“How are you this morning?” asked the nurse.
“Perfectly well, thank you,” said Baltazar. “I should feel better if you would tell me where I am.”
“This is Mr. Pillivant’s house.”
“Pillivant—Pillivant? Oh yes. I’ve got it. It seems as if I had been off my head for a bit.” The nurse nodded. “I’m all right now. Let me put things together.” Suddenly he sat up. “My God! How is Quong Ho?”
“He is getting on as well as can be expected,” replied the nurse.
“He’s alive? Quite sure?”
“Quite sure.”
Baltazar fell back on the pillow. “The last thing I remember clearly was their taking him into the Cottage Hospital, after that infernal jolting5 across the moor6. What happened then?”
“What day is it?”
“Friday.”
“Good Lord,” said Baltazar, “I’ve been here since midday Wednesday.”
“Would you like a little breakfast?”
“I should like a lot,” declared Baltazar.
The nurse laughed. The patient was better. She turned to leave the room, but Baltazar checked her.
“Before you go just tell me if I’ve got the situation clear. The European war has been going on for two years. In the course of a new-fangled kind of warfare8 the Germans drop bombs from Zeppelins over England. A Zeppelin dropped bombs on my house on Tuesday night—to get rid of them—so Mrs. Pillivant said. You see, everything’s coming back to me. Afterwards it came down in flames, and all the crew were burned. Is that right?”
“Perfectly,” said the nurse.
“Now I know more or less where I am,” said Baltazar.
The nurse fetched his breakfast, which he ate with appetite. He had barely finished when Dr. Rewsby entered.
“This is capital. Capital,” said he. “Sitting up and taking nourishment9. How’s the pulse?”
“Never mind about me,” said Baltazar, as the doctor took hold of his wrist. “What about Quong Ho?”
The doctor gave a serious report. Fractured skull10, severe concussion11. Broken legs. Semi-consciousness, however, had returned—the hopeful sign. But it would be a ticklish12 and tedious business.
“If you want another opinion, a man from Harley Street, special nurses, don’t hesitate a second,” said Baltazar. “Money’s no object.”
“I’ll bear in mind what you say,” replied the doctor; “but if his constitution is as sound as yours, he’ll do all right. By all the rules of the game you ought to be as helpless as he is.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“You’ve had half your scalp tom away. How you manage to be sitting up now, eating eggs, after your lunatic performances on Wednesday, is more than I can understand.”
Baltazar smiled grimly. “I can’t afford the time to fool about in a state of unconsciousness, when I have two years’ arrears13 of European history to make up.”
“Never mind European history,” said the doctor. “Let us see how this head of yours is getting on.”
The dressing completed, he said to Baltazar:
“Now you’ll lie quiet and not worry about the war, Quong Ho, or anything.”
“And grow wings and order a halo and work out the quadrature of the circle and discover the formula for the Deity14 in terms of the Ultimate Function of Energy. . . . Man alive!” he cried impetuously, raising himself on his elbow. “Don’t you understand? I’ve been dead for years—my own silly, selfish doing—and now I’ve come to life and found the world in an incomprehensible mess. If I don’t go out and try to understand it, I shall go stark15, staring mad!”
“I can only order you to stay in bed till I give you permission to get up,” said the doctor. “Good-bye. I’ll come in this evening.”
As soon as he had gone Baltazar threw off the bedclothes and sprang to his feet.
“Doctors be hanged!” said he. “I’ve not given in to illness all my life long, and I’m not going to begin now. Besides, I’m as fit as ever I was. I’m going to dress.”
“I’m afraid you can’t,” said the nurse.
“Why?”
“You haven’t any clothes.”
He glanced for a second or two at the unfamiliar16 green and purple striped silk pyjamas17 in which he was clad, and remembered the undervest and flannel18 trousers, foul19 with blood and grime, in which he had arrived at Water-End.
“The devil!” said he, and he stood gasping20 as a new conception of himself flashed across his mind. “Except for these borrowed things, I am even more naked than when I came into the world.”
“You’d better go back to bed,” said the nurse.
“I’ve got to go back to the world,” retorted Baltazar. “As quick as possible.”
