring—memories, affections, sentiments. . . . He licked the bone again. It no longer tasted so sweet as before. He looked up at Mrs. Hounslow imploringly76.
She declared herself. “He do love the kitchen. If there’s one place where he loves to be, it’s the kitchen. Only last night I was saying to my sister, ‘Anne,’ I said, ‘it’s a most curious thing how that dog do love the kitchen.’ A little kindness goes a long way with animals, poor things. As I said to my sister——”
“But he oughtn’t to love the kitchen!” Jeremy burst out indignantly. “He isn’t a kitchen dog!”
Mrs. Hounslow had received the Last Insult. Her face darkened sub rosa. She to be reproached, she who had been the only one to show affection to the poor deserted77 lamb, she who had protected him and fed him and given him warm places in which to sleep. A kitchen dog! And her kitchen the cleanest, shiniest, most bescoured kitchen in Polchester!
She had, however, her dignity.
“That’s as may be, Master Jeremy,” she said. “But it’s natural, both in dogs and humans, that they should go to them as cares for them best and takes trouble over them.”
She went on with her pounding, breathing deeply.
Jeremy looked at her. He had hurt her feelings. He was sorry for that. After all, she had been kind to the dog—in her own way. She naturally could not understand the point of view that he must take.
“Thank you very much,” he said huskily, “for having been so kind to Hamlet all this time. . . . He’s going to live upstairs now—but it was very good of you to take so much trouble.”
Hamlet was deep in his bone once more. When Jeremy put his hand on his collar he growled78. That roused Jeremy’s temper. He dragged the dog across the floor; Hamlet pushed out his legs, and behind his hair his eyes glared. The door closed on them both.
IV
Upstairs in his own room he squatted79 on the floor and drew Hamlet in between his legs. Hamlet would not look at his master. He sulked as only dogs and beautiful women can.
“Hamlet, you must remember. You can’t have forgotten everything so quickly. You can’t have forgotten the fun we had last year, out at the farm, and when I rescued you after Mary shut you up, and biting Aunt Amy and everything.
“I know I’ve been away, and you must have thought I was never coming back, but I couldn’t help that. I had to go to school, and I couldn’t take you with me. And now I’m going to be home for weeks and weeks, and it will be awfully slow if you aren’t with me. Nobody seems really excited about my coming back, and Uncle Samuel’s away, and everything’s rotten—so you must stay with me and go out with me for walks and everything.”
Hamlet was staring down at the floor through his hair. His master was scratching his head in exactly the way that he used to do, in the way that no one else had ever done. Three, four, five scratches in the middle, then slowly towards the right ear, then slowly towards the left, then both ears pulled close together, then a piece of hair twisted into a peak, then all smoothed down again and softly stroked into tranquillity80. Delicious! His soul quivered with sensuous81 ecstasy82. Then his master’s hands smelt as they had always done, hard and rough, with the skin suddenly soft between the fingers. Very good to lick! His tongue was half out. In another moment he would have rolled over on to his back, his legs stuck stiffly out, his eyes closed, waiting for his belly to be tickled83. In another moment! But there was a knock on the door, and Mary appeared.
Mary’s eyes were red behind her spectacles. She had the sad, resigned indignation of a Cassandra misunderstood.
“Jeremy, aren’t you coming down to tea? We’re half finished.”
He rose to his feet. He knew that he must say something.
“I say, Mary,” he stammered84, “it was most awfully decent of you to make that poetry up. I did like it.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Would you like a copy of it?”
“Most awfully.”
“I did make a copy of it. But I thought nobody cared—or wanted to hear. . . .” Fearful lest she should begin to cry again, he said hurriedly:
“Here’s Hamlet. He’s always been in the kitchen. He’s not going to be any longer.”
Hamlet followed him downstairs, but still with reluctant dignity. The moment of his surrender had been covered, and he did not know that he would now surrender after all. He would see. Meanwhile he smelt food, and where food was he must be.
Tea was in the schoolroom. Miss Jones, the governess, was away on her holiday, and Jeremy saw at once that the worst thing possible had occurred: his Aunt Amy, whom he did not love, was in charge of the tea-table. He had fantastic thoughts when he saw his aunt, thinking of her never as a human being, but as an animal, a bird, perhaps. A crow. A vulture. Something hooked and clawed. But to-day she was determined86 that she would be friendly.
“Sit down, Jeremy dear. You’re very late, but on the first day we’ll say nothing about it.”
His mother should have been here. Where was his mother?
“Have you washed your hands? Mother has callers. . . . There is blackberry jam and also strawberry. Your welcome home, Jeremy.”
He would have neither. He loved blackberry. Still more he loved strawberry. But he would have neither. Because Aunt Amy had asked him. His eye was on Hamlet, who was sulking by the door.
“I do hope, dear, that you’re not going to have that dog with you everywhere again. All the time you were away he was in the kitchen. Very happy there, I believe.”
