“What do you make of this?”
Before replying, she read it through without remark. It ran:
Dear Sir,
I have just been visiting Cambridge after many years’ absence abroad, and have learned that the son of my old college friend, John Baltazar, is lying wounded at Churton Towers Convalescent Home. I am writing to you, therefore, to enquire3 whether one who was very intimately connected with your father in the old days might venture to run down to Godalming and see you, with the double purpose of making the acquaintance of John Baltazar’s son, of whose brilliant academic beginnings the University authorities have informed me, and of paying a stranger Englishman’s tribute to a gallant4 fellow who has shed his blood for his country. My time being, at your disposal, I shall be happy to keep any appointment you may care to make.
Yours very faithfully,
James Burden
“Seems rather nice of him,” said Marcelle.
“I suppose it is. But who is the old fossil?”
Marcelle smiled. “Probably what he claims to be. An old college friend of your father.”
“He must have been a don of sorts. Not merely an undergraduate friend. Otherwise how could he have got straight to the people who knew all about me? You ever heard of James Burden?”
“No,” replied Marcelle, shaking her head. “How could I know all the fellows of your father’s college? Newnham students in my day were kept far from the madding crowd of dons.”
“Well, what about seeing the sentimental6 blighter? Oh, of course he’s sentimental. His ‘double purpose’ reeks7 of it. Rather what before the war we used to call ‘colonial.’ What shall I do? Shall I tell him to come along?”
“Why not? It can do no harm.”
Godfrey reflected for a few moments. Then he said:
“You see, before I met you I would have jumped at the idea of seeing an old friend of my father. But you knew more of him than the whole lot of the others put together. I’ve got my intimate picture of him through you. I’m not so keen to get sidelights, possibly distorting lights, from anybody else. You see what I mean, don’t you?”
“I see,” said Marcelle. “Let us have a look at the foot.”
She plied5 her nurse’s craft; set him up for the day’s mild activities. When he hobbled an hour later into the hall to attend to his correspondence and resume his study of the late Dr. Routh’s Treatise8 on Rigid9 Dynamics10, he wrote a polite note to Mr. Burden suggesting an appointment. After all, even in such luxurious11 quarters as Churton Towers, life was a bit monotonous12, and stragglers from the outer world not unwelcome. It was all very well for most of his comrades, who had mothers, fathers, sisters, cousins, girl friends attached and unattached to visit them; but he, Godfrey, had found himself singularly alone. Here and there a representative of the Woodcott crowd had paid him a perfunctory visit. He professed13 courteous14 appreciation15. But they were not his people. Memories of his pariah16 boyhood discounted their gush17 over the one-footed hero with the Military Cross. He was cynical18 enough to recognize that they took a vast lot of the credit to themselves, to the Family. They went away puffed19 with pride and promises. He said to Marcelle:
“I’m not taking any.”
A few men friends, chiefly men on leave, wandered down from time to time. But they had the same old tales to tell; of conditions in the sector20, of changes in the battalion21, of such and such a scrap22, of promotions23 and deaths, a depressing devil of a lot of deaths; the battalion wasn’t what it was when Godfrey left it; he could not imagine the weird24 creatures in Sam Browne belts that blew in from nowhere, to take command of platoons, things with their mother’s milk wet on their lips, and garters from the Burlington Arcade25, their idea of devilry, in their pockets. And the N.C.O.s! My God! Oh, for the good old days of—six months ago!
Godfrey, wise in his generation, laughed at the jeremiads of these callow laudatores temporis acti, and on probing further, satisfied himself that everything was still for the best in the best of all possible armies. He also found that ginger26 was still hot in the mouths of these friends of his, and that he had not lived until he had seen Betty or Kitty or Elsie So-and-So, or such and such a Revue.
Frankly27 and boyishly, his appreciated his friends’ entertaining chatter28. But they came and went, with the superficial bonhomie of the modern soldier. They touched no depths. If he had died of his gangrened foot, they would have said “Poor old chap!” and thought no more about him. He did not condemn29 them, for he himself had said and thought the same of many a comrade who had gone West. It was part of the game which he played as scrupulously30 and as callously31 as the others. He craved32, however, solicitude33 deeper and more permanent.
