It was Vandermeer, still burning with a sense of wrong, yearning5 for vengeance6, yet trembling at the prospect7 of wreaking8 it. At Tommy’s door he hesitated. Of his former visit to the young man no pleasant recollections lingered. Tommy’s manners were impulsive9 rather than urbane10. Would he listen to Vandermeer’s story or would he kick him out of the house? Vandermeer, starting out on his pilgrimage to Romney Place, had fortified11 himself with the former conjecture12. Now that he had come to the end of it the latter appeared inevitable13. He always shrank from physical violence. It would hurt very much to be kicked out of the house, to say nothing of the moral damage. He hovered14 in agonising uncertainty15, and took off his hat, for the afternoon was warm. Now, while he was mopping the brow of dubiety, a front door lower down the street opened, and a nurse and a little girl appeared. They descended16 the steps and walked past him. Vandermeer looked after them for a moment, then stuck on his hat and punched the left-hand palm with the right-hand fist with the air of a man to whom has occurred an inspiration. Miss Clementina Wing also lived in Romney Place. That must be the child, Quixtus’s ward17, of whom Huckaby had spoken. It would be much better to take his story to Clementina Wing, now so intimately associated with Quixtus. Women, he argued, are much more easily inveigled18 into intrigue20 than men, and they don’t kick you out of the house in a manner to cause bodily pain. Besides, Clementina had once befriended him. Why had he not thought of her before? He walked boldly up the steps and rang the bell.
Clementina was fiercely painting drapery from the lay figure—a grey silk dress full of a thousand folds and shadows. The texture21 was not coming right. The more she painted the less like silk did it look. Now was it muddy canvas; now fluffy22 wool. Every touch was wrong. Every stroke of the brush since her yesterday’s talk with Quixtus was wrong. She could not paint. Yet in a frenzy23 of anger she determined24 to paint. What had the woman invited to Quixtus’s dinner-party to do with her art? She would make the thing come right. She would prove to herself that she was a woman of genius, that she had not her sex hanging round the neck of her spirit. If Quixtus chose to make a fool of himself with Mrs. Fontaine, in Heaven’s name let him do so. She had her work to do. She would do it, in spite of all the society hacks25 in Christendom. The skirt began to look like a blanket stained with coffee. Let him have his dinner-party. What was there of importance in so contemptible26 a thing as a dinner-party? But this infernal woman had suggested it. How far was he compromised with this infernal woman? She could wring27 her neck. The dress began to suggest a humorously streaky London fog.
“Damn the thing!” cried Clementina, wiping the whole skirt out. “I’ll stand here for ever, until I get it right.”
Her tea, on a little table at the other end of the studio, remained untouched. Her hair fell in loose strands28 over her forehead, and she pushed it back every now and then with impatient fingers. The front-door bell rang, and soon her maid appeared at the gallery door.
“A gentleman to see you, ma’am.”
“I can’t see anybody. You know I can’t. Tell him to go away.”
The maid came down the stairs.
“I told him you weren’t in to anybody—but he insisted. He hadn’t a card, but wrote his name on a slip of paper. Here it is, ma’am.”
Clementina angrily took the slip; “Mr. Vandermeer would be glad to see Miss Wing on the most urgent business.”
“Tell him I can’t see him.”
The maid mounted the stairs. Vandermeer? Vandermeer? Where had she heard that name before? Suddenly she remembered.
“All right. Show him down here,” she shouted to the disappearing maid.
She might just as well see him. If she sent him away the buzzing worry of conjecture as to his urgent business would flitter about her mind. She threw down her palette and brush and impatiently rubbed her hands together. Into what shape of moral flaccidity was she weakening? Five months ago all the urgent business of all the Vandermeers in the world could go hang when she was painting and could not get a thing right. Why should she be different now from the Clementina of five months ago? Why, why, why? With exasperated29 hands she further confounded the confusion of her hair.
The introduction of Vandermeer put a stop to these questionings. She received him, arms akimbo, at a short distance from the foot of the stairs.
