I hate to confess it, but truth forces me—Hamlet was a snob1. With other dogs. Not with humans. With humans you never could tell—he would cling to the one and cleave2 from the other without any apparent just reason. He loved the lamplighter of Orange Street, although he was a dirty, dishevelled rabbit of a man; he hated Aunt Amy, who was as decent and cleanly a spinster as England could provide. But with dogs he was a terrible snob. This, of course, he had no possible right to be, himself an absolute mongrel with at least five different breeds peeping now here, now there out of his peculiar3 body—nevertheless he did like a dog to be a gentleman, and openly said so. It may have been that there was in it more of the snobbery4 of the artist than of the social striver. What he wanted was to spend his time with dogs of intelligence, dogs with savoir faire, dogs of enterprise and ambition. What he could not abide5 was your mealy-mouthed, lick-spittle, creeping and crawling kind of dog. And he made his opinion very clear indeed.
Since his master’s return for the holidays and his own subsequent restoration to the upper part of the house, I am sorry to say that his conceit6, already sufficiently7 large, was considerably8 swollen9. His master was the most magnificent, stupendous, successful, all-knowing human to be found anywhere, and he was the favourite, best-beloved, most warmly-cherished object of that master’s affections. It followed then that he was a dog beyond all other dogs.
When he had been a kitchen dog he had affected10 a superiority that the other kitchen dogs of the neighbourhood had found quite intolerable.
He would talk to none of them, but would strut11 up and down inside the garden railings, looking with his melancholy12, contemptuous eyes at those who invited him without, suffering himself to be lured13 neither by lust14 of food nor invitation to battle nor tender suggestions of love. When he became an upstairs dog again, the other upstairs dogs did not, of course, allow him to forget his recent status.
But Hamlet was not like other dogs; he had a humour and sarcasm15, a gift of phrase, an enchanting16 cynicism which very few dogs were able to resist. He was out of doors now so frequently with Jeremy that he met dogs from quite distant parts of the town, and a little while before Christmas made friends with a fine, aristocratic fox-terrier who lived in one of the villas17 beyond the high school. This fox-terrier found Hamlet exactly the companion he desired, having himself a very pretty wit, but being lazy withal and liking18 others to make his jokes for him.
His name was Pompey, which, as he confided19 to Hamlet, was a silly name; but then his mistress was a silly woman, her only merit being that she adored him to madness. He had as fine a contempt for most of the other dogs of the world as Hamlet himself. It passed his comprehension that humans should wish to feed and pet such animals as he found on every side of him.
He saw, of course, at once, that Hamlet was a mongrel, but he had, I fancy, an idea that he should play Sancho Panza to his own Quixote. He often told himself that it was absurdly beneath his dignity to go about with such a fellow, but for pretty play of wit, agility20 in snatching another dog’s bone and remaining dignified21 as he did so, for a handsome melancholy and gentle contempt, he had never known Hamlet’s equal.
Hamlet counted it as one of his most successful days when he brought Pompey into the Orange Street circle. There was not a dog there but recognized that Pompey was a cut above them all, a dog who had won prizes and might win prizes yet again (although, between you and me, self-indulgence was already thickening him). All the sycophants22 in Orange Street (and there, as elsewhere, there were plenty of these creatures) made up at once to Pompey and approached Hamlet with disgusting flatteries. A pug, known as Flossie, slobbered at Hamlet’s feet, telling him that she had long been intending to call on him, but that her mistress was so exacting23 that it was very difficult to find time “for all one’s social duties.” Hamlet regarded the revolting object (glistening with grease and fat) with high contempt, his beard assuming its most ironical24 point.
“I had a very nice bone waiting for you in the kitchen,” he said.
Hamlet was, of course, in no way deceived by these flatteries. He knew his world. He watched even his friend Pompey with a good deal of irony26. He would have supposed that his friend was too well-bred to care what these poor creatures should say to him; nevertheless Pompey was more pleased than he should have been. He sat there, round the corner, just by the monument, and received the homage27 with a pleasure that was most certainly not forced. He was himself a little conscious of this. “Awful bore,” he explained afterwards to Hamlet, “having to listen to all they had to say. But what’s one to do? One can’t be rude, you know. One doesn’t want to be impolite. And I must say they were very kind.”
