A foul9, sickly smell tainted10 the still air. Mingled11 with the sour odour of the charred12 and sodden13 mess inside the dwelling14, rose the miasma15 of corruption16. Baltazar made a grimace17 of disgust. Before any salvage could be done the latter causes of offence must be removed. He summoned the men and gave his directions. They found the old mare’s head and the dog and fragments of the goats, alive with the infinite horror of flies and other abominable18 life. There was a cesspool handy. Throw them all in and clamp down the cast-iron lid. It did not matter. Nevermore would Spendale Farm be a human habitation. The men conveyed with their shovels19 the nameless things to the unhallowed resting-place. Baltazar would have liked to give the faithful Brutus, who had obviously rushed out of the house at the heels of Quong Ho and himself, decent burial. But not only had Brutus ceased to be Brutus, but Baltazar knew from experience the toil21 of digging in that granite-bound earth.
He left the men to their task, which they performed without compunction—had he not offered them the amazing sum of a pound each for their day’s work?—and plunged23 through the front door into the black chaos24 which was once his home. The sun streamed down upon unimaginable filth25. He was wearing the clothes he had borrowed from Pillivant and at first he stepped warily26. But every step landed him deeper in the damp carbonized welter, and at last he slipped and came down sprawling27 in the midst of it, so that when he rose he found himself fouled28 and begrimed from head to foot. He picked his way out again and stood on the front steps looking hopelessly in at the piled mass of nothingness.
He had listened to the report of the fire brigade’s captain, and his doubtless correct theory that the desperate marauder had dropped his bombs almost simultaneously29, one explosive and the other incendiary. The latter had caught the homestead fair and had caused the instant and terrific conflagration30. Yet he had hoped. . . . He tried to hope still. The men would soon return from the cesspool and begin to shovel20 away the debris31 from the writing-table by the wall.
To get his brain into complete working order had been a matter of time. The shock of the explosion, his wound, his enormous physical and mental effort on the memorable32 Wednesday, his puzzled amazement33, the cataclysmic revelation of the war, his anxiety for Quong Ho, had knocked him out for a couple of days. When he recovered and regained35 mental grip of things, the only things he could grip at first were the staggering history of the war and the progress of Quong Ho. The two absorbing interests battened down fears that vaguely36 began to rise from deep recesses37 of his mind. But strength regained, Quong Ho out of immediate38 peril39 of death and the war a thing envisaged40, practically understood, accepted, the fears burst their hatches and crowded round him, haunting and tormenting41. And now he stared through the doorway42 of his house, with sinking heart, scarcely daring to hope that those fears should prove unrealized.
He glanced round. The men were spending inordinate43 time in the disposal of the carrion44. Again he entered and stood in the midst of the rubbish. Only one section of bookcase remained, crazily askew45. He had noted46 it on the Wednesday. He clambered gingerly towards it. The first slanting47, half-charred, half-drenched book, whose title he made out was Queechy. By the author of The Wide, Wide World. Next to it was Flowering Shrubs48 of Great Britain, the date of which he knew to be eighteen-fifty-four. His heart sank. Only the refuse of his famous deal with the second-hand49 bookseller remained. Just that little bit of section. The rest of his library was there—down there in the molten quagmire50.
At last the men came, shovels on shoulder. He pointed51 out the place where his long table used to stand and bade them dig. He had brought, too, a shovel for himself, and he dug with them, violently, pantingly, distractedly, heaving the shovelfuls over his shoulders, wallowing in the filth regardless of Pillivant’s expensive clothes; soon an object of dripping sweat and squalor, distinguishable only from his co-workers by his begrimed and bandaged head. The men began to pant and relax. He overheard as in a dream one of them saying, in a grumbling53 tone, something about beer. The sun beat fiercely down on the roofless site. He said:
“Dig like hell. Dig all day. I’ll stand you a couple of gallons apiece when you get home. If you’re thirsty now, there’s heaps of water.”
The results of severe arithmetical calculation gleamed in each man’s eye. The command over sixteen free pints54 of ale transcended55 the dreams of desire. They fell to again, working with renewed vigour56.
