“I suppose that’s you, John. I shouldn’t have recognized you.”
“You’re Ellen,” said he.
“Aye. I’m Ellen. You didn’t think I was Jane?”
She led the way into a narrow passage and then into the diminutive5 parlour.
“Of course not,” said he. “Jane died three years ago. But you I haven’t seen since I was a child.”
She looked him up and down: “Quite the gentleman.”
“I hope so. How’s mother?”
She gave the news dully. The sick woman had passed through the night safely and was now asleep.
“She had made up her mind to see you before she died—she always was strong willed—and that has kept her alive. Until I read your telegram I didn’t think you would come.”
He flashed one of his quick glances. “Why not? This isn’t the first time I’ve come to see her since my return. If I’ve made my way in the world, that’s no reason for you to call me undutiful.”
“I don’t want to quarrel, John,” she said wearily. “Yes. I know about your visits and the bit of money you send her. And she’s grateful, poor soul.” She paused. Then: “You’ll be wanting breakfast.”
“Also a wash.”
“Are you too grand for the sink, or must you have hot water in your room?”
“The sink will do. It will be less trouble for you.”
Alexis Triona followed her down the passage, and having washed himself with a bit of yellow soap and dried himself on the coarse towel hung on a stretch of string, went into the tidy kitchen, hung with cheap prints and faded photographs of departed Briggses, his coat over his arm, and conversed6 with his sister in his shirt sleeves while she fried the eggs and bacon for his meal. His readiness to fall into the household ways somewhat mollified her. Her mother had been full of pride in the great man John had become, and she had expected the airs and graces of the upstart. Living at Sunderland with her husband, a foreman riveter7, and her children, and going filially to Newcastle only once a year, she had not met him on his previous visits. Now her mother’s illness had summoned her three or four days before, when the neighbour’s daughter who “did for” Mrs. Briggs, ordinarily a strong and active woman, found the sudden situation beyond her powers and responsibility. So, until the ailing8 lady discoursed9 to her of the paragon10, she had scarcely given him a thought for the sixteen years they had been separated. Her memories of him as a child who alternated exasperating11 mischief12 with bone-idle fits of reading had not endeared him to her practical mind; and when the impish dreamer disappeared into the vast inane13 of foreign parts, and when she herself was driven by she knew not what idiot romanticalism into the grey worries of wifehood and motherhood, her consciousness recorded the memory of a brother John, but whether he was alive or dead or happy or miserable14 was a matter of illimitable unconcern. Now, however, he had come to life, very vivid, impressing her with a certain masterfulness in his manner which had nothing to do with the airs and graces she despised. Yet she still regarded him with suspicion; even when, seating himself at the roughly laid end of the kitchen table and devouring15 bacon and eggs with healthy appetite, he enthusiastically praised her cookery.
“What I can’t understand is,” she said, standing16 at the other end of the table and watching him eat, “why the name of John Briggs isn’t good enough for you.”
“It’s difficult to explain,” said he. “You see, I’ve written a book. Have you read it?”
She regarded him scornfully. “Do you suppose, with a husband and seven children I’ve time to waste on books? I’ve seen it,” she admitted. “Mother has it bound in brown paper, by the side of her bed.”
“You must read it,” replied Triona, somewhat relieved. “Then you’ll see why I’ve changed my name.” He laughed at her uncomprehending face. “I’ve done nothing criminal, you know, and I’m not hiding from justice.”
“I suppose an outlandish name brings in more money,” she suggested practically.
“That’s so,” said he.
“Fools must be fools.”
He acquiesced17 gladly, gauging18 the end of an embarrassing examination, and turned the conversation to her domestic affairs.
Breakfast over, he lit a cigarette and watched her clear away, viewing through the smoke the memories of his childhood. Just so, in that very wooden arm-chair, though in another kitchen, used his father to sit, pipe in mouth, while the women did the household work. It was all so familiar, yet so far away. Between then and now stretched a lifetime—so it seemed—of wide and romantic happenings. There, before him, on the wall hung, as it did years ago, the haunting coloured print, cut from some Christmas Number, of young Amyas Leigh listening to Salvation20 Yeo. As a child, Salvation Yeo’s long arm and finger pointing out to sea had been his inspiration. He had followed it, and gone to distant lands and gone through the promised adventures, and had returned to the picture, wondering whether all that had been was real and not the figment of a dream.
A little later, after the doctor’s visit, he was admitted to his mother’s room. For an hour or so he sat with her and gave a human being deep happiness. In the afternoon she lost consciousness. For a day or two she lingered on, and then she died.
During the dreary interval21 between his interview and the funeral, Alexis Triona sat for many hours in his father’s chair, for the North was smitten22 with a dismal spell of rain and tempest which discouraged rambling23 out of doors, reconstructing his life, unweaving fact from fiction, tearing aside the veils of self-deception24 wherein he had enwrapped his soul. Surely there was some basis of fact in the romantic history of Alexis Triona with which for the past year he had identified himself. Surely a man could not dwell so intensely in an imaginary life if none of it were real. Even while tearing open veils and viewing his soul’s nakedness, he sought justification25.