“I must apologise, Miss Wing, for this intrusion,” said he, “but perhaps you may remember——”
“Yes, yes,” she interrupted. “Ham-and-beef shop, which you transmogrified into a restaurant. Also Mr. Burgrave. What do you want? I’m very busy.”
The sight of the mean little figure holding his felt hat with both hands in front of him, with his pointed30 face, ferret eyes, and red, crinkly hair, did not in any way redeem31 her remembered impression.
“A very grave danger is threatening Dr. Quixtus,” said he. “It is impossible for me to warn him myself, so I have come to you, as a friend of his.”
“Danger?” cried Clementina, taken off her guard. “What kind of danger?”
“You will only understand, if I tell you rather a long story. But first I must have your promise of secrecy32 as far as I am concerned.”
“Don’t like secrecy,” said Clementina.
“You can take whatever action you like,” he said, hastily. “It’s in order that you may act in his interest that I’m here. I only want you to give me your word that you won’t compromise me personally. I assure you, you’ll see why when I tell you the story.”
Clementina reflected for a moment. It was a danger threatening Quixtus. It might be important. This little weasel of a man was of no account.
“All right,” she said. “I give my word. Go ahead.”
She took a pinch of tobacco from the yellow package and a cigarette paper, and, sitting in a chair in the cool draught33 of the door opening on to the garden, with shaky fingers rolled a cigarette.
“Sit down. You can smoke if you like. You can also help yourself to tea. I won’t have any.”
Vandermeer poured himself out some tea and cut an enormous hunk of cake.
“I warn you,” said he, drawing a chair within conversational34 distance, “that the story will be a long one—I want to begin from the beginning.”
“Go ahead, for goodness’ sake,” said Clementina.
Vandermeer was astute35 enough to conjecture that a sudden denunciation of Mrs. Fontaine might defeat his object by exciting her generous indignation; whereas by gradually arousing her interest in the affairs of Quixtus, the climactic introduction of the execrated36 lady might pass almost unrecognised.
“The story has to do, in the first place,” said he, “with three men, John Billiter, Eustace Huckaby, and myself.”
“Huckaby?” cried Clementina, startled. “What has he to do with you?”
“The biggest blackguard of us all,” said Vandermeer.
Clementina lay back in her chair, her attention caught at once.
“Go on,” she said.
Whereupon Vandermeer began, and with remorseless veracity—for here truth was far more effective than fiction—told the story of the relations of the three with Quixtus, in the days of their comparative prosperity, when he himself was on the staff of a newspaper, Billiter in possession of the fag-end of his fortune, and Huckaby a tutor at Cambridge. He told how, one by one, they sank; how Quixtus held out the helping37 hand. He told of the weekly dinners, the overcoat pockets.
“Not a soul on earth but you three knew anything about it?” asked Clementina, in a quavering voice.
“As far as I know, not a soul.”
He told of the drunken dinner; of Quixtus’s anger; of the cessation of the intercourse38; of the extraordinary evening when Quixtus had invited them to be his ministers of evil; of his madness; of his fixed39 idea to work wickedness; of his own suggestion as regards Tommy.
“You infamous40 devil!” said Clementina, between her set teeth. In her wildest conjectures41, she had never imagined so grotesque42 and so pitiable a history. She sat absorbed, pale-cheeked, holding the extinct stump43 of cigarette between her fingers.
Vandermeer paid no attention to the ejaculation. He proceeded with his story; told of Billiter and the turf; of Huckaby and the heart-breaking adventure.
“Oh, my God!” cried Clementina. “Oh, my God!” He told of the meetings in the tavern44. Of the hunger and misery45 of the three. Of the plot to use a decoy woman in Paris, who was to bleed him to the extent of three thousand pounds.
“Lena Fontaine,” said Vandermeer.
Clementina grew very white, and fell back into her chair. She felt faint. She had worked violently, she had felt violently since early morning. Vandermeer started up.
