Quixtus stared at the ironical3 words written in Mathew Quixtus’s sharp precise handwriting, and turned with a grey face to the lawyer who had pointed4 them out.
“Is that the only reference to me in the will, Mr. Henslow?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, yes, Dr. Quixtus. You can see for yourself.” He handed Quixtus the document.
Mathew Quixtus had bequeathed large sums of money to charities, smaller sums to old servants, the wine to Ephraim, and the residue5 of his estate to a Quixtus unknown to Ephraim, save by hearsay6, who had settled thirty years before in New York. Even Tommy Burgrave, with whom he had been on good terms, was not mentioned. But he had quarrelled years before with his niece, Tommy’s mother, for making an impecunious7 marriage, and, to do him justice, had never promised the boy anything. The will was dated a few weeks back, and had been witnessed by the butler and the coachman.
“I should like you to understand, Dr. Quixtus,” said Henslow, “that until we found that envelope I had no idea that your uncle had made a fresh will. I came here with the old one in my hand, which I drew up and which has been in my office-safe for fifteen years. Under that, I need not tell you, you were, with the exception of a few trifling8 legacies9, the sole legatee. I am deeply grieved.”
“Let me see that date again,” said Quixtus.
He pressed his hands to his eyes and thought. It was the day before his arrival on his last visit.
The telegram announcing Mathew Quixtus’s sudden death had brought a gleam of light into a soul which for a week had been black with misery10. It awakened12 him to a sense of outer things. A sincere affection for the old man had been a lifelong habit. It was a shock to realise that he was no longer alive. Besides having always unconsciously taken a child’s view of death, he felt genuinely sorry, for his uncle’s sake, that he should have died. Impulses of pity, tenderness, regret, stirred in his deadened heart. He forthwith set out for Devonshire, and when he arrived at Croxton, stood over the pinched waxen face till the tears came into his eyes.
He had summoned Tommy Burgrave, the only other member of the family in England, but Tommy had not been able to attend. He had caught cold while painting in the open air, and was in bed with a slight attack of congestion14 of the lungs. Quixtus was alone in the great house. With the aid of Henslow he made the funeral arrangements. The old man was laid to rest in the quiet churchyard of Croxton. Half the county came to pay their tribute to his memory, and shook Quixtus by the hand. Then he came back to the house, and in the presence of one or two of the old servants, the will was read.
It had been dated the day before his arrival on his last visit. The thing had been written and signed and witnessed and sealed, and was lying in that locked drawer in the library all the time that the old man was welcoming him, flattering him, showing him deference15. All the suavity16 and deference had been mockery. The old man had made him a notorious geck and gull17.
His pale blue eyes hardened, and he turned an expressionless face to the lawyer.
“I’m afraid it would not be possible,” said Henslow, “to have the will set aside on the ground of, say—senility—on the part of the testator.”
“My uncle had every faculty18 at its keenest when he wrote it,” said Quixtus, “including that of merciless cruelty.”
“It was a heartless jest,” the lawyer agreed.
“If you will do me a service, Mr. Henslow, you might be kind enough to instruct one of the servants to pack up my bag and forward it to my London address. I am going now to the railway station.”
The lawyer looked at his watch and put out a detaining hand.
“There’s not a decent train for two or three hours.”
“I would rather,” said Quixtus, “ride a tortoise home than stay in this house another moment.”
He walked out of the room and out of the house, and after waiting at the station whence he despatched a telegram to his housekeeper19, who was not expecting him back for two or three days, took the first train—a slow one—to London.