“You can’t do it in pyjamas,” said the nurse.
“I must ask my host to lend me some clothes.”
“I’ll go down and see him about it,” said the nurse.
She went out, leaving Baltazar sitting on the edge of the bed. Presently entered Pillivant, who burst into heartiness21 of greeting. Delighted he was to see him looking so well. At one time he half expected there was going to be a funeral in the house. Heard that he wanted some togs. Only too happy to rig him out. Would pick out all the necessary kit22 to-morrow.
“But I want clothes now,” said Baltazar.
Pillivant shook his head. “Must obey doctor’s orders. By disobeying in the first place I nearly had a cold corpse23 on my hands, and if there’s one thing Mrs. Pillivant dislikes more than another, it’s a corpse. When her old aunt died here, she went half off her chump. No, no, old man,” he continued, in soothing24 tones which exasperated25 Baltazar, “you be good and lie doggo to-day, as the doctor says, and to-morrow we’ll see about getting up.”
“That’s about it,” grinned Pillivant. “And you’re not used to not having your own way.”
“I suppose I’m not,” said Baltazar, looking at his host more kindly27. “I don’t know but what you’re right. A little discipline might be beneficial for me.” He slipped back into the bed and nodded to the nurse, who settled him comfortably. “A little contact with other people might restore my manners. As I’m beholden to you for everything, Mr. Pillivant, I may at least be civil. As a matter of fact, I’m infinitely28 grateful, and I place myself in your hands unreservedly.”
“Oh, that’s all right, old man,” said Pillivant.
“It isn’t all right,” cried Baltazar, realizing, in his self-condemnatory way, the ungracious attitude he had adopted from the first towards his host. “I’ve been merely rude. I’m sorry. I’ve lived in China long enough to know that no personal catastrophe29 can excuse lack of courtesy. By obeying your medical man I see that I shall give least trouble to your household.”
“You needn’t talk like a book about it,” said Pillivant.
“I’ve lived with books so long,” replied Baltazar, “that perhaps I have lost the ways of contemporary Englishmen.”
“Most books are all damn rot,” he declared.
“You’re not the first philosopher that has enunciated31 that opinion,” said Baltazar, with a laugh. “Didn’t a character in one of the old dramatists—I think—say ‘To mind the inside of a book is to entertain oneself with the forced product of another man’s brain’? No. It’s the practical men who do things, isn’t it?”
“I’m a practical man myself,” said Pillivant, “and seeing as how I started as an office-boy at eight shillings a week, I’ve done a blooming lot of things. Look”—he swung a chair, and sat down near the bed, and bent32 confidentially33 towards Baltazar—“in July fourteen I was only a little builder and contractor34 up at Holloway. When Kitchener in September called for his million men——”
“Wait!” cried Baltazar, putting his hand up to his forehead. “In September nineteen fourteen Kitchener called for a million men?”
“Yes, yes, that’s all ancient history. I was telling you—when the cry went out, I said to myself: a million men will want accommodation. Temporary buildings. Huts. No end of timber. I hadn’t a penny in the world. But I did a big bluff35 and sold the Government timber which I hadn’t got for twice the price I knew I could buy it at. In six months I was a rich man, and I’ve been growing richer and richer ever since. I’ve got a flat in Park Lane and this house in the country, and I’m on Munitions36, and I have my cars and as much petrol to burn as I want, and I’m a useful man to the Government, and doing my bit for the war. And none of your blooming books about it. Just plain common sense. If I had been worrying my head about books, I should have lost my chance. Just what you’ve done. You’ve been burying yourself in books and haven’t even heard of the war, let alone doing anything for your country. Books make me tired. To hell with them!”
Baltazar looked at the puffy, small-eyed man in his clear way. He disliked him exceedingly. Even with the most limited knowledge of war conditions, it was evident he had been exploiting them to his own advantage. But when you haven’t a rag of your own to your back and are dressed in another man’s pyjamas, lying in his bed and eating his food, you must observe the decencies of life.
“I suppose lots of fortunes are being made out of this war.”
