Only on Tuesday nights did he throw open dining-room and drawing-room, where he received Huckaby, Vandermeer, and Billiter as in the past. To them his smile and his old self were given. Indeed he found a newer sympathy with them. He, even as they, had been the victim of outrageous18 fortune. He, too, had suffered from the treachery of man and the insolence19 of office. The three found an extra guerdon in their great-coat pockets.
There were times, however, when the museum grew wearisome through familiarity, when he found no novelty in the Quaternary skull20 from Silesia, or the engraved21 reindeers on the neolithic22 axe-heads, or the necklet of the lady of the bronze age; when he craved23 things nearer to his own time which could give him some message of modernity. On such occasions he would either walk abroad, or if the weather were foul24, take a childish pleasure in exploring the sealed chambers25 of the house. For, shut up a room, exclude from it the light of day, cover the furniture with dust-sheets till you get the semblance26 of a morgue of strange beasts, forget it for a while, and, on re-entering it, you will have all the elements of mystery which gradually and agreeably give place to little pleasant shocks of discovery of the familiar. The neglected pictures that have hung on the walls, the huddled27 knick-knacks on a table, the heap of books on the floor, all have messages of gentle reproach. A newspaper of years ago, wrapped round a cushion, once opened by eager hands and containing in its headlines world-shaking news (now so stale and forgotten) is a pathetic object. In drawers are garments out of date, preserved heaven knows why, keepsakes worked by fair hands, unused but negligently28 treasured, faded curtains which will never be rehung—a thousand old stimulating29 things, down to ends of sealing-wax and carefully rolled bits of twine30. And some drawers are empty, and from them rises the odour of lavender poignant31 with memories of the things that are no more.
It was a large, old-fashioned house which had been his father’s before him, in which he had been born; and it was full of memories. In the recess32 of a dark cupboard in one of the attics33 he found a glass jar, which had escaped the vigilance or commanded the respect of generations of housemaids, covered with a parchment on which was written in his mother’s hand, “Damson Jam.” His mother had died a quarter of a century ago.
An old hair-trunk in the corner of the box-room, such a hair trunk as the boldest man during Quixtus’s lifetime would have shrunk from having attached to him on his travels, contained correspondence of his grandfather’s and old daguerreotypes and photographs of stiff, staring, faded people long since gone to a (let us hope) more becomingly attired34 world. There was a miniature on ivory, villainously painted, of a chubby35 red-cheeked child, and on the back was written “My Son Mathew, aged36 two years and six months.” Could the shrivelled, myriad-wrinkled, palsied old man whom Ephraim had visited but a short while since ever have remotely resembled this? The hair-trunk also contained a pistol with a label “Carried by my father at Waterloo.” That was the old gentleman who had lived to a hundred and four. Why had this relic37 of family honour remained hidden all his life?
The more he searched into odd corners the more did his discoveries stimulate38 his interest. Of his own life he found records in unexpected places. A bundle of school-reports. He opened it at random39, and his eye fell upon the Headmaster’s Report at the foot of a sheet; “Studious but unpractical. It seems impossible to arouse in him a sense of ambition, or even of the responsibilities of life.” He smiled somewhat wistfully and put the bundle in his pocket with a view to the further acquisition of self-knowledge. A set of Cambridge college bills tied with red tape, a broken microscope, a case of geometrical drawing instruments, a manuscript book of early poems, mimetic echoes of Keats, Tennyson, Shelley, Swinburne, who were all clamouring together in his brain, his college blazer, much moth-eaten, his Heidelberg student’s cap, ditto. . . . Ah! qu’ils sont loin ces jours si regrettés! . . .