Did he not find it in that eagerness of spirit which had sent him, in obedience26 to Salvation Yeo’s pointing finger, away from the dour27 and narrow father and the first taste of the Tyneside works, penniless, over the wild North Sea to Archangel, town of fairy wonders, and thence, so as not to be caught on the ship again and taken back to Newcastle, to wanderings he scarce knew whither? Did he not find it in the strange lure28 of Russia which impelled29 him, when, after a few voyages, he landed in the port of London, to procure30 a passport which would make him free for the land of his fascination31? Did he not find it in the resourcefulness of brain which, the mariner’s life forsaken32, first secured him employment in the English racing33 establishment of a Russian Prince, and then interested recognition by the Princess herself, so that, after a strenuous34 while he found himself no longer as an inconsiderable stable hand, but as a human being who counted in the world? Did he not find it in his fond ambitions, when the Princess at his request transferred him from stables to garage, from garage to motor-works for higher training; when he set himself to learn Russian as no Englishman should ever have learned it; when afterwards he steeped his mind in Russian poetry and folk-lore, sleeping four or five hours a night, compelled by dreams of greatness in which there figured as his bride of the golden future the little Princess Tania, whose governess-taught English was as pure as the church bells on a frosty night? Did he not find it in those qualities of practical command of circumstance and of poetic35 vision which had raised him in a few years from the ragged36, semi-ignorant, sea-faring English lout37 alone in Russia to the trusted chief of a Prince’s fleet of a dozen cars, to the courier-chauffeur, with all the roads and ways and customs and languages of Russia, from Riga to Tobolsk, and from Tobolsk to Tiflis, and from Tiflis to St. Petersburg, at his finger tips; to the Master of Russian Literature, already something of a published poet, admitted into intellectual companionship by the Prince and thereby38 given undreamed of leisure for further intellectual development? What were those qualities but the qualities of genius differentiating39 him from the ordinary run of men and absolving40 him from such judgments41 as might be passed upon the errant of them? Without this absolving genius could he have marched in and taken his place in the modern world of English letters?
Meanwhile, being of frugal42 tastes, he had grown rich beyond the dream of the Tyneside urchin’s avarice43. He had visions of great motor-works, the manufacture of an all-Russian car, built up by his own resources. The princely family encouraged him. Negotiations44 had just begun—was his story so devoid45 of truth?—when the great world cataclysm46 brought more than his schemes for an all-Russian car toppling to the ground. The Prince’s household was disintegrated47; horses and cars were swallowed up in the great convulsion.
He found himself driving generals around the shell-scarred front as a volunteer, for being of British nationality he had not been called up for military service. With them he served in advances and retreats and saw battles and burnings like many millions of other men, but from the comparative safety of a headquarters car. It was not until he ran into the British Armoured Car Column that his patriotism48 took fire, and he became a combatant in British uniform. He remained with the Column for most of the campaign. Badly wounded towards the end, he was left in a Russian hospital, a British naval49 rating. He remained there many months; a bullet through his chest had missed a vital part and the wound had soon healed, but his foot had gangrened, and only the star in which he trusted had saved it from amputation50. There was no fiction about the three lost toes whose gap he had shown to Olifant.
So far did Alexis Triona, sitting in the kitchen arm-chair, salve his conscience. In his story had he done more than remodel51 the contour of fact? Beneath it did not the living essence of truth persist? Was he not a highly educated man? Had he not consorted—before the cataclysm, and later in the strangely filled hospital—with the young Russian intelligentsia, who talked and talked and talked——? Who could know better than he how Russia had floundered in their tempestuous52 ocean of talk? And, finally, had he not gone, stout-hearted, through the perils53 and hardships and exquisite54 sufferings of the cataclysm?
So far, so good. But what of the rest? For the rest, was not Fate responsible?
The Revolution came, and Russian organization crumbled55 like a castle touched with an enchanter’s wand. He went forth56 healed from the hospital into chaos57; Petrograd, where his little fortune lay, his objective. Sometimes he found a foothold on an aimless train. Sometimes he jogged weary miles in a peasant’s cart. Sometimes he walked. When he learned that British uniform was no longer held in high esteem58 he changed to peasant’s dress. So far his journey through revolutionary Russia was true. But he had enough money in his pocket to keep him from want.
And then arrived the day which counted most in his life’s history, when that which he had recounted to Olivia as a fantastic possibility happened in sober fact.