“I should think so. Those honestly made, well, the chaps with brains deserve them. But, at the same time, there’s a lot of profiteering going on”—Pillivant shook an unctuous37 head—“which is a perfect disgrace.”
“Profiteering—that’s a new word.”
“You’ll find lots of new words and lots of all sorts of new things now you’ve waked up.”
“I’m sure I shall,” said Baltazar. “And now, if you’ve half an hour to spare, I wonder if you would mind telling me something about the war.”
That day and the next, Baltazar listened to Pillivant, the nurse and the doctor’s story of the world conflict, and read everything bearing on the subject with which they could supply him. Dr. Rewsby, who did not share Pillivant’s disdain38 for books, ransacked39 the little town for war literature. He bought him white books, pamphlets, back numbers of magazines and newspapers, maps. . . . What he heard, what he read, was the common knowledge of every intelligent child, but to this man of vast intellectual achievement it was staggeringly new. For those two days he lost sense of time, desire to move from the bewildering mass of lambent history that grew in piles by his bedside. The lies, the treacheries, the horrors that had accumulated on the consciousness of all other men one by one, burst upon him in one thundering concentration of hell. The martyrdom of Belgium, the bombardment of Rheims Cathedral, the sinking of the Lusitania, the use of poison gas, the bombing of open towns, the unmasking of the German Beast in all its lust40 and shamelessness—stunned him, so that at times he would put his hands to his head and cry: “It’s impossible! I can’t believe it.” And whoever was with him would answer: “It is true. What you read is but the outside of the devilry the civilized41 world is out to fight.” And his scholar’s mind would revolt. What of intellectual Germany? The mathematicians43, the Orientalists, whose names were to him like household words, to say nothing of those eminent44 in sciences outside the sphere of his own studies? They were worse, the doctor declared, than the brutish peasant or the brutal45 operative. A monstrous46 intellectualism developed to the disregard of ethical47 sanction. The doctor brought him one of the great cartoons of the war, which he had cut out from some paper and kept, by Norman Lindsay, the great Australian black and white artist—the “Jekyll and Hyde” cartoon, representing a typical benevolent48 elderly German professor regarding himself in a mirror; and the reflection was a gorilla49 in Prussian spiked50 helmet and uniform, dripping with blood. And then Baltazar’s blood curdled51 in his veins52 as he realized the truth of the picture. All the mighty53 intellectualism of Germany was but an instrument of its gorilla animalism. It was an overwhelming revelation: the almost mesmeric dominance of Prussia over the other Teutonic States of Germany and Austria, reducing them to Prussia’s own atrophied54 civilization; that atrophied civilization itself, till now unanalysed, but now a byword of history, the development, on abnormal intellectual lines, of the ruthless barbarism of a non-European race. Strange that he had not thought of it before. Had anything good, any poem, picture, song, music, statue, dream building, sweet philosophy, ever come out of Prussia? Never. Not one. Her children were “fire and sword, red ruin and the breaking-up of laws.” And now the rest of the Germanic Empire had lost its soul. Prussia extended from the Baltic to the Danube. The whole of Central Europe was one vast cesspool, in which all things good were cast to deliquesce in putrefaction55, while over it floated supreme56 the livid miasma57 of Prussianism.
In some sort of figurative conception as this did his brain realize the psychological meaning of the forces against which the civilized world was struggling. But there was the other side of the world’s embattled hosts, whose tremendous energies baffled his mental grasp. England’s Navy—yes. He had been born and bred in the belief of its invincibility58. But the British Army? A glorious army, of course; a blaze of honour from Cressy upwards59; a sure shield and buckler in the far-flung posts of Empire; but a thing necessarily apart from the vast military systems of the Continent of Europe. And now he learned, to his stupefaction, that the British Empire, calling up all her sons from within those same far-flung posts, had made itself, within two years, one of the three greatest military powers in the world. The casualties alone exceeded the total strength of the original British Army serving with the colours. The Army now was an organization of millions. Where had they come from? His three interpreters of the outer world gave him information according to their respective lights. All the early gathering60 of the hosts had been voluntary enlistments. The armies springing up at Lord Kitchener’s call had been labelled numerically by his magic name. Only recently had we been driven to conscription. And Kitchener himself—the only great soldier of whom he had ever heard? Drowned in the Hampshire last June. . . .