Hamlet was now restored into the best Orange Street society—all received him back—all with one very important exception. This was a white poodle, the pride and joy of a retired28 military colonel who lived at 41 Orange Street, and his name was Mephistopheles—Mephisto for short. Ever since Hamlet’s first introduction to the Cole family he and this dog had been at war. Mephisto was not a dog of the very highest breed, but his family was quite good enough. And then, being French, he could say a good deal about his origins and nobody could contradict him. He did not, as a fact, say very much. He was too haughty29 to be talkative, too superior to be familiar. He had no friends. There was a miserable30 Dachs, Fritz by name, who claimed to be a friend, but everyone knew how Mephisto laughed at Fritz when he was not there, calling him opprobrious31 names and commenting on his German love of food.
From the very first Mephisto had seemed to Hamlet an indecent dog. The way that he was here naked and there over-hairy had nothing to be said for it. His naked part was quite pink.
Then Mephisto had the French weakness of parsimony32. Never was there a meaner dog. He stored bones as no dog had a right to do, and had never been known to give anything to anybody. Then he had the other French weakness of an incapacity for friendship. The domestic life might perhaps appeal to him strongly (no one knew whether he were married or not), but friendship meant nothing to him.
He was as are all the French, practical, unsentimental, seeing life as it really is and allowing no nonsense. If he had those French defects he had also the great French virtue34 of courage. He was afraid of nothing and of no one. No dog was too big for him, and he once had a fight with a St. Bernard who happened to stroll down his way that was historic.
He was no coward, as Hamlet very well knew—but how Hamlet hated him! All his fur bristled35 if Mephisto was within half a mile. Mephisto’s superior smile, his contempt at the rather sentimental33 enthusiasms to which Hamlet occasionally gave vent36 (that went, as they often do, with his cynicism), these made a conflict inevitable37.
II
The actual cause of the conflict was Pompey. We all know how very trying it is to make a fine friend, to introduce him into our own circle, and then to discover him, when he is nicely settled, making more of others than of ourselves—neglecting us, in fact.
This was exactly what Pompey did. He grew a little weary of Hamlet’s humour (he became very quickly tired of experiences), and he was not at all sure that Hamlet was not laughing at himself. He was flattered by Mephisto’s attitude that at last he had found a dog in the town worthy38 to be his companion. He did not care very much for Mephisto—he found his French conceit very trying—but it was true that Hamlet was a mongrel of the mongrels, and that it was absurd that he, a dog who had taken prizes, should be with him so continually in public.
Obviously, it was impossible that he should be friends both with Mephisto and Hamlet, so quite simply he chose Mephisto.
Hamlet was most deeply hurt. He was hurt not only for himself (he had a sensitive and affectionate nature), but also that so well-bred a dog as Pompey should take up with a French animal who had all the faults of his race and very little of its intelligence. He had one short, sharp altercation39 with Pompey, told him one or two home truths, and left him.
For a week or two he avoided the company of his kind and devoted40 himself to his master. All this occurred at Christmas-time, when Jeremy was in disgrace for the buying of Christmas presents with money not really his own. Jeremy thought, of course, that Hamlet had noticed his misfortunes, and was trying in his own way to express his sympathy for them. Master and dog were very close together during those weeks. While Hamlet sat at his master’s feet, pressing his thick body close up against his master’s leg, staring in front of him, half asleep, half awake, seeing bones and cats and rabbits, and near these Mephisto with his naked patches and the treacherous41 Pompey, Jeremy thought that he was considering only his master’s unhappiness. He was thinking a little of that, but for the most part he was meditating42 revenge.
He must fight Mephisto. For a long time now it had been coming to that. He was compelled to confess that at the first positive thought of the definite fact he shivered with apprehension43. After all, no one is truly brave who has not known fear, and Hamlet, sitting staring into the schoolroom fire, knew fear in no half measure. Then the thoughts of the insults he had received stirred him—let him only be angry enough and he would forget his fear—and the very thought of Mephisto made him angry.
He had one staunch, unfaltering little friend among the dogs of the neighbourhood. This was an unimportant nondescript little fox-terrier, the property of the hairdresser at the bottom of Orange Street. His name was Bobby. There was nothing at all to distinguish Bobby from all the dogs in the world—he was one of those ill-bred, colourless fox-terriers who are known to their masters only by sterling44 character. He had suffered every sort of indignity45 in his time: stones had been thrown at him, kettles had been tied to his tail, cats had scratched his eyes, his master (who often drank too much) kicked and abused him; but he had an indomitable spirit, an essential gaiety of heart that no troubles could quench46. He was not admitted into the hierarchy47 of Orange Street dogs—even Flossie did not permit herself to be aware of his existence—but he hung about always in a good humour, always ready to do anyone a good turn, and often just rolling over and over in the road at the sheer joy of life. At the first glimpse of Hamlet he had lost his heart to him. Hamlet had not been so kind to him as he should have been, but he had not rebuffed him as the other dogs had done, and had gone with him once all the way down to the hairdresser’s to see the hairdresser’s baby, of whose strength and appearance Bobby was inordinately48 proud. Now, in these days of Hamlet’s trouble Bobby showed the true mettle49 of his pasture. He longed that Pompey might speak to him so that he might show him what he thought of him.