Of course there was Dorothy Mackworth. She did not come to Churton Towers; but she had dutifully attended the Carlton when he had summoned her thither34 to meet Sister Baring, and put on for his benefit her most adorable clothing and behaviour. The lunch had been a meal of delight. The young man glowed over his guests—the two prettiest women, so he declared, in the room. Marcelle in the much-admired hat, her cheeks slightly flushed and her eyes bright, looked absurdly young. The girl, conscious of angelic dealing35, carried off her own absurd youth with a conquering air that bewitched him more than ever. She dropped golden words:
“Oh, let us cut out Leopold! I’ve no use for him.”
She had no use for Leopold Doon, his half-brother and rival. He was to be cut out of their happy thoughts. Also:
“I’m not going to have you creep back into civil life and bury yourself at Cambridge. You’d get a hump there you’d never recover from. There’s lots of jobs on the staff for a brainy fellow like him, aren’t there, Miss Baring? I’ll press father’s button and he’ll do the rest.”
Now Dorothy’s father was a Major-General doing things at Whitehall, whose nature was indicated by mystic capital letters after his name.
“You’ll look splendid in red tabs,” she added.
This profession of interest and this air of proprietorship36 enraptured37 him. Under the ban of her displeasure Cambridge faded into a dreary38, tumbledown desolation. She had but to touch him with her fairy wand and he would break out all over in red tabs. She spoke39 with assurance in the future tense.
And again, in a low voice, on their winding41 way out through the tables of the restaurant, Marcelle preceding them by a yard or two:
“Miss Baring’s a real dear. But don’t fall in love with her, for I swear I’m not going to play gooseberry.”
He had protested in a whisper: “Fall in love with anyone but you?”
And she had replied: “I think I’m nice enough,” and had laughed at him over her shoulder and looked exceedingly desirable.
He had never dared till that inspired moment speak to her of love in plain, bald terms; now he had done it and not only remained unfrozen, but basked42 in the warmth of her approval.
“I think that’s the most beautiful beano I’ve ever had,” he said to Marcelle, on their journey back to Godalming.
Yes. There was Dorothy. She had promised to participate in a similar beano any time he liked. But such bright occurrences must be rare. He longed to plunge43 into fervid44 correspondence. Caution restrained him. Elusive45 and perplexing, Heaven knew what she might say to a violent declaration of passion. It might ruin a state of things both delicate and delicious. Far better carry on his wooing by word of mouth.
In the meanwhile, the days at Churton Towers were long and life lacked variety. So he looked forward to the visit of Mr. James Burden, compound of fossil and sentimental blighter though he might be.
Punctually at three o’clock, the appointed hour, one afternoon, the maid who attended the door came up to Godfrey Baltazar waiting lonely in the great hall, and announced the visitor. With the aid of the now familiar crutch47 he rose nimbly. He saw advancing towards him in a brisk, brusque way, a still young-looking man in grey tweeds, rather above medium height, thickset, giving an immediate48 impression of physical strength.
“Are you Mr. Godfrey Baltazar?”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy courteously49.
“My name is Burden. It’s good of you to let me come to see you.”
He grasped Godfrey’s hand in a close grip and looked at him keenly out of bright grey eyes. Not much fossil there, thought the young man. On the contrary, a singularly live personality. There was strength in the heavy though clean-cut face, marked by the deep vertical50 furrow51 between the brows; strength in the coarse, though well-trimmed, thatch52 of brown hair unstreaked by grey; strength in his voice.
“Do sit down,” said Godfrey.