Then again the revolution in national life—the paper currency, the darkened streets of towns, the licensing61 laws—further excited his throbbing62 curiosity. He remembered with a spasm63 almost of remorse64 the few signs and tokens of war which had reached him and passed unheeded; the National Registration65, which he had resented as a bureaucratic66 impertinence; the mad taxation67 of income which he had regarded as evidence of England’s decay. . . .
“Has ever man been such a fool as I, since the world began?”
The hard-headed doctor to whom this rhetorical question was addressed, replied:
“I can’t recall an instance.”
When driven to contemplation of his own isolation68, he reflected that all the time there had been a living link between himself and this upheaved world. Every week, rain or fine, through snow or dust, Quong Ho had visited the little town.
“When did the news of the war become general in Water-End?” he asked.
He had to put the question in two or three different forms before his puzzled informants could perceive its drift, for they could not conceive it being the question of an intelligent man. He could not yet realize the electric shock that convulsed the land from end to end on the declaration of war. He could not gauge69 the immediate70 disruption of social life throughout the country. The calling up of reservists, the mobilization of the Territorial71 forces alone affected72 instantly every community, no matter how remote from centres of industry. The queer straits to which every community was reduced, owing to the closing of the banks during that fateful August week, had also brought the reality of the war home to every individual. Then the issue of Treasury73 notes. The recruiting. From the very first day of the war, Water-End, they told him, was as much agog74 with it all as London itself. From the beginning the town had been plastered with patriotic75 posters. The mayor for the first months had exhibited the latest telegrams outside the town hall. There had been a camp of Territorials76 some few miles away and the High Street had reeked77 of war. Government war notices met the least observant eye in post office, bank and railway station.
“If what you say is true,” said Baltazar, “how could Quong Ho have come here every week and failed to understand what was going on? Not only is he a master of English, but he’s a man of acute intellect.”
“That,” replied the doctor, “you must ask Quong Ho when his intellect has recovered from its present eclipse.”
“But the fellow must have known all along,” Baltazar persisted. “Come now,”—he sat up in bed impulsively—“he must, mustn’t he?”
“I should have thought that a negro from Central Africa, who only spoke78 Central African, would have guessed,” replied the doctor.
“Then why the devil didn’t he tell me?”
“I’m afraid I must refer you to my previous answer,” said the doctor.
“It strikes me that I’m a bigger fool than ever,” said Baltazar.
A smile flitted over the grey-haired doctor’s shrewd thin face. He did not controvert79 the proposition.
“It’s also borne in upon me,” continued Baltazar, “that I’ll have to scrap80 everything I’ve ever learned—and I’ve learned a hell of a lot—I’m an original mathematician42, and I think I know more about Chinese language and literature than any man living. Oh! I’m not modest. I know exactly what my attainments81 are. As I say, I’ve learned a hell of a lot, and I’ll have to scrap it all and just sit down and begin to learn the elementary things of existence, from the very beginning, all over again, like a schoolboy.”
“Hear, hear!” said Pillivant, blatantly82 golf-accoutred, who had entered by the open door at the opening of Baltazar’s avowal83. “Now you’re talking sense. I’m glad to see you realize how sinfully you’ve been wasting your time. Chinese! What’s the good of Chinese? They’ve got to learn our language, not we theirs. I know. I went out to Hong Kong as a young man for five months on a building job. Every man-Jack talks pidgin-English. That’s good enough to get along with. Do you mean to say you’ve been spending your life learning Chinese? Of all the rotten things——”
“I’m aware, Mr. Pillivant,” said Baltazar, with a grimace85 intended, for a smile, which on his haggard face and beneath his bandaged head had a somewhat sinister86 aspect, “I’m aware that in your eyes I must appear rather a contemptible87 personage.”
“Oh, not at all, old man,” cried Pillivant. “Everyone to his hobby. After all it’s a free country. Have a cigar.”
He produced the portable gold casket. The doctor caught a swift glance from his patient and checked the generous offer.