In his corner of the railway carriage the much-afflicted man sat motionless, brooding. Everything had happened that could shake to its foundations a man’s faith in humanity, and swallow it up in abysmal20 darkness. Suddenly, as though by a prearranged design—as we know was the case with his forerunner21 in the land of Uz—cataclysm22 after cataclysm had revealed to him the essential baseness, treachery, cruelty of mankind. For in his eyes these were proved to be essential qualities. Had they not been revealed to him, not by fitful gleams, but in one steady lurid23 glare, in the nature of those who had been nearest to him in the world—Angela, Will Hammersley, Marrable, Huckaby, Vandermeer, Billiter, Mathew Quixtus? If the same hell-streak ran through the souls of these, surely it must run through the souls of all the sons and daughters of Adam. Now here came the great puzzle. Why should he, Ephraim Quixtus, (as far as he could tell) vary from the unkindly race of man? Why hitherto had baseness, treachery, and cruelty been as foreign to his nature as an overpowering inclination24 towards arson25 or homicide? Why had he been unequipped with these qualities which appeared to serve mortals as weapons wherewith to fight the common battle of life? The why, he could not tell. That he had them not, was obvious. That he had gone to the wall through lack of them was obvious, too. Instead of the dagger26 of baseness, the sword of cruelty, the shield of treachery, all finely tempered implements27 of war, he had been fighting with the wooden lath of virtue28 and the brawn-buckler of trust. Armed as he should have been, he would have out-man?uvred Marrable at his own game, kept his wife in chaste29 and wholesome30 terror of his jealousy31, sent Huckaby and Company long since to the limbo32 where they belonged, deluded33 his uncle into the belief that he was a devil of a fellow, and now be standing34 with flapping wings and crowing voice triumphant35 on this dunghill of a world. But he had been hopelessly outmatched. Whoever had taken upon himself the responsibility of equipping him for the battle of life had been guilty of incredible negligence36. But on whom could he call to remedy this defect? Men called on the Unknown God to make them good; but it would be idiotic37 as well as blasphemous38 to call on Him to make one bad. How, then, were the essential qualities of baseness, treachery, and cruelty to be captured and brought into his armoury? Perhaps the Devil might help. But we are so matter-of-fact and scientific in these days that even the simple soul of Quixtus could not quite believe in his existence. If he had lived in the Middle Ages (so in scholarly gloom ran his fancy) he could have drawn39 circles and pentagrams and things on the floor, and uttered the incantations, and all the hierarchy40 of hell would have been at his command, Satanas, Lucifer, Mephistopheles, Asmodeus, Samael, Asael, Beelzebub, Azazel, Macathiel. . . . Quixtus rather leaned towards Macathiel—the name suggested a merciless, bowelless, high-cheek-boned devil in a kilt——
Impatiently he shook his thoughts free from the fantastic channel into which they had wandered and brought them back into the ever-thickening slough41 of his soul. The train lumbered42 on, stopping at pretty wayside stations where fresh-faced folk with awkward gait and soft deep voices clattered43 cheerily past Quixtus’s windows on their way to or from the third-class carriages, or at the noisier, bustling44 stations of large towns. Now and then a well-dressed traveller invaded his solitude45 for a short distance. But Quixtus sat in his remote corner seeing, hearing nothing, brooding on the baseness, treachery, and cruelty of mankind. He had come to the end of love, the end of trust, the end of friendship. When the shapes of those who were still loyal to him flitted across his darkened fancy he cursed them in his heart. They were as corrupt46 as the rest. That they had not been found out in their villainy only proved a thicker mask of hypocrisy47. He had finished with them all. If he had been a more choleric48 man gifted with the power of picturesque49 vehemence50 of language he might have outrivalled Timon of Athens in the denunciations of his fellows. It must be a relief to any one in such a frame of mind to stand up and, with violent gestures, express his views in terms of sciatica, itches51, blains, leprosy, venomed52 worms and ulcerous53 sores, and to call upon the blessed breeding sun to draw from the earth rotten humidity, and below his sister’s orb54 to infect the air. He knows exactly what he feels, gives it full artistic55 expression, and finds himself all the better for it. But Quixtus, inarticulate, had no such comfort. Indeed, he could hardly have expressed the welter of horror, hate, and misery that was his moral being, in any form of speech whatever. As the train rumbled56 on, the phrase “Evil be thou my good” wove itself into the rhythm of the machinery57. He let it sing dully and stupidly in his ears, and his mind worked subconsciously58 back to Macathiel.