Baltazar sat down and, looking at his son, clutched the arm of his chair. Crosby and Sheepshanks were right. A splendid fellow, the ideal of a soldier, clean run, clear eyes; a touch of distinction and breed about him, manifestation53 of the indomitable old Huguenot strain. By God! A boy to be proud of; and he saw bits of himself in the boy’s features, expression and gesture. A thrill ran through him as he drank in the new joy of parenthood. Yet through the joy pain stabbed him—fierce resentment54 against Fate, which had cheated him of the wonderful years of the boy’s growth and development. For the first time in his decisive life he felt tongue-tied and embarrassed. He cursed the craftiness55 that brought him hither under an assumed name. Yet, had he written as John Baltazar, he would have risked a rebuff. What sentimental regard or respect could this young man have for his unknown and unnatural56 father? At any rate his primary object had been attained57. Here he was in his son’s presence, a courteously welcomed guest. He looked at him with yearning58 eyes; Godfrey met his gaze with cool politeness. Baltazar wiped a perspiring59 brow. After a few moments Godfrey broke an awkward situation by offering his cigarette case. The cigarettes lit, Baltazar said suddenly:
“It’s an infernal shame!”
“What?” asked Godfrey, startled.
“Oh!” Godfrey laughed. “I’m one of the lucky ones. Far better to have stopped it with my foot than my head.”
“But to limp about on crutches61 all your life—a fellow like you in the pride of youth and strength. It makes one angry.”
“That’s kind of you, sir,” said Godfrey. “But it doesn’t worry me much. They’re wangling a new foot for me, and as soon as I can stick it on, I’ll throw away my crutches, and no one but myself will be a bit the wiser.”
“You take it bravely,” said Baltazar.
“It’s all in the day’s work. What’s the good of grousing62? What’s the point of a real foot, anyway, when a faked one will do as well?”
But though Baltazar admired the young fellow’s careless courage, he still glowered63 at the maimed leg. He resented fiercely the lost foot. He had been robbed of a bit of this wonderful son.
There are many ways of asking a wounded man such a question. Many he loathes65. Hence the savagely66 facetious67 answers that have been put on record. But there are ways that compel reply. Baltazar’s was one. Godfrey felt strangely affected68 by the elder man’s earnestness; yet his instinct forbade him to yield at once.
“Getting hit’s as simple as being bowled out at cricket. A jolly sight simpler. Like going out in the rain and getting wet. You just go out without an umbrella and something hits you, and that’s the end of it.”
“But when was it? How was it?” asked Baltazar.
Godfrey, after the way of British subalterns, gave a bald account of his personal adventures in his last fight near Ypres. It might have been a description of a football match. Baltazar wondered. For all his wanderings and experience of life, he had never heard a first-hand account of modern warfare69. The psychology70 of it perplexed71 and fascinated him. He plied the young man with questions; shrewd, direct questions piercing to the heart of things; and gradually Godfrey’s English reserve melted, and he laid aside his defensive72 armour73 and told his intent visitor what he wanted to know. And Baltazar’s swift brain seized the vivid pictures and co-ordinated them until he grew aware of the hells through which this young and debonair74 gentleman had passed.
“And what did you get that for?”
He pointed to the ribbon of the Military Cross.
“I managed to get away with some machine guns out of a tight corner. It was only when we were scooting back that I discovered we had been left in the air. I thought the battalion was quite up close. If I hadn’t, I should probably have bolted. These things are all flukes.”
“What a proud man your father would have been,” said Baltazar.
“By the way, yes,” said Godfrey. “I was forgetting. You were a friend of my father’s.”
“It’s a great misfortune that he never met you,” said Baltazar.
“He disappeared before I was born,” Godfrey remarked drily.
“I know. That’s why I wrote to you in some diffidence. I had no idea how you regarded your father’s memory. I hope you appreciate my feeling that I might be treading on delicate ground.”
Godfrey waved an indulgent hand. “Oh, that’s all right, sir. My father was a distinguished75 and romantic person, and I’m rather interested in him than otherwise.”
Baltazar drew a great breath of relief. At any rate he was not execrated76 by the paragon77 of sons. “I see,” said he, his features relaxing, for the first time, into a smile. “Like any other ancestor, he’s part of your family history.”
“Something of the sort. Only perhaps a bit nearer.”
“How nearer?”
“People live who knew him in the flesh. You, for instance.”
“Yes,” said Baltazar. “I knew him intimately. We were undergraduates and dons together. I left Cambridge about the same time as he did—when my fellowship lapsed78. I went away to the Far East, where I’ve spent my life. I’m just back, you know. Instinct took me to Cambridge, a sort of Rip van Winkle, to see if there were any remains79 of old friends—and my visit to you is the result of my enquiries.”