“Not yet, Pillivant. A cigarette or two is all I can allow him.”
Pillivant selected and lit a cigar. There was a span of silence. He looked out of the window. Presently he began to praise the local golf-course, some mile or so distant. A natural course, with natural bunkers. The greens artificial—every sod brought from miles. Now the infernal Government had taken away their men. Not a soul in the place who understood anything about turf. Consequently the greens were going to the devil. It was an infernal shame to let golf-greens go to the devil. Goff was a national institution, necessary to maintain tired war-workers, like himself, in a state of national efficiency. But what could one expect from the rotten lot who constituted the so-called Government? Anyhow, you could still get some sort of a game. Baltazar must come round with him as soon as he could get about.
“I’ve never played golf in my life,” said Baltazar.
“Never played——? Why, you seem to be out of everything.”
Presently he swaggered out at the end of his monstrous cigar. Baltazar turned a weary head.
As soon as sticking-plaster replaced the head bandage, the most impatient of men insisted on rising and going out into the world, clad in a borrowed suit of the detested90 Pillivant. His first care was to visit the Cottage Hospital, where Quong Ho, semi-conscious, still hung between life and death. Yielding to Baltazar’s insistence91, Dr. Rewsby had summoned in consultation92 the leading surgeon of the nearest town, the great cathedral city. From the point of view of the Faculty93 nothing could be simpler than Quong Ho’s injuries. To bring a specialist from London would be a wicked waste of invaluable94 lime. All that science could do was being done. The rest must be left to Nature. Baltazar was disappointed. Having an exile’s faith in the wonders of modern surgery, he had thought that a few hundreds of pounds would have brought down a magician of a fellow from Harley Street with gleaming steel instruments, who could have mended Quong Ho’s head in a few miraculous95 seconds. The ironical96 smile on the lips of Rewsby, for whom he had conceived respect and liking97, convinced him of extravagant98 imaginings. He professed99 satisfaction, although sorely troubled by his queerly working conscience. Outside the ward1, he grabbed Dr. Rewsby by the arm.
“Look here, Doctor,” said he. “I want you to understand my position. I must pay some penalty for my egotistical folly100 in bringing Quong Ho to this infernal place. Oh, I know,” he added quickly, checking with a gesture the doctor’s obvious remonstrance101; “I know it might have happened anywhere. But nowhere else than in that desert island of a farm would I have had to leave him alone for hours on the bare ground, without medical assistance. It’s my fault. I must pay for it.”
“You’ve paid for it, my good friend,” said Dr. Rewsby, “by your anxiety, by your—apparently—by your remorse. You’ve done everything that a human being could do in the circumstances.”
“But don’t you see, I brought the poor fellow to this through my selfish folly. You must let me pay for it in some way.”
Said the doctor, a practical man, with the interests of his little struggling hospital at heart: “It’s open to you to give a donation to the Cottage Hospital.”
“All right,” said Baltazar, flinging out an arm. “If he gets through there’s a thousand pounds for the hospital.”
“Good. And if he doesn’t?”
Baltazar drew a short breath, glanced down and askance beneath his shaggy brown eyebrows102, and set a heavy, obstinate103 jaw104. Then suddenly he flashed upon the doctor:
“If he dies you won’t get a penny from me. But I’ll give every cent I have in the world to the General Fund of the hospitals of the United Kingdom.”
“Do you really mean that, Mr. Baltazar?”
“Mean it? Of course I mean it. I’ve done all kinds of rotten things in my life, but I’ve never broken my word. By George! I haven’t. If Quong Ho dies, the world will be the poorer, not only by a loyal soul, but by one of the most powerful mathematical intellects it has ever seen. And it’s I”—he thumped105 his chest—“I, who have robbed the world of him. And it’s I who must pay the penalty.”
“Pardon my impertinence,” said Dr. Rewsby, drawing on his motoring gloves, as a sign of ending the interview; “but have you generally conducted your life on these extravagant principles?”
“I don’t quite understand——” replied Baltazar, stiffening106.