“Can I get you anything? Some water—some tea?”
“Nothing,” she said, shortly. The idea of receiving anything from his abhorrent47 hands acted as a shock. “I’m all right. Go on. Tell me all you know about her.”
He related the unsavoury details that he had gleaned48 from Billiter, scrupulously49 explaining that these were at second hand. Finally he informed her with fair accuracy of Huckaby’s latest report, giving however his own interpretation50 of Huckaby’s conduct, and laid the position of Billiter and himself before her.
“You see,” said he, “how important it was for me to obtain your pledge of secrecy.”
“And what do you get out of coming to me with this story?”
Vandermeer rose, and held his hat tight.
“Nothing except the satisfaction of having queered the damned pitch of both of them.”
Clementina shrank together in her chair, her hands tight over her face, all her flesh a shuddering51 horror. Then she waved both hands at him blindly.
Vandermeer’s shifty eyes glanced from Clementina to a stool beside his chair. On it lay the great hunk of cake which he had cut but had not been able to eat during his narration53. She was not looking. He pocketed the cake and turned. But Clementina had seen. She uttered a cry of anguish54 and horror.
“Oh, God! Are you as hungry as that? You’ll find some money in that end drawer—” she pointed to an oak dresser against the gallery wall. “Take what you want to buy food with, and go. Only go!”
Vandermeer opened the drawer, took out a five-pound note, and, having mounted the stairs, left the studio.
Clementina staggered into the little garden; her brain reeling. She, who thought she had fathomed55 the depths of life, and, scornful of her knowledge thereof, rode serene56 on the surface, knew nothing. Nothing of the wolf instinct of man when hunger drives. Nothing of the degradation57 of a man when the drink fiend clutches at his throat. Lord! How sweet the air, even in this ridiculous little London garden, after the awful atmosphere of that beast of prey58!
Quixtus! All her heart went out to him in fierce love and pity. Generous, high-souled gentleman, at the mercy of these ravening59 wolves! She walked round and round the little garden path. Things obscure to her gradually became clear. But many remained dark—maddeningly impenetrable. Something had happened to throw the beloved man off his balance. The Marrable trial might well be a factor. But was that enough? Yet what did the past matter? The present held peril60. The web was being woven tight around him. She had hated the woman intuitively at first sight. Had dreaded61 complications. It was a million times worse than she had in her most jealous dreams conceived. If he were lured62 into marriage, what but disaster could be the end? And Sheila! Her blood froze at the thought of her darling coming into contact with the woman. All her sex clamoured.
Before she acted, every dark corner must be illuminated63. There must be no groping; no false movement. One man would certainly be able to throw light—Huckaby, the trusted friend of Quixtus. The more she thought of him the more she was amazed. Here was one of the ghastly band, an illimitable scoundrel, the one who had openly suggested to Quixtus the most despicable, yet the most fantastic, wickedness of all, now the confidential64 secretary, the collaborator65, the fidus Achates, of the sane66 and disillusioned67 gentleman.
With sudden decision she marched into the studio and took up the telephone and gave a number. Quixtus’s voice eventually answered. Who was there?
“It’s me. Clementina. Is Mr. Huckaby still with you?”
Huckaby had left half an hour ago.
“Can you give me his address? I want to ask him to come and see me. To come to tea. I like him so much, you know.”
The address came through the telephone. She noted68 it in her memory. Quixtus inquired for Sheila. Clementina gave him cheery news and rang off. All this was arrant69 disingenuousness70 and duplicity. But Clementina did not care. What woman ever does?
She ran up to her bedroom, thrust on a coat; pinned on the hat with the wobbly rose, and went out. In the King’s Road she found a taxi-cab. A quarter of an hour brought her to Huckaby’s lodgings71.
He had spent a happy and untroubled day, and was finishing the “Ph?do” with great enjoyment72, when Clementina burst into the room. He leaped from his chair in amazement73.
“My dear Miss Wing!”