The incendiary bomb had apparently57 fallen square on the northern end of the long north to south building and had scattered58 the original wall in which the great chimney-piece had been built and flung the granite outwards59, obliterating60 the less solidly constructed kitchen and Quong Ho’s quarters, and tearing down the side of the scullery. The lower courses of the rest of the main walls stood more or less secure. But the roof of dried tinder-thatch had fallen in ablaze62, and every thing beneath it had been consumed by fire. Nothing remained to distinguish Baltazar’s bedroom at the southern end, once separated from the house-piece by a wooden partition reaching to the rafters, from the remainder of the awful parallelogram of disaster. The rigid63 mathematical lines of the low granite boundaries, with one end a heap of stony64 ruin, oppressed him as he dug with a sense of the ghastly futility65 of human self-imprisonment between walls. The position of the shapeless ragged66 gaps that had once been windows alone guided him in his search. The precious long deal table ran along the eastern wall. His writing-seat, surrounded by the most precious possessions of all, was situated67 in front of the north-east window—the long room had two windows, east and west, on each side. And it was just there where he used to sit, the happiest of men, in the midst of objective proof of dreams coming true, that chaos seemed to reign68 supreme69.
“Go on, go on. Dig like hell. Every scrap70 of unburnt paper is a treasure to me. Look at every shovelful52.”
After hours of toil, they found a little heap of clotted71 fragments, the useless cores of burnt clumps72 of writing. Now and then a man would come with a few filaments73, having shaken the charred edges free, and, looking wonderingly at the unintelligible74 outer leaf, would ask: “Is this any good to you, sir?” And Baltazar, his heart cold and heavy as a stone, would bid him cast away the mocking remnants of an all but unique copy of a Chinese classic.
It was over. The three men, having loyally earned their twenty shillings and the promised two gallons of beer, stood spent and drenched, like Baltazar himself, with grime and sweat.
“Anything more, sir?”
“Nothing,” said Baltazar.
They shouldered their shovels and he his, and they marched away from the devastated75 place and drove back across the moor76. Baltazar sat next the man who drove, in the front of the empty and futile77 cart, and said never a word. For the first time in his eager existence, defeat overwhelmed him. The work of a laborious78 lifetime had been destroyed in a few hours. With infinite toil, perhaps, he might recapture the main lines of his thought-revolutionizing treatise79 on the Theory of Groups: his studies in the Analytical80 Geometry of Four Dimensional Space. Perhaps. He had relied for his data on the innumerable notes and solutions of intricate problems which had cost the labour of many years. And these had gone. The world had hitherto wondered at two such scholar tragedies—Newton’s Principia destroyed by the dog Diamond, the first volume of Carlyle’s French Revolution burned by Mill’s stupid housemaid. But in both cases only the finished product had perished. The data remained. The rewriting was but a painful business of recompilation. But with him, not only the more or less finished product, but the fundamental material was lost forever. He shrank with dismay, almost with terror, at the thought of going through that infinite maze34 of accurate calculation and reasoning once more. Still, as far as the mathematics went, the palimpsest of the brain existed. Reconstitution was humanly possible. But with the Chinese editions—for most of it the material could only be found in remote libraries in China; for much of it, the material no longer survived in the explored world.
He had come hoping against hope, arguing that great masses of manuscript on thick paper were practically indestructible by fire. The outsides, the edges might be burnt, but the vast bulk of inside sheets could be preserved. But he had not counted on the disruption and devouring81 effect of an incendiary bomb falling at the most precious end of the long deal working-table. Probably the whole room had been instantaneously carpeted thick with loose sheets, and the great stacks of manuscript had, as it were, been burnt in detail. Then, for a while, on his hateful ride, he strove with conjecture82. But what was the use of vain imaginings? That which was done was done. The harvest of his life had been annihilated83. If he died to-morrow, the world would be no richer by his existence than by that of any dead goat whose body had just been cast into the cesspool. To recover the harvest would cost him many years of uninspired drudgery84. It would be a horrible re-living, an impossible attempt to recapture the ardour of the pioneer, the thrills of discovery. For the first time he really felt the meaning of his age, the non-resilience of fifty. For the black present the very meaning of his life had been wiped out.