“If Mr. Quong Ho dies—and I’m glad to say the probability is against his doing so—but if he does, you vow84, as an act of penance107, that you’ll reduce yourself to a state of poverty and walk out into the world without one penny. Is that right?”
“Perfectly,” said Baltazar.
“Well, as a medical man, with a hobby, a special interest in—let us say—psychology, I’ve been indiscreet enough to wonder whether this is the first time you’ve made such a Quixotic vow. In fact, now I come to think of it, you made a similar one within two minutes of my first meeting you.”
Baltazar met his eyes. “In fact, you want to know whether I’m not a bit mad.”
“Not at all,” laughed the doctor. “But I have a shrewd suspicion that the folly you bewail—the eccentric hermit108 life on the moor—was the result of some such rashly taken obligation.”
“Suppose it was,” said Baltazar; “what then?”
“I should say you were cultivating a very bad habit, and I should advise you to give it up.”
He smiled, waved a friendly hand, and ran down the steps to his car. Baltazar watched him crank-up, slip to the wheel, and depart, without saying a word in self-defence. So far from offending him, the doctor had risen higher in his estimation. A man with brains, and the faculty of using them; a fellow of remarkable109 penetration110; also of courage. He differentiated111 his outspokenness112 from Pillivant’s blatancy113. The former was one man of intellect speaking frankly114 to another; the latter. . . . He remembered the lecture, illustrated115 by quotations116 from the Chinese classics, which he had read to Quong Ho when his disciple117, on his first visit to Water-End, had complained of the lack of manners of the local inhabitants. Why should he worry about Pillivant? As he had said to Quong Ho: “Rotten wood cannot be carved, and walls made of dirt and mud cannot be plastered.” Never mind Pillivant. It was Rewsby, and Rewsby’s quick summing-up of his psychological tendencies that mattered. Not a human being had ever before presented him to himself in any just and intelligible118 way. Of course he had heard truths, pseudo-truths, dictated119 by violent prejudice, in his brief and disastrous120 married life. But they had all been superficial; never gone to bed-rock. Since then he had been free as a god from criticism. And now came this shrewd, sagacious country doctor, who in the lightest, friendliest way in the world, put an unerring finger on the real unsound spot in his character.
“. . . A very bad habit, and I should advise you to give it up.”
Behind those commonplace words he knew lay a wise man’s condemnation121 of his habitual122 dealing123 with life. He walked through the tiny town on his way to “The Cedars,” unconscious of the curious interest of the inhabitants, to whom the sight of the mystery-enveloped and now bombed and head-bandaged tenant124 of Spendale Farm was a matter of eager, instantaneous mental photography, so that the picture could be produced as a subject for many weeks’ future gossip, and he pondered deeply over Dr. Rewsby’s criticism.
“Have you generally conducted your life on these extravagant principles?”
He had. There was no denying it. A childish memory emerged from the mist of years. He must have been eight or nine. All about a dog. A puppy had destroyed a new paint-box, priceless possession, and in a fit of passion he had nearly beaten the puppy to death. And when his anger was spent and he grew terribly afraid, and sprawled125 down by the puppy, the puppy licked his hand. And he swore to God, as a child, that if the puppy lived and did not tell his father, he would never beat a dog again. The puppy lived, and, with splendid loyalty126, never breathed a word to a human soul, and loved him with a love passing the love of women. And one day a neighbour’s bad-tempered127 dog got into the kitchen-garden and attacked him, and though he had a stick by chance in his hand, he remembered his vow, and stood with folded arms and set teeth and let the dog bite his legs, until he was rescued by the gardener and carried indoors.
He remembered this, and a train of similar fantastic incidents culminating in his vow of solitude128, and reviewed them all, in the light of Dr. Rewsby’s criticism. What good, in the name of sanity129, had his wild, Quixotic resolves accomplished130? How had they benefited Spooner, for instance, to whom he had surrendered the Senior Wranglership? During his brief stay in London he had had the curiosity to look up Spooner in reference books; found him an Assistant Secretary in a Government office, Sir William Spooner, K.C.B.; an honourable132 position, but a position which he would have attained—originally through the Civil Service examination—whether he had been second, fourth, tenth Wrangler131 in the Tripos. His, Baltazar’s, idiot sacrifice had advanced Spooner’s career not one millimetre: just as his self-denying ordinance133 in the realm of dogs had not benefited one jot134 the canine135 race—for the mongrel retriever who had bitten him heroically arm-folded, had been shot the next day by the remorseful136 neighbour, who had been longing137 for an opportunity of getting conscientiously138 rid of an ill-conditioned cur.