“When you wrote to me, I wondered whether you could tell me if my father was alive or dead.”
Baltazar made a little gesture.
“Quien sabe? From what I remember of John Baltazar he was not a man to let himself die easily. He was the most obstinate80 mule81 I ever came across. Death would have had a trying time with him. Besides, he was as tough as a rhinoceros82.”
“So he still may be in the land of the living?”
“As far as I know.” Baltazar leaned forward on his chair. “You have no feeling of resentment against him?”
“One can’t feel resentment against a shadow,” replied Godfrey.
“Suppose he reappeared, what would be your attitude towards him?”
Godfrey frowned at the touch of impertinence in the question which probed too deeply. He glanced distrustfully at his visitor.
“I’m afraid I’ve never considered the point,” he replied frostily. “Have you any special reason for putting it to me?”
Baltazar winced83. “Only as a student of psychology. But I see you would rather continue to regard him as a legendary84 character?”
“Quite,” said Godfrey.
“You must forgive me, Mr. Baltazar,” said the father, with a smile. “I’m half orientalized and only beginning to attune85 myself to Western habits of thought. I lived for so many years in the interior of China that I almost lost the Western point of view. Well, there the basis of all religious and philosophic86 systems is filial piety87. The whole moral and political system of the Empire has been reared on it for thousands of years. If you were a Chinaman, you would venerate88 your father, no matter what grievances89 you might have against him or how shadowy and legendary he might be.”
“But I’m not a Chinaman,” said Godfrey.
“Precisely. That’s where your typically Western point of view is of great interest to me. I hope, therefore, you see that the question I put to you, although it may be one of curiosity, is of philosophical90 and not idle curiosity.”
“I see,” replied Godfrey, smiling and mollified. “May I ask you which of the two attitudes you consider the most workable in practical life?”
“I told you just now,” said Baltazar, “that my mind was in process of adjustment.”
There came a slight pause. Godfrey broke it by suggesting politely that Mr. Burden must have found Cambridge greatly changed. Baltazar launched into vivid description of the toga giving way to arms. Eventually came to personalities91. The death of Dr. Crosby’s only son.
“Yes. I heard,” said Godfrey. “Fine soldier. Done in by high explosive shell. Not a trace of him or six others left. Not even the heel of a boot.”
“How lightly you all take death nowadays,” Baltazar remarked wonderingly.
“That oughtn’t to surprise you,” said Godfrey. “I’ve been led to believe they don’t worry their heads much about it in China.”
“I thought it one of the points at which East and West could never touch.” He laughed. “More readjustment, you see.”
“In the Army we’ve got either to be fatalists or lunatics. If your number’s up it’s up, and that’s all there is to it. You can’t do anything. You can’t even run away.”
“But surely you cling to life—young men like you—with all sorts of golden promises in front of you?”
“We don’t do silly ass40 things,” said Godfrey. “We don’t stand about like Ajaxes defying the lightning. When shells come we scurry92 like rabbits into the nearest funk-hole. We’re not a bit brave unless there’s no help for it. But when you see so many people killed around you, you say ‘My turn next,’ and it doesn’t seem to matter. You think ‘Who the blazes are you that you should be so precious?’ . . . No. Going out all in the fraction of a second like Crosby doesn’t matter. Why should it? What does give you a horrible feeling in the pit of your stomach is the fear lest you may be utterly93 messed up and go on living. But death itself is too damned ordinary. At any rate, that’s the way I size it up. Of course it’s pretty cheap and easy for a lucky beggar like me, who’s out of it for ever, to talk hot philosophic air—but all the same, looking back, I think I’ve told you in a vague sort of way what I felt when I was out in France. Sometimes the whole thing seems a nightmare. At others, I want to kick myself for sitting here in luxury when there’s so much to be done out there. I had got my platoon—I was acting94 first lieutenant—like a high-class orchestra—just the last two months, you know. It was the weirdest95 feeling. I just had to wave my baton96 and they did everything I wanted. Once or twice I nearly cried with sheer amazement97. And then just when the band was playing its damndest, I got knocked out and fainted like a silly fool, and woke up miles away. When one has sweated one’s guts98 out over a thing, it’s annoying not to reap the fruit of it. It’s rough luck. It’s—well——”
Suddenly self-consciousness returned. He flushed deeply.