The men, wearied, befouled and thirsty, sat silent in the cart, each dreaming of the two gallons of beer that awaited him at the end of the journey. They knew they had been searching for papers; but to them valuable papers had only one signification; something perhaps to do with a bank; something which constituted a claim to money: they had discussed it during the half-hour midday interval85 for food. Wills, mortgages, title-deeds, they had heard of. The daughter of one of them, a parlourmaid in the house of a leading solicitor86 in the neighbouring cathedral city, ranking next to legendary87 London in majesty88 in the eyes of the untravelled Water-Enders, had told him that she had heard her master say, at dinner, that the contents of the tin-boxes ranged around his office represented half a million of money. His announcement vastly impressed his colleagues, one of whom explained that all real wealth nowadays was a matter of bits of paper. He himself had fifteen pounds in the Savings89 Bank, but nothing to show for it but his Post Office book. Then the nature of their employer’s frenzied90 quest became obvious to them all. They had found nothing. Their employer sat like a ruined man. They pitied him and, in the delicacy91 of their English souls, refrained from intruding92 by speech upon his despair. In the meantime, there was no harm in surrendering their imaginations to the prospect93 of the incessant94 flow of delectable95 liquid down their parched96 throttles97.
When they halted at the gate of The Cedars98, Baltazar pulled out a sheaf of Treasury99 notes and gave each man thirty shillings. The extra ten shillings represented to their simple minds, not the promised two gallons of beer, but beer in perpetuity. This generosity100 on the part of one evidently ruined bewildered them. Baltazar strode down the drive leaving men impressed with the idea that he was a gentleman of the old school to whose service they were privileged to be devoted101. They retired102, singing his praises, being elderly men of a simple and tradition-bred generation.
His golf clubs on the lawn beside him, Pillivant, attired103 in imaginative golfing raiment, was taking the air in front of the house. He lay in an elaborate cane104 chair and smoked a great cigar. At the sight of Baltazar he started up.
“Holy Moses! You are in a devil of a mess.”
“I’m afraid I’ve ruined your suit,” said Baltazar. “If you would only let me know what your tailor charged for it——”
“The Sackville Street robber bled me eight guineas,” said Pillivant, rather greedily.
“Here are eight pounds ten,” said Baltazar, counting out his notes.
“Two shillings change,” laughed Pillivant, handling him a florin.
“It’s kind of you to relieve me from this particular embarrassment105. The rest of my obligations I don’t quite see how to meet.”
“We won’t charge you for board and lodging106, old man, if that’s what you mean. Take it and welcome. With regard to Rewsby and the nurse, you can do what you like. Meanwhile, you’ll be glad to know that the ready-made kit61 you ordered from Brady & Co. have turned up this afternoon.”
“I’d better clean myself up and put some of it on,” said Baltazar.
The previous day, obeying telephone instructions, a representative of a firm of ready-made clothiers in the cathedral city had called to take measurements and orders. This evening Baltazar was able to array himself once more in clothes of his own. By getting rid of borrowed garments he felt relieved of an immense burden.
“Well, how did you get on?” asked Pillivant heartily108 as they sat down to dinner. “Find anything?”
“Nothing but an appetite,” replied Baltazar with a smile.
He could not tell this man of alien ideals and limited intellectual horizon of his irreparable loss, or hint his intolerable despair. The coarse husband and the common, over-bejewelled wife laughed at his sally, hoped the menu would furnish sufficiency of food. He was but to say the word, and they would kill the goose they were fattening110 up for Michaelmas. The jest lasted off and on through the meal. They pressed him to second and third helpings111, joking, though genuinely hospitable112. At first he strove to entertain them. Spoke113 picturesquely114 of his queer life in remotest China, where he lived the Chinese life and almost came to think Chinese thoughts. Mrs. Pillivant yawned behind bediamonded fingers. Pillivant said: “Dam funny,” with complete lack of enthusiasm in the expletive, and as soon as he found a point of departure, set forth115 on the story of a discreditable grievance116 against the War Office. He couldn’t personally examine every plank117 of timber supplied. It had all been passed by their own inspector118. If they sent down a young idiot of a subaltern who didn’t know the difference between green pine and green cheese, it was their affair, not his. He had got his contract, and there it was. Their talk about an enquiry was all nonsense. The War Office ought to employ business men on business affairs. He had just gone in, with another firm, on a big contract for a aerodrome in the North of England. Some political Paul Pry119 had discovered—so he said—that it could be built for half the money. Rot. Patriotism120 was one thing, but running your business at a loss was another. The patriotic121 contractor122 must earn his living, like anybody else. Why should his wife and family starve? In righteous indignation he poured himself a bumper123 of 1904 Bollinger, which he drained before finishing the whole grouse124 which as a fifth course had been set before him. The entire system was one vast entanglement125 of red tape, he continued. We were out to beat Germany. How could we, when every effort was strangled by the red tape aforesaid? Germany had to be beaten. How? By British pluck and British enterprise. Pluck, by God! were we not showing it now on the Somme? And enterprise? He poured out more Bollinger. If the fool Government would let business men do business things in a business way, we would get the Germans beaten and fawning126 for peace in a fortnight. There was nothing wrong with England. He was English, through and through.