And then there was his flight from Cambridge and Marcelle.
“Damn that doctor!” said he, striding along the road.
It was all very well to damn the doctor; but he had entered into a fresh engagement, which in spite of its newly revealed folly, he would break for nothing in the world. Yet what practical good would his little fortune accomplish scattered139 among the hundreds of hospitals of the United Kingdom? A pittance140 to each. And he himself, with all his gifts, thrown penniless upon a strange world at war, of what use would he be? His first necessarily animal impulse would be to prey141 upon society for the means of subsistence. Whereas, a free man, with his assured income, he could throw himself into the national struggle without thought of his own material needs.
Quong Ho’s life acquired a new preciousness. He must live, if only to save him from this new absurdity142 to which he was pledged.
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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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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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jolting
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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collapsed
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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skull
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concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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14
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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15
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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17
pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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18
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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19
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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20
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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21
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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22
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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23
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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24
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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25
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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27
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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28
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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29
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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30
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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enunciated
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| v.（清晰地）发音( enunciate的过去式和过去分词 )；确切地说明 | |
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32
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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33
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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34
contractor
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| n.订约人，承包人，收缩肌 | |
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35
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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36
munitions
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| n.军火，弹药；v.供应…军需品 | |
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37
unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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38
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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39
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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40
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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41
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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42
mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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43
mathematicians
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| 数学家( mathematician的名词复数 ) | |
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44
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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45
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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46
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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47
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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48
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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49
gorilla
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| n.大猩猩，暴徒，打手 | |
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50
spiked
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| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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51
curdled
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| v.（使）凝结( curdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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53
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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54
atrophied
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| adj.萎缩的，衰退的v.（使）萎缩，（使）虚脱，（使）衰退( atrophy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
putrefaction
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| n.腐坏，腐败 | |
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56
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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57
miasma
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| n.毒气；不良气氛 | |
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58
invincibility
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| n.无敌，绝对不败 | |
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59
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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60
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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61
licensing
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| v.批准，许可，颁发执照( license的现在分词 ) | |
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62
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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63
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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64
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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65
registration
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| n.登记，注册，挂号 | |
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66
bureaucratic
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| adj.官僚的，繁文缛节的 | |
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67
taxation
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| n.征税，税收，税金 | |
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68
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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69
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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70
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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71
territorial
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| adj.领土的，领地的 | |
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72
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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73
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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74
agog
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| adj.兴奋的，有强烈兴趣的； adv.渴望地 | |
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75
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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76
territorials
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| n.（常大写）地方自卫队士兵( territorial的名词复数 ) | |
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77
reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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78
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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79
controvert
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| v.否定；否认 | |
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80
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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81
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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82
blatantly
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| ad.公开地 | |
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83
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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84
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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85
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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86
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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87
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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88
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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89
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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90
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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92
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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93
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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94
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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95
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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96
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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97
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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98
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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99
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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100
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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101
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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102
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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103
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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104
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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105
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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107
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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108
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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109
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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110
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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111
differentiated
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| 区分，区别，辨别( differentiate的过去式和过去分词 )； 区别对待； 表明…间的差别，构成…间差别的特征 | |
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112
outspokenness
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113
blatancy
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| 喧哗 | |
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114
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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115
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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116
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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117
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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118
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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119
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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120
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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121
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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122
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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123
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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124
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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125
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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126
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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127
bad-tempered
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| adj.脾气坏的 | |
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128
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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129
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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130
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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131
wrangler
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| n.口角者，争论者；牧马者 | |
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132
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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133
ordinance
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| n.法令；条令；条例 | |
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134
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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135
canine
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| adj.犬的，犬科的 | |
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136
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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137
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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138
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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139
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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140
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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141
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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142
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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