“You mustn’t let this worry you too much,” he said to Hamlet. “I’ve been through far worse things than this. It simply shows that Pompey, in spite of his high breeding, is worth nothing at all.”
“I’m going to fight Mephisto,” said Hamlet.
Bobby’s eyes opened wide at that and he looked up from the old and very dirty bone that he was investigating.
“Fight Mephisto!” he repeated. “That’s a tall order.”
“Never mind,” said Hamlet firmly. “It’s got to be done, and you’ve got to help me.”
III
When Fate intends something to occur she very quickly provides the opportunity. The opportunity in this instance was Bobby.
His was a most sociable50 soul. We all know dogs whose whole interest in life is social; they are not as a rule very popular with their masters, it being said of them that they care for one as much as another, and will leap with friendly gestures upon the hostile burglar as eagerly as they will upon the most important person in the household.
Bobby was not that kind of dog; he really did care for his hairdresser and his hairdresser’s wife and baby and for Hamlet more than any other humans or any other dog in the world. But he was miserable when he was alone; he must have company. His only family was a very busy and preoccupied51 one, and he did not wish to bore Hamlet with too much of his own society.
The Orange Street dogs had their most accustomed meeting-place at a piece of deserted52 garden just behind the monument at the top of the hill. Here it was shady in hot weather and comfortable and cosy54 in chill; they were secure from rude boys and tiresome55 officials, and there was no large house near enough to them for servants to come out and chase them away. It was, it was true, on the whole the second-class dogs who gathered there; Mephisto but seldom put in an appearance, and therefore those sycophants, Flossie and Fritz, hinted that it was a commonplace crowd and beneath them. Moreover, it was never very easy for Mephisto to escape far from his own home, as his master, the colonel, was so proud of him and so nervous of losing him that he could not bear to let him out of his sight.
It happened, however, one fine morning, a few days after Christmas, that the colonel was in bed with a catarrh (he was a very hypochondriacal gentleman), and Mephisto, meeting Pompey in the street, they wandered amicably56 together in the direction of the monument. Mephisto was very ready to show himself in public, having been to the barber’s only the day before. He was inordinately proud of the second tuft at the end of his tail, at the gleaming white circle of hair round his neck, and the more the pink skin showed through in his naked parts the happier he was. He really thought there was not such another dog in the world as himself this fine morning, being a provincial57 and narrow-minded dog in spite of his French origin.
Mephisto and Pompey trotted58 up Orange Street together, and Flossie, who was always on the look-out from behind her garden railing for the passing of Mephisto, was graciously allowed to join them. She wheezed along with them, puffing59 herself up and swelling60 with self-importance. The conversation chanced to turn upon Hamlet. Mephisto said that now that he and Pompey were friends, he would really like to ask him a question that had been often in his mind, and that was how it came about that Pompey could ever have allowed himself such a common, vulgar friend as Hamlet. Pompey replied that he felt that that was a just and fair question for his friend to ask him, and he could only reply that the fellow had seemed at first to have a coarse sort of humour that was diverting for the moment. One tired naturally of the thing very quickly, and the trouble was with these coarse-grained creatures that when you tired of them, having given them a little encouragement at first out of sheer kindness, it was exceedingly difficult to shake them off again. The fellow had seemed lonely, and Pompey had taken pity upon him; he would see to it that it should be a long time before he did such a thing again. Mephisto said that he was glad to hear this. For himself, he had never been able to abide the creature, and he could only trust that he would soon be ridden over by a cart or poisoned by a burglar or thrown into the river by a couple of boys.
When they arrived at the monument they found several dogs among the trees flattering and amusing an elegant creature called Trixie, who was young and handsome and liked flirtations. Bobby also was there, rolling about on the grass, performing some of his simple tricks, like snapping at three imaginary flies at once, tossing into the air a phantom61 bone, and lying stiff on his back with his four legs stiffly in the air. He had been happy until the two aristocrats62 arrived; now he knew that his good time was over. He should have gone away, but something kept him—he did so hate to be alone—and so he sat on, a silly grin on his rather foolish face, listening to the conversation.