Of his wife, too, there were almost forgotten relics40. An oak chest opened unexpectedly disclosed a pair of little pink satin slippers41 standing42 wistfully on the top of the tissue paper that protected the dresses beneath. The key was in the lock. He closed the lid reverently43, locked the chest, and put the key in his pocket. They had had together five years of placid44 happiness. She was a sweet, white-winged soul— Angela. Her little boudoir on the second floor had not been used since her death, and was much as she had left it. Only the dust-sheets and the gloom invested it in a more ghostly atmosphere than other less sacred chambers. Her work-basket stood by the window. He opened it and found it still contained a reel of thread and a needle-case stuck full of rusty45 needles. On the wall hung an enlarged portrait of himself at the age of thirty—he was not quite so lantern-jawed then, and his hair was thicker on the top. A water-colour sketch46 of Angela hung over the oak bureau, at which she used to write her dinner-notes and puzzle her pretty head over household accounts. He drew up the blind so as to see the picture more clearly. Yes. It was like her. Dark-haired, fragile, with liquid brown eyes. There was just that dimple in her chin. . . . He remembered it so well; but, strangely, it had played no part in his customary mental picture of her. In the rediscovery of the dimple he found a vague melancholy47 pleasure. . . . Idly he drew down the slanting48 lids of the bureau, and pulled out the long narrow drawers that supported it underneath49. The interior was empty. He recollected50 now that he had cleared it of its contents when settling Angela’s affairs after her death. He thrust up the slanting lid, pushed back the long right-hand drawer, pushed the left hand one. It stuck. He tried to ease it in, but it was jammed. He pulled it out with a jerk, and found that the cause of the jam was a letter flat against the end of the drawer with a corner turned over the edge. He took out the letter, closed the drawers, and smiled sadly, glad to have discovered a new relic of Angela in the bureau—probably a gossiping note from a friend, perhaps one from himself. He went to the light of the window.
“My adored heart’s dearest and most beloved angel”—so the letter began. He scanned the words bewildered. Certainly in his wildest dreams he had never imagined such a form of address. Besides, the handwriting was not his. He turned the sheet rapidly and glanced at the end; “God! How I love you. Will.”
Will? Will Hammersley. It was Will Hammersley’s handwriting. What did it mean? He paused for a few moments, breathing hard, looking with blind eyes through the window over the square. At last he read the letter. Then he thrust it, a crumpled51 ball, into his pocket and reeled out of the room like a drunken man, down the stairs of the lonely house, and flung himself into a chair in his museum, where he sat for hours staring before him, paralysed with an awful dismay.
At five o’clock his housekeeper entered with the tea-things. He did not want tea. At seven she came again into the large dark room lit only by the red glow of the fire.
“The gentlemen are here, sir.”
It was a Tuesday evening. He had forgotten.
He stumbled to his feet.
“All right,” he said.
Then he shivered, feeling a deadly sickness of soul. No, he could not meet his fellow creatures to-night.
“Give them my compliments and apologies, and say I am unwell and unable to dine with them this evening. See that they have all they want, as usual.”
“Very good, sir—but yourself? I’m sorry you are ill, sir. What can I bring you?”
“Nothing,” said Quixtus harshly. “Nothing. And please don’t trouble me any more.”
Mrs. Pennycook regarded him in some astonishment52, not having heard him speak in such a tone before. Probably no one else had, since he had learned to speak.
“If you’re not better in the morning, sir, I might fetch the doctor.”
He turned in his chair. “Go. I tell you. Go. Leave me alone.”
Later he rose and switched on the light and, mechanically descending53 to the hall, like a sleep-walker, deposited his usual largesse54 in the pockets of the three seedy, familiar overcoats. Then he went up to his museum again. The effort, however, had cleared his mind. He reflected. He had not been very well of late. There were such things as hallucinations, to which men broken down by mental strain were subject. Let him read the letter through once more. He took the crumpled paper from his pocket, smoothed it out and read. No. There was no delusion55. The whole story was there—the treachery, the faithlessness, the guilty passion that gloried in its repeated consummation. His wife Angela, his friend Will Hammersley—the only woman and the only man he had ever loved. A sudden memory smote56 him. He had entrusted57 her to Hammersley’s keeping times out of number.
And so fell the second thunderbolt.
Towards midnight there came a heavy knocking at his door. Startled by the unusual sound he cried:
“What’s that? Who’s there?”
The door opened and Eustace Huckaby lurched solemnly into the room. His ruffled59 hair stood up on end like a cockatoo’s crest60, and his watery61 eyes glistened62. He pulled his straggling beard.