As yet he had imagined no future attitude towards life. His soul was in a state of negation59. The insistent60 invocation of Evil was but a catchword, irritating his brain and having no real significance. At the most he envisaged61 the future as a period of inactive misanthropy and suspicion. He had as yet no stirrings to action. On the other hand, he did not, like Job, after the first series of afflictions, rend62 his clothes, shave his head, and bear his reverses with pious63 resignation.
The train arrived an hour late, as slow trains are apt to do, and it was nearly half-past eleven when he reached his house in Russell Square. He opened the door with his latchkey. The hall was dark, contrary to custom. He switched on the light, and, turning, saw that the letter-box had not been cleared. Mechanically he took out the letters, and beneath the hall lamp glanced at the outside of the envelopes. Among them was the telegram he had sent from Devonshire.
Even a man wallowing in the deepest abysses of spiritual misery needs food; and when he finds that a telegram ordering supper (for his return was unexpected) has not been opened, he may be pardoned purely64 material disappointment and irritation65. Mrs. Pennycook, the housekeeper, must have profited by his absence to take a holiday. But what business had she to take a holiday and leave the house uncared for at that time of night? For, if she had returned, she would have lit the hall-light, and cleared the letter-box. He resigned himself peevishly66 to the prospect67 of a biscuit and a whisky-and-soda in the little back room where he ate his meals.
He strode down the passage to the head of the kitchen stairs and opened the study door. A glare of light met his eyes, and a moment afterwards something else. This was Mrs. Pennycook in an armchair, sleeping a bedraggled sleep with two empty quart bottles of champagne68 and an empty bottle of whisky by her side. He shook her hard by the shoulders; but beyond stertorous69 and jerky breaths the blissful lady showed no signs of animation70.
It was then that a constricting71 thread snapped in Quixtus’s brain. It was then, as if by a trick of magic, that all the vaguely72 billowing horrors, disillusions73, disgusts, resentments75 and hatreds76 co-ordinated themselves into a scheme of fierce vividness.
Just as the boils made Job, who had borne the annihilation of his family with equanimity77, open his mouth and curse his day, so did a drunken servant, who neglected to give him his supper, awaken11 Ephraim Quixtus to the glorious thrill of a remorseless, relentless78 malignity79.
He threw up his hands and laughed aloud, peals80 of unearthly laughter that woke the echoes of the empty house, that woke the canary in its cage by the window, causing it to utter a few protesting “cheeps,” that arrested the policeman on his beat outside, that did everything human laughter in the way of noise can do, even stimulating81 the blissful lady to open half a glazed82 eye for the fraction of a second. After his paroxysm had subsided83, he looked at the woman for a moment, and then with an air of peculiar84 malevolence85 took a sheet of note-paper from a small writing-table beneath the canary’s cage and wrote on it:
“Let me never see your face again.—E. Q.”
This, by the aid of a hairpin86 that had fallen into her lap, he pinned to her apron87. Then, with another laugh, he left her beneath the glare of the light, and went out into the street. He was thrilled, like a drunken man, with a new sense of life. Years had fallen from his shoulders. He had solved the riddle88 of the world. Baseness, treachery, cruelty, he felt them pulsating89 in his heart with a maddening joy of existence. Evil was his good. He was no longer even a base, treacherous90, cruel man. He was a devil incarnate91. The long exultant92 years in front of him would be spent in deeds of shame and crime and unprecedented93 wickedness. If there was a throne to be waded94 to through slaughter96, through slaughter would he wade95 to it. He would shut the gates of Mercy on mankind. He held out both hands in front of him with stiffened97 outspread fingers. If only there was a human throat between them, how they would close around it, how he would gloat over the dying agony! Caligula was the man for him. He regretted his untimely death. What a colleague could have been made of the fiend who wished that the whole human race had one neck so that it could be severed98 at one blow!