“Bore me!” cried Baltazar. “My dear fellow, you could go on like this for ever and command my most amazed interest. Do go on.”
He stopped, confused, embarrassed, ashamed of his boasting. Never had he spoken like that to human being of his incomparable platoon. Never had he unveiled to profane101 eyes his soldier’s Holy of Holies. Certainly not to his comrades. Not to Dorothy. Not even to Marcelle. What on earth must this stranger, whom he didn’t know from Adam, be thinking of him? He lit a cigarette, before, remembering manners, he offered his case to his visitor. The sense of sentimental braggadocio102 overwhelmed him, burning him red-hot. He longed with sudden fury to get rid of this uncanny guest with his clear, compelling eyes, which even now steadily103 regarded him with an inscrutable smile and continued the impossible invitation: “Do go on.” He could no more go on than smite104 him over the head with his crutch (which he was far more inclined to do) for plucking out the heart of his mystery. If only the man would go! But he sat there, strong, urbane105, maddeningly kind. He hated him. Yet he felt himself under his influence. From the man seemed to emanate106 a suggestion of friendship, interest, control, which his sensitive English spirit vehemently107 repudiated108. He heard him say:
“Your father was very proud of his Huguenot descent.”
“My father!” cried Godfrey, his nerves on edge. “I’m rather fed up with my father. I wish he had never been born.”
Baltazar rose. “I’m sorry,” said he courteously, “to have distressed111 you. Believe me, it was far from my intention.”
Godfrey stared at him for a second, and passed his hand across his eyes.
“It’s for me to apologize. I’m afraid I’ve been rude. Please don’t go.”
But Baltazar stood smiling, holding out his hand. Now that the man was going Godfrey realized the enormity of his own discourtesy. He looked around as if seeking some outlet112 for the situation. And then, as if in answer to a prayer, at the end of the hall appeared the passing, grey-clad figure of a guardian113 angel.
“Sister!” he cried.
Marcelle halted, smiled, and advanced towards him.
“Sister,” said he, “this is Mr. James Burden. You ought to know each other. You both knew my father.”
Baltazar turned. And for a few speechless seconds he and Marcelle stared into each other’s eyes.
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1
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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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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enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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reeks
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| n.恶臭( reek的名词复数 )v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的第三人称单数 )；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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treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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dynamics
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| n.力学，动力学，动力，原动力；动态 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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pariah
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| n.被社会抛弃者 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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sector
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| n.部门，部分；防御地段，防区；扇形 | |
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battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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promotions
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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frankly
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chatter
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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scrupulously
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callously
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craved
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solicitude
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thither
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dealing
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proprietorship
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enraptured
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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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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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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43
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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44
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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45
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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46
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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47
crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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48
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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49
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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50
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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51
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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52
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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53
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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54
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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55
craftiness
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| 狡猾，狡诈 | |
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56
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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57
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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58
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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59
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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61
crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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62
grousing
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| v.抱怨，发牢骚( grouse的现在分词 ) | |
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63
glowered
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| v.怒视( glower的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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65
loathes
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的第三人称单数 )；极不喜欢 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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69
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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72
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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73
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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74
debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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76
execrated
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| v.憎恶( execrate的过去式和过去分词 )；厌恶；诅咒；咒骂 | |
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paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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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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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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82
rhinoceros
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| n.犀牛 | |
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83
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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85
attune
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| v.使调和 | |
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86
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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87
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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88
venerate
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| v.尊敬，崇敬，崇拜 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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92
scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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93
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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94
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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weirdest
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| 怪诞的( weird的最高级 )； 神秘而可怕的； 超然的； 古怪的 | |
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96
baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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97
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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98
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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99
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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100
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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102
braggadocio
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| n.吹牛大王 | |
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103
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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104
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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105
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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106
emanate
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| v.发自，来自，出自 | |
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107
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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108
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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109
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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110
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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111
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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112
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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113
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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