“Sorry ole’ man to hear you’re seedy. Came to know—how—getting on.”
Quixtus rose, a new sternness on his face, and confronted the intruder.
“Huckaby, you’re drunk.”
“No,” said he. “Rid’klous. I’m not drunk. Other fellows are—drunk ash owls—tha’s why—couldn’t come see you. They’re not qui’ sort of men been acushtomed to assochate with—I’m—University man—like you, Quishtus—sometime Fellow Corpus Christi College, Cambridge—I first gave motto for club—didn’t I? Procul, O procul este profani—tha’s Latin. Other two lobsters64 don’t know word of Latin—ignorant as lobsters—lobsters—tha’s wha’ I call ’em.” He lurched heavily into a chair. “Awful thirsty. Got a drink, old f’la?”
“No,” said Quixtus. “I haven’t. And if I had, I wouldn’t give it to you.”
“Look here, dear old frien’——”
Quixtus interrupted him.
“Do you mean to tell me those other men are drunk too?”
“As owls—you go down—see ’em.”
He threw back his head and broke out into sudden shrill66 laughter. Then, checking himself, he said with an awful gravity;
“I beg your pardon, Quishtus. Their conduc’s disgrace—humanity.”
“You three have dined in this house once a week for years, and no one has left it the worse for liquor. And now, the first time I leave you to yourselves—I was really not able to join you to-night—you take advantage of my absence, and——”
Huckaby staggered to his feet and tried to lay his hand on Quixtus’s shoulder. Having recovered himself, he put it on top of a case of prehistoric67 implements68.
“Tha’s just what I want—explain to you. They’re lobsters, dear ole’ friend—just lobsters—all claw and belly69 and no heart. I’m a University man like you. Corpush Christi College, Cambridge—They’re not friends of yours. They’re lobsters. Ruddy lobsters. I’m not drunk you know. I’m all right. I’m telling you——”
Quixtus took him by the arm. “I think you had better go away, Huckaby.”
“No. Send other fellows away. I’m your frien’,” said he, pointing a shaky forefinger70. “I want to tell you. I’m a University man and so are you, and I don’t care how much you made out of it. You’re all right, Quishtus. I’m your frien’. Other lobsters said at dinner that if justice were done you’d be in quod.”
Quixtus took the gaunt sot by the shoulders and shook him.
“What the devil do you mean?”
“Don’t, don’t—don’t upset good dinner,” said Huckaby wriggling71 away. “You won’t believe I’m your friend. Van and Billiter say you were in with Parable—Paramour—wha’s his name? all the time, and it’s just your rosy72 luck that you weren’t doing time too. Now I don’t care if you did stand in with Parachute—‘tisn’t my business. But I’ll stan’ by you. I, Eustace Huckaby, Master of Arts, sometime Fellow of Corpush Christi College, Cambridge. There’sh my hand.”
He extended it, but Quixtus regarded it not.
“The three of you have not contented73 yourselves with getting drunk, but you’ve been slandering74 me behind my back—foully slandering me.”
He went to the door and flung it open.
“I think it’s time, Huckaby, that we joined the others.”
Huckaby shambled down the stairs, murmuring of lobsters and parables75, and turning every now and then to assure his host that adverse76 circumstances made no difference to his imperishable affection; and so they reached the dining-room. Huckaby had spoken truly. Billiter was sprawling77 back in his chair, his coat and waistcoat covered with cigar-ash; his bald head was crowned by the truncated78 cone79 of a candle-shade (a jest of Huckaby’s) which gave him an appearance that would have been comic to a casual observer, but to Quixtus was peculiarly obscene. His dazed eyes were fixed80 stupidly on Vandermeer who, the picture of woe81, was weeping bitterly because he had no one to love him. At the sight of Quixtus, Billiter made an effort to rise, but fell back heavily on to his seat, the candle-shade falling likewise. He muttered hoarsely82 and incoherently that it was the confounded gout again in his ankles. Then he expressed a desire to slumber83. Vandermeer raised a maudlin84 face.