He had reached this stage in his exultant reflections when he found himself outside a restaurant which he had never entered, at the Oxford99 Street end of the Tottenham Court Road. He remembered that he was hungry; that a new-born spirit of wickedness must be fed. He went in, unconscious of the company or the surroundings, and ordered supper. The waiter said that it was nearly closing time. Quixtus called for a plate of cold beef and a whisky-and-soda. He devoured100 the meat ravenously101, forgetful of the bread by his side, and drank the drink at a gulp102. Having lit a cigar, he threw half a sovereign on the table and walked out. He walked along the streets heedless of direction, down Shaftesbury Avenue, across Piccadilly Circus blazing with light, through Leicester Square, along the still hurrying Strand103 to Fleet Street noiseless and empty, his brain on fire, weaving exquisite104 fabrics105 of devilry. Suddenly he halted on a glorious thought. Why should he not begin there and then? The whole of London, with its crime and sin and rottenness, lay before him. He retraced106 his steps back to the Babylon of the West. What could he do? Where could he find adequate wickedness? When he reached Charing107 Cross again it was dark and deserted108. A square mile of London has every night about an hour of tearing, surging, hectic109 life. Then all of a sudden the thousands of folk are swept away to the four comers of the mighty110 city, and all is still. A woman, as Quixtus passed, quickened her pace and murmured words. Here was a partner in wickedness to his hand. But the flesh of the delicately fibred man revolted simultaneously111 with the thought. No. That did not come within his scheme of wickedness. He slipped a coin into the woman’s palm, because she looked so forlorn, and went his way. She was useless for his purpose. What he sought was some occasion for pitilessness, for doing evil to his fellow creatures. A fine rain began to fall; but he heeded112 it not, burning with the sense of adventure. A reminiscence of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde crossed his mind. Hyde, like Caligula, was also the man for him. Didn’t he once throw a child down in a lonely street and stamp on it?
He walked and walked through the now silent places, and the more he walked the less opening for wickedness did he see. The potentialities of Babylon appeared to him overrated. After a wide and aimless détour he found himself again at Charing Cross. He struck down Whitehall. But in Whitehall and Parliament Street, the stately palaces on either side, vast museums of an Empire’s decorum, forbade the suggestion of wickedness. The belated omnibuses and cabs that passed along were invested with a momentary113 hush114 of respectability. He turned up the Thames Embankment and saw the mass of the great buildings with here and there patches of lighted windows showing above the tree-tops of the gardens, the benches below filled with huddled115 sodden116 shapes of human misery, the broad silent thoroughfares, the parapet, the dimly flowing river below—a black mirror marked by streaks117 of light, reflections from lamps on parapet and bridges, the low-lying wharves118 on the opposite side swallowed up in blackness—and no attractive wickedness was apparent; nor was there any on the great bridge, disturbed only by the slow waggons119 mountains high bringing food for the insatiable multitude of London, and lumbering120 on in endless trail with an impressive fatefulness; nor even at the coffee-stall at the corner of the Waterloo Bridge Road, its damp little swarm121 of frequenters clustering to it like bees, their faces illuminated122 by the segment of light cast by the reflector at the back of the stall, all harmlessly drinking cocoa or wistfully watching others drink it. For a moment he thought of joining the swarm, as some of the faces looked alluringly123 vile124; but the inbred instinct of fastidiousness made him pass it by. He plunged125 into the unsavoury streets beyond. They were still and ghostly. All things diabolical126 could no doubt be found behind those silent windows; but at two o’clock in the morning sin is generally asleep, and sleeping sin and sleeping virtue are as alike as two pins. Meanwhile the fine rain fell unceasingly, and the Earnest Seeker after Wickedness began to feel wet and chilly127.
This is a degenerate128 age. A couple of centuries ago Quixtus could have manned a ship with cut-throats, hoisted129 the skull130 and cross-bones, and become the Terror of the Seas. Or, at a more recent date, if he had been a Corsican he could have taken his gun and gone into the maquis and declared war on the island. If he had lived in the fourteenth century he could have become a condottiere after the fashion of the gentle Duke Guarnieri, who, wearing on his breast a silver badge with the inscription131 “The Enemy of God, of Pity, and of Mercy,” gained for himself enviable unpopularity in Northern Italy. As a Malay, he could have taken a queerly curving, businesslike knife and run amuck132, to his great personal satisfaction. In prehistoric133 times, he could have sat for a couple of delicious months in a cave, polishing and sharpening a beautiful axe-head, and, having fitted it to its haft, have gone forth13 and (probably skulking134 behind trees so as to get his victims in the rear) have had as gorgeous a time as was given to prehistoric man to imagine. But nowadays, who can do these delightful135, vindictive136, and misanthropical137 things with any feeling of security? If Quixtus, obeying a logically developed impulse; had slaughtered138 a young man in evening dress in Piccadilly, he most indubitably would have been hung, to say nothing of being subjected to all the sordid139 procedure of a trial for murder.