While several of the dogs continued to wander about after the idiotic63 Trixie, who was as arch and self-conscious as a dog could very well be, the conversation of the rest belaboured poor Hamlet. It is well for us that we do not hear the criticism that goes on behind our backs; one and all of us, we are in the same box. Did we hear we should watch the gradual creation of so strange and unreal a figure that we should rub our eyes in amazement64, crying, “Surely, surely this cannot be us!”
Not the tiniest shred65 of character was soon left to Hamlet. He was a thief, a drunkard, a wanton and upstart, a coward and a mongrel. Bobby listened to all of this, growing with every word of it more uncomfortable. He hated them all, but it would need immense pluck to speak up for his friend, and he did not know whether by so venturing he might not effect more harm than good.
The sight, however, of Mephisto’s contemptuous supercilious66 face, his tufted tail, his shining patches drove him on. He burst out, barking that Hamlet was the bravest, the finest of all the dogs in the town, that he was honourable67 to a fault, loyal and true, that he was worth all the dogs there together.
When he had finished there was an explosion of derisive68 barks; as he heard them internally he trembled. For a large fortune of bones he would have wished to sink his pride and run. He stood his ground, however. With one directing bark from Mephisto they set upon him. They rolled him over. Their teeth were in his ears, his eyes, his belly69. He gave himself up for lost. At that very instant Hamlet appeared upon the scene.
IV
He had not intended to go that way, but finding that his master was occupied with those two supremely70 unattractive and uninteresting humans, his sisters, he thought that he would pursue an interesting smell that he had noticed in the direction of the High School during the last two days. Far behind him were his childish times when he had supposed that rabbit lurked71 round every corner, and he had succeeded now in analysing almost every smell in his consciousness. As we are raised to the heights of our poor imagination by great poetry, great music and great pictures, so is the dog aroused to his divine ecstasy72 by smell. With him a dead mouse behind the wainscot may take the place that Shelley’s “Skylark” assumes with us, and Bach’s fugues are to us what grilled73 haddock was to Hamlet—Tot homines tot. . . .
He had not, however, gone far towards the High School when he recognized Bobby’s bark, and Bobby’s bark appealing for help. When he turned the corner he saw that his fate was upon him. Mephisto was a little apart, watching the barking and struggling heap of dogs, himself uttering no sound, but every once and again pretending to search for a fly in the tuft of his tail that he might show to all the world that he was above and beyond vulgar street rows.
And at sight of him Hamlet knew that what he had hoped would be was. The sight of Mephisto’s contempt, combined with the urgency of poor Bobby’s appeals, roused all the latent devil in him. Twitching74 his beard, feeling no fear, knowing nothing but a hatred75 and loathing76 for his enemy, he walked across the grass and approached Mephisto. The poodle paused for a moment from his search for the fly, looked round, saw whom it was (he had, of course, known from the first) and resumed his search.
Hamlet went up to him, sniffed77 him deliberately78 and with scorn, then bit his tail in its tenderest and most naked part. The other dogs, even in the most dramatic moment of their own scuffle, were at once aware that something terrible had occurred. They allowed Bobby to rise, and turned towards the new scene. Mephisto was indeed a fearful sight; every hair on his head seemed to be erect79, the naked patches burned with a curious light, his legs were stiff as though made of iron, and from his throat proceeded the strangest, most threatening growl80 ever uttered by dog.
And now Hamlet, pray to the gods of your forefathers81, if indeed you know who any of them were! Gather to your aid every principle of courage and fortitude82 you have ever collected, and, better than they, summon to yourself all the tricks and delicacies83 of warfare84 that during your short life you have gained by your experience, for indeed to-day you will need them all! Think not of the meal that only an hour ago you have, in the event, most unwisely eaten, pray that your enemy also may have been consuming food; remember that you are fighting for the weak and the undertrodden, for the defenceless and humble-hearted, and better still than that, you are fighting for yourself because you have been insulted and the honour of your very nondescript family called in question!
The other dogs recognized at once that this was no ordinary contest, and it was difficult for them to control their excitement. This they showed with little snappy barks and quiverings of the body, but they realized that too much noise would summon humans on to the scene and stop the fight. Of them all Bobby was the most deeply concerned. Bleeding though he was in one ear, he jumped from foot to foot, snivelling with terror and desire, yapping hysterically85 to encourage his friend and hero, watching every movement with an interest so active that he almost died of unnatural86 repression87.