“No one to love me,” he whined85, and tried to pour from an empty decanter; it slipped from his hand and broke a glass. “Not even a drop of consolation86 left,” he said.
“Disgrashful, isn’t it?” said Huckaby with a hiccough.
Quixtus eyed them with disgust. Humanity was revolting. He turned to Huckaby and said with a shudder87; “For God’s sake, take them away.”
Huckaby summed them up with an unsteady but practised eye. “Can’t walk. Ruddy lobsters. Must have cabs.”
Quixtus went to the street-door and whistled up a couple of four-wheelers from the rank; and eventually, by the aid of Huckaby and the cabmen whom he had to bribe88 heavily to drive the wretches89 home, they were deposited in some sort of sitting posture90 each in a separate vehicle. As soon as the sound of the departing wheels died away, Quixtus held out Huckaby’s overcoat.
Huckaby turned on the doorstep.
“Want you to remember—don’t care damn what a frien’ has done—ever want help, come to me, sometime Fellow of Corp——”
Quixtus closed the street door in his face and heard no more. These were his friends; these the men who had lived on his bounty92, who, for years, for what they could get, had controlled their knavery93, their hypocrisy94. These were the men for whom he had striven, these sots, these dogs, these vulgar-hearted, slandering knaves95! His very soul was sick. He paused at the dining-room door and for a moment looked at the scene of the debauch96. Wine and coffee were spilled; glasses broken; a lighted stump97 of cigar had burned a great brown hole in the tablecloth98. He grimly imagined the tipsy scene. If he had been with them, there would have been smug faces, deprecating hands upheld at the second round of the port, talk on art, literature, religion, and what-not, and, at parting, whispered blessings99 and fervent100 hand-shakes; and all the time there would have been slanderous101 venom102 in their hearts, and the raging beast of drink within them cursing him for his repressing presence.
He thrust his hands, in a gesture of anger and disgust, deep into his jacket-pockets. His knuckles104 came against the crumpled letter. He turned faint and clung to the newel-post on the landing for support. The smaller treachery coming close before his eyes had for the time eclipsed the greater.
“My God,” he said, “is all the world against me?”
Unfortunately there was a thunderbolt or two yet to fall.
点击收听单词发音
1 dishonoured | |
a.不光彩的,不名誉的 | |
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2 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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3 seclusion | |
n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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4 presidency | |
n.总统(校长,总经理)的职位(任期) | |
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5 anthropological | |
adj.人类学的 | |
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6 professed | |
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
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7 courteous | |
adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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8 repenting | |
对(自己的所为)感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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9 housekeeper | |
n.管理家务的主妇,女管家 | |
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10 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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11 heterogeneous | |
adj.庞杂的;异类的 | |
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12 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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13 retrenchment | |
n.节省,删除 | |
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14 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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15 murky | |
adj.黑暗的,朦胧的;adv.阴暗地,混浊地;n.阴暗;昏暗 | |
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16 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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17 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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18 outrageous | |
adj.无理的,令人不能容忍的 | |
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19 insolence | |
n.傲慢;无礼;厚颜;傲慢的态度 | |
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20 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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21 engraved | |
v.在(硬物)上雕刻(字,画等)( engrave的过去式和过去分词 );将某事物深深印在(记忆或头脑中) | |
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22 neolithic | |
adj.新石器时代的 | |
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23 craved | |
渴望,热望( crave的过去式 ); 恳求,请求 | |
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24 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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25 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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26 semblance | |
n.外貌,外表 | |
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27 huddled | |
挤在一起(huddle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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28 negligently | |
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29 stimulating | |
adj.有启发性的,能激发人思考的 | |
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30 twine | |
v.搓,织,编饰;(使)缠绕 | |
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31 poignant | |
adj.令人痛苦的,辛酸的,惨痛的 | |
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32 recess | |
n.短期休息,壁凹(墙上装架子,柜子等凹处) | |
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33 attics | |
n. 阁楼 | |
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34 attired | |
adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服,使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35 chubby | |
adj.丰满的,圆胖的 | |
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36 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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37 relic | |
n.神圣的遗物,遗迹,纪念物 | |
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38 stimulate | |
vt.刺激,使兴奋;激励,使…振奋 | |
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39 random | |
adj.随机的;任意的;n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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40 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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41 slippers | |
n. 拖鞋 | |