Nor is this all. Owing to some flaw in our system of education, Quixtus had not been trained to deeds of violence; no one had even set before him the theoretical philosophy of the subject. You may argue, I am aware, that we use other weapons now than the cutlass of the pirate or the stone-axe of the quaternary age; we have the subtler vengeance140 of voice and pen, which can give a more exquisite finish to the devastation141 of human lives. But I would remind you that Quixtus, through the neglect of his legal studies and practice, was ignorant of the ordinary laws of chicane, and of the elementary principles of financial dishonesty that guided the nefariousness142 of folk like “Gehenna, Unlimited143.”
It must be admitted, therefore, that Quixtus entered on his career of depravity greatly handicapped.
The grey light of a hopeless May dawn was just beginning to outline the towers and spires144 of Westminster against the sky when Quixtus found himself by the Westminster Hospital. He was damp and chill, somewhat depressed145. The thrill of adventure had passed away, leaving disappointment and a little disillusion74 in its place. He was also physically146 fatigued147, and his shoulders and feet ached. One ghostly hansom-cab stood on the rank, the horse drooping148 its dejected head into a lean nosebag, the driver asleep inside. Quixtus resolved to arouse the man from his slumbers149, and, abandoning the pursuit of evil for the night, drive home to Russell Square. But as he was crossing the road towards the vehicle, a miserable150 object, starting up from the earth, ran by his side and addressed him in a voice so hoarse151 that it scarcely rose above a whisper.
“For Gord’s sake, guv’nor, spare a poor man a copper152 or two. I’ve not tasted food for twenty-four hours.”
Quixtus stopped, his instinctive153 fingers diving into his pence-pocket. Suddenly an idea struck him.
“You must have led a very evil life,” said he, “to have come to this stage of destitution154.”
“Whatcher gettin’ at?” growled155 the applicant156, one eye fixed157 suspiciously on Quixtus’s face, the other on the fumbling158 hand.
“I’m not going to preach to you—far from it,” said Quixtus; “but I should like to know. You must have seen a great deal of wickedness in your time.”
“If you arsk me,” opined the man, “there’s nothing but wickedness in this blankety blank world.”
He did not say “blankety blank,” but used other and more lurid epithets159 which, though they were not exactly the ones that Quixtus himself would have chosen, at least showed him that his companion and himself were agreed on their fundamental conception of the universe.
“If you will tell me where I can find some,” he said, “I will give you half a crown.”
“That’s my business,” said Quixtus.
The cabman, suddenly awakened, saw the possibility of a fare. He clambered out of the vehicle.
“Cab, sir?” he called across the road.
“Yes,” said Quixtus.
“Certainly,” said Quixtus.
“Then I’ll tell yer, guv’nor. I’ve been a bookie’s tout162, see? Not a slap-up bookie in the ring—but an outside one—one what did a bit of welshing when he could, see?—and what I say is, that I seed more wickedness there than anywhere else. If you want to see blankety blank wickedness you go on the turf.” He cleared his throat, but his whisper had grown almost inaudible. “I’ve gone and lost my voice,” he said.
Quixtus looked at the drenched163, starved, voiceless, unshorn horror of a man standing outcast and dying of want and wickedness in the grey dawn, under the shadow of the central symbols of the pomp and majesty164 of England.
“You look very ill,” said he.
“Consumpshon,” breathed the man.
Quixtus shivered. The cabman, who had hastily dispossessed the dejected horse of the nosebag, had climbed into his dicky and was swinging the cab round.
“I thank you very much for your information,” said Quixtus. “Here’s half a sovereign.”