Jeremy said nothing.
Aunt Amy, who was, I think, to be applauded for her efforts with a sulky boy, bravely persevered87.
“Do tell us, dear, about this last time at school. We are all so eager to know. Was it cricket or football, dear, and how did your work go?”
He mumbled88 something, blushing to the eyes as he caught his sister Helen’s ironical89 supercilious90 glance.
“I hope your master was pleased with you, dear.”
Aunt Amy sighed. “The less about that, dear, the better. We want to know what you did well!”
How strange that in the train he had eagerly desired this moment—and now he had nothing to say.
Aunt Amy sighed again. “Yes, Helen dear, you can go if you’ve really finished. Wipe your mouth, Mary.”
Hamlet was watching his master. More than ever now were recollections stealing upon him. His master was unhappy, just as he used to be unhappy. He was hating that dark, strange-smelling animal (smelling of soap, the smell that Hamlet most avoided) whom Hamlet also hated.
Yes, everything was returning. . . .
V
Later on they were down in the drawing-room. Mrs. Cole was reading “The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest,” the children grouped about her feet. Jeremy, his rough bullet head against his mother’s dress, was almost asleep. He had had a long, exhausting day; he was happy at last, seeing the colours fold and unfold before his eyes. That other world that was sometimes so strangely close to him mingled93 with the world of facts—now he was racing94 in the wagonette, leaning over and shouting triumphantly95 against those left behind; now the path changed to a pool of gold, and out of it a bronze tower rose solemn to heaven, straight and tall against the blue sky, and the windows of the tower opened and music sounded, and his mother’s voice came back to him like the sudden rushing of the train, and he saw Mary’s spectacles and the flickering96 fire and Helen’s gleaming shoes.
For the moment he had forgotten Hamlet. The dog lay near the door. It opened, and Aunt Amy came in.
At once the dog was through the door, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. This was habit. Something had acted in him before he could stop to think. It was natural for him to be in the kitchen at this hour, when it was brilliantly lit, and the cook and the housemaid and the kitchenmaid were having their last drop of tea. . . . Always things for him at this moment, sweet things, fat things, meaty things. He sat there, and they dropped bits into his mouth, murmuring “Poor worm,” “Little lamb,” “Sweet pet.”
Mrs. Hounslow was to-night quite especially affectionate, delighted with his return to her. She patted him, pulled him into her ample lap, folded his head against her yet ampler bosom97, confided98 to the maids what that limb of a boy had dared to say to her—“kitchen dog!” indeed. As though it weren’t the finest kitchen in Glebeshire, and who’d looked after the poor animal if she hadn’t—and then—and why—but of course.
But Hamlet was not happy. He did not care to-night for Mrs. Hounslow’s embraces. He was not happy. He struggled from her lap on to the floor, and sat there scratching himself.
When ten struck he was taken to his warm corner near the oven. She curled him up, she bent100 down and kissed him. The lights were turned out, and he was alone. He could not sleep. The loud ticking of the kitchen clock, for so many months a pleasant sleepy sound, to-night disturbed him.
He was not happy. He got up and wandered about the kitchen, sniffing. He went to the door. It was ajar. He pushed it with his nose. Something was leading him. He remembered now—how well he remembered! Up these dark stairs, under that hissing clock, up these stairs again, along that passage, the moon grinning at him through the window (but, of course, he did not know that it was the moon). Up more stairs, along this wall, then this door! He pushed with his nose; it moved; he squeezed himself through.
He hesitated, sniffing. Then—how familiar this was—a spring, and he was on the bed; a step or two, and he was licking his master’s cheek.
A cry: “Hamlet! Oh, Hamlet!” He snuggled under his master’s arm, licking the cheek furiously, planting his paw, but with the nails carefully drawn101 in, on his master’s neck. Once more that hand was about his head, the scratch first to the left, then to the right, then the pulling of the ears. . . .
With a sigh of satisfaction he sank into the hollow of his master’s body, and in another second was asleep.
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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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caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tenuous
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| adj.细薄的，稀薄的，空洞的 | |
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sentimental
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evoked
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din
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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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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22
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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30
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；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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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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34
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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35
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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36
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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41
flamingo
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| n.红鹳，火烈鸟 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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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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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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51
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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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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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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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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barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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sniffs
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的第三人称单数 )；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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62
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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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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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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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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crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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71
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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72
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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74
dribbling
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| n.（燃料或油从系统内）漏泄v.流口水( dribble的现在分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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75
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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76
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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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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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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squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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80
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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81
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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82
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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83
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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84
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
gulping
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的现在分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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86
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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87
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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90
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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whacked
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| a.精疲力尽的 | |
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92
bunked
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| v.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的过去式和过去分词 )；空话，废话 | |
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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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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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95
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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96
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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97
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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98
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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99
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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100
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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101
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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