“Although I won’t deny,” said he, with an incipient127 hiccough, “that my mother spoke Yiddish. No, no my dear”—he turned with a protesting wave to his wife—“I want to make things perfectly128 clear and above board to our old friend Baltazar. I’ve got a coat-of-arms—look up Pillivant in any book on Heraldry and you’ll see it—that goes back to Edward the Something—not the Seventh. I’m English, I tell you. But I’m not responsible for my mother, who came from Posen. Now, what do you do to prevent typhoid? You inoculate129. I’m inoculated130. That’s my fortunate position. I’m inoculated against Prussianism and all it stands for. Could I be a pacifist or a conscientious131 objector? No. I’m immune from the disease of pro-Germanism. As I’ve been telling you, I’m English through and through, and I’m spending my life and my fortune in seeing that Old England comes out on top.”
To prove the expenditure132 of fortune he seized a fresh bottle of Bollinger which the butler had just opened and filled Baltazar’s glass and his own.
“If you don’t drink, you’re a pro-German. To hell with the Kaiser.”
Baltazar drank the toast politely and patriotically133; the merest sip134 of champagne135; for beyond the first brandy and soda136 which had been poured down his parched and exhausted137 throat, he had kept his vow138 of abstinence, in spite of his host’s continued pressure. He felt sure of himself now; wondered how he could ever have brought himself to the present Pillivant condition. He liked Pillivant less than ever; yet he began to be fascinated by the truth concerning Pillivant which rose unashamed to the surface of the wine-cup.
When the cigars were put on the table, Mrs. Pillivant rose. Baltazar opened the door for her to pass out. On the first occasion of his doing so, the first time he had come down to dinner, she had been puzzled, and asked him whether he was not going to smoke with her husband. She still did not seem to understand the conventional courtesy. When the door was closed behind her, Pillivant drew a great breath of relief.
“Pity you won’t drink,” said he, refilling his glass. “We might have made a night of it. And this is such good stuff, too. About the most expensive I could buy.”
After that, impelled139 by the craving140 for self-revelation, he took up his parable109 again, and entertained his guest with many details of opinions, habits and actions, that had not been fit for wifely ears. When the stream of confidence at last grew maudlin141, Baltazar, pleading an invalid’s fatigue142 after a heavy day, bade him good night.
“I’ve been so long out of touch with English life,” said he, “that it is most interesting to me to meet a typical Englishman.”
Pillivant clapped him heavily on the shoulder.
“You’re right, my boy,” he asserted thickly. “A downright, patriotic John Bull Englishman. The sort of stuff that’s winning the war for you, and don’t you make no mistake about it.”
Baltazar went to bed pondering over his host. The annihilation of his own life’s work did not bear thinking about. That way lay madness. Pillivant brought a new interest. For all his adventurous143 journeyings he had not met the Pillivant type—or if he had fortuitously encountered it, he had passed it by in academic scorn. Had his ironical144 remark any basis of truth? Was Pillivant after all typical of the forces behind the war in this unknown modern England? Vulgarity, bluster145, self-seeking, corruption, hypocrisy146? The old aristocratic order changing into something loathsomely147 new? Pillivant posed as the successful man, engaged in vast affairs, working night and day for his country—he was only snatching, he had explained, a three weeks’ rest at this little country shanty148 which he had not seen for nearly a year. The luxury of the “shanty” proved his success; proved the magnitude of his dealings with the Government. So far there was no brag149. But how came it that the Government put itself into the hands of such a man, openly boastful of his exploitation of official ineptitude150? He could not be unique. There must be hundreds, thousands like him. Was he, in sober earnest, a typical modern Englishman? If so, thought Baltazar, God help England.