Huckaby staggered back. To such a salutation it is difficult to respond in the ordinary terms of hospitality.
“Will you take a seat,” said he, “and explain?”
He drew a chair to the open window. She plumped herself down.
“I think it’s for you to explain,” she said.
“I presume,” said Huckaby, after a pause, “that something in connection with my past life has come to your ears. I will grant that there was in it much that was not particularly creditable. But my conscience now is free from reproach.”
Clementina sniffed75. “You must have a very accommodating conscience. What about Dr. Quixtus and Mrs. Fontaine?”
“Well, what about it?”
“You know the kind of woman Mrs. Fontaine is—you introduced her to him—and yet you are allowing her to inveigle19 him into marriage. Oh, don’t deny it. I know the whole infamous conspiracy76 from A to Z.”
Huckaby stifled77 an oath. “Those brutes78 Vandermeer and Billiter have been giving the woman away to you!” He clenched79 his fists. “The blackguards!”
“I don’t know anything about Van-what’s-his-name or the other man. I only know one thing. This marriage is not going to take place. I might have gone straight to Dr. Quixtus; but I thought it best to see you first. There are various things I want cleared up.”
Huckaby looked at the woman’s strong, rugged80 face, and then his eyes wandered round the little cool haven81 that was his home, and a great fear fell upon him. If Quixtus learned the truth now about Mrs. Fontaine, he would never be forgiven. He would be put on the same footing as the two others; and then the abyss. Of course he could lie, and Mrs. Fontaine could lie. But what would be the use? The revelation of the true facts to Quixtus would fit in only too well with his past disingenuousness and with his urgent insistence82 on the heart-breaking adventure. And his iron-faced visitor would soon see to it that the lies were swept away. His face grew ashen83.
“You have me in your power,” he said, humbly84. “Once I was a gentleman and a scholar. Then there were years of degradation. Now, thanks to Quixtus, I’m on the way to becoming my former self. If you denounce me to Quixtus, I go back. For sheer pity’s sake don’t do it.”
“Let me hear what you’ve got to say for yourself,” said Clementina, grimly.
“What are Quixtus’s feelings with regard to Mrs. Fontaine I don’t know. He has never spoken to me on the subject. But he certainly admires her for what she really is—a charming, well-bred woman.”
“Umph!” said Clementina.
“Suppose,” continued Huckaby, “suppose we were drawn into this conspiracy. Suppose when we came to put it into practice both our souls revolted. Suppose she began to like Quixtus for his own sake. Suppose her soul also revolted from her past life——”
“Fiddlesticks!” said Clementina.
“I assure you it’s true,” he said, earnestly. “Let us suppose it is, anyhow. Suppose she saw in a marriage with a good man her salvation85. Suppose she was ready to make him a good wife. Suppose I thoroughly86 believed her. How could I, clinging to the same plank87 as she, do otherwise than I have done—keep silent?”
“Your duty to your benefactor88 should certainly outweigh89 your supposed duty to this worthless creature.”
Huckaby sighed. “That’s the woman’s point of view.”
Clementina made an angry gesture. “I suppose you’re right. Always the confounded woman’s point of view—when one wants to look at things judicially90. Yes. You couldn’t give the woman away—a man’s perverted91 notion—I see. Well—let us take it; for the sake of argument, that I believe you. What then?”
“I don’t know,” said he. “Mrs. Fontaine and myself are at your mercy.”
“Umph!” said Clementina again. She paused, glanced shrewdly at his face, as he sat forward in the chair on the opposite side of the window, twisting nervous fingers and staring out across the street.
“Tell me your story—frankly92—of Dr. Quixtus,” she said at last, “from the time of the Marrable trial. As many details as you can remember. I want to know.”