To Hamlet, after the first moment of contact, impressions were confused. It was, unfortunately, the first important fight of his life, and he had not, alas88, very much experience to guide him. But somewhere in his mixed and misty89 past there had been a bulldog ancestor, and his main feeling from the beginning to the end was that he must catch on with his teeth somewhere and then hold and never let go again. This principle at first he found difficult to follow. Tufts of white hair disgustingly choked him, his teeth slipped on the bare places, and it seemed strangely difficult to stand on his own feet. The poodle pursued a policy of snap, retreat, and come again. He was always on the stir, catching90 Hamlet’s ear, wrenching91 it, then slipping away and suddenly seizing a hind53 leg. He was a master of this art, and it seemed to him that his victory was going to be very easy. First he had one of his enemy’s ears, then the other, now a foot, now the hair of his head, now one of his eyes. . . . His danger was, as he knew, that he was not in good condition, being over-fed by his master the colonel, and loving a soft and lazy life. He recognized that he had been in a far better state two years before when he had fought the St. Bernard.
But poor Hamlet’s case was soon very bad indeed. He was out of breath and panting; the world was swinging round him, the grass seeming to meet the sky, and the audience of dogs to float in mid-air. All his attacks missed; he could no longer see; blood was flowing from one eye and one ear; he suddenly realized that the poodle meant to kill and it did not seem at all impossible but that he should achieve that. The love of life was strong upon him. Behind his fighting there was his dear master and his love for him, the world with its hunts and smells and soft slumbers92 and delicious food, the place where he slept, the rooms of the house where he lived, the lights and the darks, the mists and the flashing stars—all these things ranged through his sub-conscious mind, only consciously forming behind his determination not to die and, in any case, to hold on to the last, if only, yes, if only he could find something on to which he might hold.
The poodle’s teeth were terribly sharp, and Hamlet seemed to be bitten in a thousand places. Worst of all, something had happened to one of his hind-legs so that it trembled under him, and he was afraid lest soon he should not be able to stand. Once down, he knew that it would be all over with him. His throat was dry, his head a burning fire, his heart a recording93 hammer, and the world was now, in very truth, reeling round and round like a flying star. He knew that Mephisto was now certain of victory; he could feel the hot breath of that hated triumph upon his face. Worst of all there was creeping upon him a terrible lassitude, so that he felt as though nothing mattered if only he might lay him down and sleep. Sleep . . . sleep. . . . His teeth snapped feebly. His body was one vast pain. . . . Now he was falling. . . . His legs were trembling. He was done, finished, beaten.
At that last moment he heard, as though from an infinite distance, Bobby’s encouraging bark.
“Go on! Go on!” the bark cried. “You’re not finished yet. He’s done too. One more effort and you’ll bring it off.”
He made one more effort, something colossal94, worthy of all the heroes, bracing95 the whole of his body together, beating down his weakness, urging all the flame and fire of his spirit. He launched out with his body, snapped with his teeth, and at last, at last they fastened upon something, upon something wiry and skinny, but also soft and yielding.
If this time his teeth had slipped it would indeed have been the end, but they held. They held, they held, they held—and it was the poodle’s tail that they were holding.
He felt Mephisto’s body swing round—so weak was he that he swung round with it. His teeth clenched96, clenched and clenched. Mephisto screamed, a curious, undoglike, almost human scream. Hamlet’s teeth clenched and clenched and clenched; tighter and tighter they held. They met. Something was bitten through.
Mephisto’s whole body seemed to collapse97. His fund of resistance was gone. Something white was on the ground. The end of the tail, with its famous, magnificent, glorious, superb, white tuft was no longer attached to Mephisto’s body.
The poodle gave one cry, a dreadful, unearthly, ghostly cry of terror, shame and abandonment, then, his tail between his legs, ran for his very life.
V
Ten minutes later Jeremy, looking out of the schoolroom window, beheld98, tottering99 up the garden, a battered100, dishevelled dog. A little trail of blood followed his wavering course.
But as he collapsed he grinned.
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snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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snobbery
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| n. 充绅士气派, 俗不可耐的性格 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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strut
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| v.肿胀，鼓起；大摇大摆地走；炫耀；支撑；撑开；n.高视阔步；支柱，撑杆 | |
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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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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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liking
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confided
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agility
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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sycophants
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| n.谄媚者，拍马屁者( sycophant的名词复数 ) | |
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exacting
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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wheezed
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irony
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homage
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retired
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haughty
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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31
opprobrious
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| adj.可耻的，辱骂的 | |
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parsimony
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| n.过度节俭，吝啬 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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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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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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42
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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46
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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47
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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48
inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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49
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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50
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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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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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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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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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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63
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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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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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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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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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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grilled
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| adj. 烤的, 炙过的, 有格子的 动词grill的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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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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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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82
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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83
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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84
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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85
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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86
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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87
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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88
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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89
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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90
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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92
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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94
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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96
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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99
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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100
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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101
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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