And yet England must have still the qualities that made Cressy, Poitiers, Agincourt ring in English ears through the centuries: the qualities of the men who followed Drake and Marlborough and Nelson and Raglan. . . . That very morning he had read of British heroism151 on the Somme battlefield, and had been thrilled at realizing himself merged152 into the unconquerable soul of his race.
He threw off his bedclothes—rose—flung the curtains wide apart, and thrust out all the room’s casement153 windows not already opened, and looked out into the starlit summer night.
No. It was impossible for England to be peopled with Pillivants. They were the fishers in troubled waters, the blood-suckers, the parasites154, the excrescences on an abnormal social condition. But why were they allowed to live? What was wrong? Who were the rulers? Their very names were but vaguely familiar to him. And he had read of strikes; of men earning—for the proletariat—fabulous wages, striking for more pay, selfishly, criminally (so it seemed to his unversed and aghast mind), refusing to provide the munitions155 of war for lack of which their own flesh and blood, earning a shilling a day, might be slaughtered156 in hecatombs. He threw himself into a chair.
“My God!” said he, “I must get out of this and see what it all means.”
After a few moments he suddenly realized that he had pulled on his socks, as though he were going, there and then, at midnight, to plunge22 into the midst of the bewildering world at war.
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1
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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3
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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4
hatchets
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| n.短柄小斧( hatchet的名词复数 )；恶毒攻击；诽谤；休战 | |
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5
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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6
salvage
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| v.救助，营救，援救；n.救助，营救 | |
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7
administrators
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| n.管理者( administrator的名词复数 )；有管理（或行政）才能的人；（由遗嘱检验法庭指定的）遗产管理人；奉派暂管主教教区的牧师 | |
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premiums
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| n.费用( premium的名词复数 )；保险费；额外费用；（商品定价、贷款利息等以外的）加价 | |
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9
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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tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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miasma
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| n.毒气；不良气氛 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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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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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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fouled
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| v.使污秽( foul的过去式和过去分词 )；弄脏；击球出界；（通常用废物）弄脏 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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38
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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39
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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40
envisaged
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| 想像，设想( envisage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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42
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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43
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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44
carrion
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| n.腐肉 | |
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45
askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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46
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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47
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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48
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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49
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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50
quagmire
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| n.沼地 | |
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51
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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52
shovelful
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| n．一铁铲 | |
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53
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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54
pints
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| n.品脱( pint的名词复数 )；一品脱啤酒 | |
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55
transcended
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的过去式和过去分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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56
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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57
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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58
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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59
outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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60
obliterating
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| v.除去( obliterate的现在分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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61
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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62
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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63
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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64
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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65
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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66
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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67
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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68
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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69
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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70
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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71
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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73
filaments
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| n.（电灯泡的）灯丝( filament的名词复数 )；丝极；细丝；丝状物 | |
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74
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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75
devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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76
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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77
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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78
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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79
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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80
analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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81
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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82
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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83
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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84
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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85
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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86
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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87
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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88
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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89
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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90
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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91
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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92
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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93
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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94
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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95
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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96
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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97
throttles
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| n.控制油、气流的阀门( throttle的名词复数 )；喉咙，气管v.扼杀( throttle的第三人称单数 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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98
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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99
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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100
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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101
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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102
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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103
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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105
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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106
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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107
sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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108
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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109
parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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110
fattening
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| adj.（食物）要使人发胖的v.喂肥( fatten的现在分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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111
helpings
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| n.（食物）的一份( helping的名词复数 )；帮助，支持 | |
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112
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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113
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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114
picturesquely
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115
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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116
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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117
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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118
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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119
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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120
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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121
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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122
contractor
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| n.订约人，承包人，收缩肌 | |
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123
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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124
grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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125
entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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126
fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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127
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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128
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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129
inoculate
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| v.给...接种，给...注射疫苗 | |
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130
inoculated
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| v.给…做预防注射( inoculate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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132
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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133
patriotically
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| 爱国地；忧国地 | |
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134
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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135
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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136
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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137
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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138
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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139
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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141
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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142
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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143
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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144
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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145
bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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146
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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147
loathsomely
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| adv.令人讨厌地，可厌地 | |
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148
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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149
brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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150
ineptitude
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| n.不适当；愚笨，愚昧的言行 | |
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151
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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152
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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153
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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154
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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155
munitions
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| n.军火，弹药；v.供应…军需品 | |
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156
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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