Huckaby obeyed. He was, as he said, at her mercy. His story confirmed Vandermeer’s, but it covered a wider ground, and, told with truer perception, cast the desired light on dark places. She learned for the first time—for hitherto she had concerned herself little with Quixtus’s affairs—the fact of his disinheritance, Quixtus having, one raging day, revealed to Huckaby the history of the cynical93 will. She questioned him about Will Hammersley. His account of Quixtus’s half-given and hastily snatched confidence was a lightning flash.
Clementina rose, aghast, and walked about the room. The idea of such a horror had never entered her head. Hammersley and Angela—it was incredible, impossible. There must have been some awful hallucination. That Hammersley, Bayard without fear and without reproach, and Angela, quiet, colourless saint, could have done this thing baffled all imaginings of human passion. It was inconceivable, ludicrous, grotesque. But to Quixtus it was real. He believed it. It lay at the root of his disorder94. Even now, with his disorder cured, he believed it still. She was rent with his anguish.
“My God! How he must have suffered!”
“And in spite of everything,” said Huckaby, “he is as tender to Hammersley’s little daughter as if she were his own.”
“Thank you for that. You’ve got a heart somewhere about you.”
She sat down again. “When do you think this suspicion, or whatever it was, crossed his mind? Let us go back.”
They talked long and earnestly. At length, Huckaby having ransacked97 his memory of things past, they fixed as a probable date the day of the hostless dinner. Quixtus had sent down word that he was ill. The excuse was entirely98 false. Nothing but severe mental trouble could have stood in the way of his taking the head of the table. Obviously something had happened. Huckaby had a vague memory of seeing Quixtus, as he entered the museum, crush a letter in his hand and stuff it in his jacket pocket. It might possibly have been a letter incriminating the pair.
Whether the conjecture was right or wrong did not greatly matter. Clementina felt now that she held the key to Quixtus’s mad conduct. Blow after blow had fallen on him. Those whom he had trusted had betrayed him. He had lost faith in humanity. The gentle nature could not withstand this loss of faith. There had been shock. He had set out to work devildom. The pity of it!
She uttered a queer, choking laugh. “And not one piece of wickedness could he commit!”
The summer twilight99 began to creep over the quiet street, and the darkness deepened at the back of the room. A long silence fell upon them. Clementina sat as motionless as a dusky sphinx, absorbed by strange thoughts and wrung100 by strange emotions that made her bosom101 heave and her breath come quickly. A scheme, audacious, fantastic, romantic, began to shape itself in her mind, sending the blood tingling102 down to her feet, to her finger-tips.
At last she made an abrupt movement.
“It’s getting dark. What can the time be? I must go home.”
She rose.
“Before I go,” she said, “we must settle up about Mrs. Fontaine.”
“We must think first of Quixtus,” she replied, shortly. “What we’ve got to do for him is to build up his faith in humanity again—not to give the little he has left another knockdown blow. See?”
Huckaby raised his head with swift hope.
“Do you mean that he must not know about her?”
“Or about you. That’s what I mean.”
“All the same, this precious marriage project has got to be put a stop to—for ever and ever, amen. I hope you realise that thoroughly.”
Huckaby could not meet her keen eyes. He hung his head.
“I suppose you mean me to break it gently to her that—that the game is up.”
“I don’t mean anything of the kind,” she snapped. “Now look here. Pay strict attention. If you obey me implicitly105 and scrupulously, I’ll still see whether I can’t be your friend—and I can be a good friend; but if you don’t, God help you! I’ve given a pledge of secrecy to my informant this afternoon. Of course I’ve broken it, like a woman. So you’ve got to keep it for me. See? You’re not to let those two blackguards suffer in any way on my account. Promise.”
“I promise,” said Huckaby.
“Then you’re not to breathe a single syllable106 to Mrs. Fontaine. Best keep out of her way. Leave me to deal with her. I’ll let her down gently, I’ll give you my word on it. Is that a bargain?”
“Yes,” said Huckaby.
She put out her hand frankly.
“Good-bye.”
He accompanied her to the front door.
“Can I get you a taxi?”
“Lord, no. When I’m a lady you can. I’ll walk till I find one.”