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42 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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43 reverently | |
adv.虔诚地 | |
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44 placid | |
adj.安静的,平和的 | |
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45 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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46 sketch | |
n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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47 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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48 slanting | |
倾斜的,歪斜的 | |
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49 underneath | |
adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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50 recollected | |
adj.冷静的;镇定的;被回忆起的;沉思默想的v.记起,想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51 crumpled | |
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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52 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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53 descending | |
n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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54 largesse | |
n.慷慨援助,施舍 | |
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55 delusion | |
n.谬见,欺骗,幻觉,迷惑 | |
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56 smote | |
v.猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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57 entrusted | |
v.委托,托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58 clenched | |
v.紧握,抓紧,咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59 ruffled | |
adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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60 crest | |
n.顶点;饰章;羽冠;vt.达到顶点;vi.形成浪尖 | |
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61 watery | |
adj.有水的,水汪汪的;湿的,湿润的 | |
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62 glistened | |
v.湿物闪耀,闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63 thereby | |
adv.因此,从而 | |
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64 lobsters | |
龙虾( lobster的名词复数 ); 龙虾肉 | |
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65 reprobate | |
n.无赖汉;堕落的人 | |
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66 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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67 prehistoric | |
adj.(有记载的)历史以前的,史前的,古老的 | |
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68 implements | |
n.工具( implement的名词复数 );家具;手段;[法律]履行(契约等)v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 );执行;贯彻;使生效 | |
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69 belly | |
n.肚子,腹部;(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分,膛 | |
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70 forefinger | |
n.食指 | |
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71 wriggling | |
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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72 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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73 contented | |
adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
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74 slandering | |
[法]口头诽谤行为 | |
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75 parables | |
n.(圣经中的)寓言故事( parable的名词复数 ) | |
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76 adverse | |
adj.不利的;有害的;敌对的,不友好的 | |
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77 sprawling | |
adj.蔓生的,不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 );蔓延;杂乱无序地拓展;四肢伸展坐着(或躺着) | |
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78 truncated | |
adj.切去顶端的,缩短了的,被删节的v.截面的( truncate的过去式和过去分词 );截头的;缩短了的;截去顶端或末端 | |
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79 cone | |
n.圆锥体,圆锥形东西,球果 | |
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80 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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81 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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82 hoarsely | |
adv.嘶哑地 | |
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83 slumber | |
n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
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84 maudlin | |
adj.感情脆弱的,爱哭的 | |
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85 whined | |
v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 );哀诉,诉怨 | |
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86 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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87 shudder | |
v.战粟,震动,剧烈地摇晃;n.战粟,抖动 | |
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88 bribe | |
n.贿赂;v.向…行贿,买通 | |
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89 wretches | |
n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 );可怜的人;恶棍;坏蛋 | |
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90 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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91 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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92 bounty | |
n.慷慨的赠予物,奖金;慷慨,大方;施与 | |
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93 knavery | |
n.恶行,欺诈的行为 | |
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94 hypocrisy | |
n.伪善,虚伪 | |
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95 knaves | |
n.恶棍,无赖( knave的名词复数 );(纸牌中的)杰克 | |
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96 debauch | |
v.使堕落,放纵 | |
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97 stump | |
n.残株,烟蒂,讲演台;v.砍断,蹒跚而走 | |
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98 tablecloth | |
n.桌布,台布 | |
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99 blessings | |
n.(上帝的)祝福( blessing的名词复数 );好事;福分;因祸得福 | |
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100 fervent | |
adj.热的,热烈的,热情的 | |
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101 slanderous | |
adj.诽谤的,中伤的 | |
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102 venom | |
n.毒液,恶毒,痛恨 | |
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103 rogues | |
n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 );无赖;调皮捣蛋的人;离群的野兽 | |
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104 knuckles | |
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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