Voicelessness and wonder provoked an inarticulate wheeze165 like the spitting of a cat. The man was still gaping166 at the unaccustomed coin in his hand when the cab drove off. But Quixtus had not been many minutes on his way when a thought smote167 him like a sledge-hammer. He brought his fist down furiously on the leathern seat.
“What a fool! What a monumental fool I’ve been!” he cried.
He had just realised that the devil had offered him as pretty a little chance of sheer wickedness as could be met with on a May morning, which he had not taken. Instead of giving the man ten shillings, he ought to have laughed in his face, taunted168 him with his emaciation169 and driven off without paying the half-crown he had promised. To have let the very first opportunity slip through his fingers! He would have to wear a badge like that of the gentle Duke Guarnieri to keep his wits from wandering.
When he reached home he looked for a moment into the little room at the head of the kitchen stairs. The Blissful One still slept, a happy smile on her face, and the paper pinned to her apron.
There was surely some chance of wickedness here. Quixtus furens scratched an inventive head. Suppose he carried her outside and set her on the doorstep. He regarded her critically. She was buxom—about twelve stone. He was a spare and unathletic man. A great yawn interrupted his speculations170, and turning off the light he stumbled off sleepily and wearily to bed.
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adjure
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| v.郑重敦促(恳请) | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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abysmal
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| adj.无底的，深不可测的，极深的；糟透的，极坏的；完全的 | |
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forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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cataclysm
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| n.洪水，剧变，大灾难 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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inclination
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arson
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dagger
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implements
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| 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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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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wholesome
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jealousy
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limbo
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| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude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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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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36
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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37
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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38
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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39
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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40
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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41
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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42
lumbered
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| 砍伐（lumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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43
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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44
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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45
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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46
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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47
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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48
choleric
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| adj.易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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49
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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50
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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51
itches
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| n.痒( itch的名词复数 )；渴望，热望v.发痒( itch的第三人称单数 ) | |
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52
venomed
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| adj.恶毒的，含有恶意的 | |
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53
ulcerous
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| adj.溃疡性的，患溃疡的 | |
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54
orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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55
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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56
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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57
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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58
subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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59
negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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60
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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61
envisaged
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| 想像，设想( envisage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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63
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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64
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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65
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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66
peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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67
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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68
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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69
stertorous
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| adj.打鼾的 | |
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70
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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71
constricting
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| 压缩，压紧，使收缩( constrict的现在分词 ) | |
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72
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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73
disillusions
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| 使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭( disillusion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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74
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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75
resentments
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| （因受虐待而）愤恨，不满，怨恨( resentment的名词复数 ) | |
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76
hatreds
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| n.仇恨，憎恶( hatred的名词复数 )；厌恶的事 | |
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77
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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78
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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79
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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80
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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81
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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82
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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83
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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84
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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85
malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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86
hairpin
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| n.簪,束发夹，夹发针 | |
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87
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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88
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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89
pulsating
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| adj.搏动的，脉冲的v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的现在分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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90
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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91
incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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92
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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93
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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94
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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96
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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97
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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98
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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99
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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100
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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101
ravenously
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| adv.大嚼地，饥饿地 | |
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102
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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103
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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104
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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105
fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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106
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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107
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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108
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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109
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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110
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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111
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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112
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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114
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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115
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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116
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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117
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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118
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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119
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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120
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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121
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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122
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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123
alluringly
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| 诱人地，妩媚地 | |
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124
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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125
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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126
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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127
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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128
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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129
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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131
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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132
amuck
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| ad.狂乱地 | |
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133
prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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134
skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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135
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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136
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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137
misanthropical
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138
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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140
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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141
devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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142
nefariousness
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143
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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144
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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145
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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146
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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147
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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148
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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149
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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150
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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151
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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152
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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153
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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154
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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155
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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156
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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157
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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158
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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159
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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160
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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161
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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162
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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163
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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164
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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165
wheeze
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| n.喘息声，气喘声；v.喘息着说 | |
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166
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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167
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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168
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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169
emaciation
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| n.消瘦，憔悴，衰弱 | |
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170
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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