Clementina sped to Romney Place with shining eyes, and a smile lurking107 at the corners of her lips. The first thing she did on arrival was to rush down to the telephone.
“Is that you, Ephraim?”
“Yes,” came the answer.
“I’ve changed my mind, and I’m coming to your dinner-party.”
“Delighted, my dear Clementina.”
“Good-bye.”
She rang off, and rushed upstairs to make a fool of herself over Sheila, who, already put to bed, lay awake in anticipation108 of Clementina’s good-night cuddle.
“When you go to stay with your uncle, I wonder whether he’ll spoil you like this.”
“Lord preserve us!” cried Clementina. “What a scandal in Russell Square!”
Towards ten o’clock Tommy made his appearance. The daily calls to inquire after her health and happiness had grown to be a sacred observance. But as the studio was rigorously closed to him during the daylight hours his visits were vespertilian. If she wanted him, she told him to stay. If she didn’t, she sent him about his business. He had got into the habit of kissing her, nephew fashion, when they met and parted. She liked the habit now, for she felt that the boy loved her very dearly. And in an aunt-like, and very satisfying and comfortful way, she, too, loved him with all her heart.
“Can I stay?”
She nodded. He removed the set palette from the chair on to which she had cast it when Vandermeer was announced, and sat down.
“What have you been doing with yourself?”
He entered upon a long story. Some picture or the other was shaping splendidly. His uncle had taken Etta and himself to lunch at the Savoy.
“Said he was thinking of going to Dinard for August. Rum place for him to go, isn’t it?”
Clementina repressed manifestation110 of interest in the announcement. But it set her pulses throbbing111.
“I suppose he can go where he likes, can’t he?” she snapped. “What kind of a lunch did you have?”
Tommy ran through the menu. It was his own selection. He had given the dear old chap some hints in gastronomy112. It was wonderful how little he knew of such essential things. Seemed to have set his heart on giving them pheasant. In July. After that they had gone to see the New Futurists. His uncle seemed to know all about them. Wonderful work; but they were all erring113 after false gods. He thanked heaven he had her, Clementina, to keep him orthodox. It was all absinthe and morphia. He rattled114 on. Clementina, leaning far back in her chair, watched the curls of cigarette smoke with shining eyes and a Leonardesque smile lurking at the corners of her lips.
“Why, Clementina!” he cried, with sudden indignation. “You’re paying not the slightest attention to me.”
“Never mind, Tommy,” she said. “You go on talking. It helps me to think. I’m going to have a devil of a time—the time of my life!”
“What in the world are you going to do?”
“Never mind, Tommy. Never mind. Oh, what a fool I was not to think of it before!”
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1
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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wreaking
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的现在分词 ) | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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inveigled
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| v.诱骗，引诱( inveigle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inveigle
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| v.诱骗 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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fluffy
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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hacks
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| 黑客 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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29
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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30
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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31
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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32
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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33
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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34
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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35
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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36
execrated
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| v.憎恶( execrate的过去式和过去分词 )；厌恶；诅咒；咒骂 | |
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37
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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38
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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39
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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40
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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41
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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42
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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43
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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44
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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45
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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46
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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47
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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48
gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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49
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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51
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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52
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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53
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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54
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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55
fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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56
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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57
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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58
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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ravening
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| a.贪婪而饥饿的 | |
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60
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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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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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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collaborator
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| n.合作者，协作者 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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arrant
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| adj.极端的；最大的 | |
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disingenuousness
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71
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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72
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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73
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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74
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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75
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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76
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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77
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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78
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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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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80
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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81
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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82
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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83
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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84
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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85
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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86
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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87
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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88
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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89
outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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90
judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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91
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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92
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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93
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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94
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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95
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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97
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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98
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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99
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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100
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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101
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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102
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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103
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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104
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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105
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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106
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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107
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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108
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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109
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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110
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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111
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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112
gastronomy
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| n.美食法；美食学 | |
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113
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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114
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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