He had been given to understand that if he walked to a certain junction59 he might find a train returning to Petrograd. Tired, he sat by the wayside, and undoing60 his wallet ate the black bread and dried fish which he had procured61 at the last village. And, while eating, he became aware of something gleaming in the rank grasses of the ditch—something long and pallid62 and horrible. He slid down and found a dead man, stark63 naked, lying on his back with the contused mark of a bullet hole in his chest. A man of fifty, with short-cropped, grizzled hair and moustache, and clear, refined features. He must have been dead two days. There he lay, constricted64 of limb, stripped of everything that could mean warmth or comfort or money to his murderers. The living man’s short experience told him that such things were not uncommon65 in great revolutions. He was about to leave the corpse—for what could he do?—when his eyes caught the glint of metal a few feet away. It was a pocket compass. And further on he found at intervals66 a toothbrush; a coverless, tattered67 copy of Tacitus; a little faded snapshot of a woman mounted on cardboard; a vulcanite upper plate of half a dozen false teeth; and a little fat book with curling covers of American cloth. Had he continued his search he might have found many other objects discarded by the robbers as useless. But what was the good of pieces of conviction for a judicial68 enquiry that would never take place? The little fat book, which on opening he found to be manuscript in minute handwriting, he thrust in his pocket. And so he went his way.
But on his way, his curiosity being aroused, he read in the little book an absorbing diary of amazing adventures, of hardships and prison and tortures unspeakable; and without a thought of its value, further than its romantic fascination, he grew to regard it during his wanderings as his most precious possession.
So far again, until he reached Riga, there was truth in the story of his Russian traverse. Had he not prowled suspect about revolutionary Petrograd? Had not the Prince and Princess, the idealized parents of the story, been murdered and their wealth, together with his own few thousand roubles, been confiscated69? Was he not a fugitive70? Indeed, had he not seen the inside of a horrible prison? It is true that after a day or two he managed by bribery71 to escape. But the essence of things was there—the grain of fact which, under the sunlight of his genius, expanded into the splendid growth of Truth. And his wit had served him, too. His guards were for taking away the precious book. Knowing them to be illiterate72, he declared it to be the manuscript of his republican poem. Challenged to read, he recited from memory verses of Shevchenko, until they were convinced, not only of the book’s contents, but of his own revolutionary opinions. This establishment of his orthodoxy, together with a few roubles, assured his escape. And thence had he not gone northwards, hungry and footsore?
And had he not been torpedoed73? Cast ashore74 in shirt and trousers, penniless? Was not the real truth of this adventure even more to his credit than the fictitious75 narrative76? For, a naval rating, he had reported to a British man-of-war, and had spent months in a mine sweeper in the North Sea, until the final catastrophe77 occurred. Then, after a short time in hospital a kindly78 medical board found something wrong with his heart and sent him out into the English world, a free man.
Yes. His real record was one that no man need be ashamed of. Why, then, the fiction?
Sitting there in the uncompromising reality of his mother’s kitchen, he strove for the first time to answer the question. He found an answer in the obsession79 of the little book. During the scant80 leisure of his months at sea it had been his breviary. More, it had been a talisman81, a secret scroll82 of enchantment83 which, wrapped in oilskin, never left his person, save when, beneath the dim lamp of the fo’c’sle, he pored over it, hunched84 up against a bulkhead. The spirit of the writer whom he had seen dead and naked, seemed to have descended85 upon him. In the bitter watches of the North Sea he lived through the dead man’s life with bewildering intensity86. There were times, so he assured himself, when it became a conscious effort to unravel87 his own experiences from those of the dead man. That he had not lived in remoter Kurdistan was unthinkable. And, surely too, he had been tortured.
And when, in the attic88 in Cherbury Mews, impelled by irresistible89 force, he began to write his fantasia of fact and imagination, the obsession grew mightier90. His pen was winged with flame.
“Why,” said he, half aloud, one day, staring into the kitchen fire, “why should it not be a case of psychic91 obsession for which I am not responsible?”
And that was the most comforting solution he could find.
There was none other. He moved uneasily, changing the crossing of his legs, and threw a freshly rolled and lighted cigarette into the grate. It was a case of psychic obsession. Otherwise he was a barefaced92 liar19, a worm to be despised by his fellow-men. How else to account for the original lie direct, unreserved, to the publisher? Up to then he had no thought of sailing through the world under false colours. He had to give the mysterious dead man some identity. His own unconscious creative self clamoured for expression. He had woven the dead man and himself into a personality to which he had given the name of Alexis Triona. Naturally, for verisimilitude, he had assumed “Alexis Triona” as a pen-name. Besides, who would read a new book by one John Briggs? The publisher’s first direct question was a blow between the eyes under which he reeled for a few seconds. Then the romantic, the psychic, the whatever you will of the artist’s touch of lunacy asserted itself, and John Briggs was consumed in ashes and the Ph?nix Alexis Triona arose in his stead. And when the book appeared and the Ph?nix leaped into fame, what could the Ph?nix do, for the sake of its ordinary credit, but maintain its Ph?nixdom?
Until now it had been the simplest matter in the world, seeing that he half believed in it himself, seeing that the identification of the dead man with himself was so complete, that his lies, even to himself, had the generous air of conviction. But now, in the uncompromising John Briggs-dom of his surroundings, things were different. The obsession which still lingered when he bade Olivia adieu had vanished from his spirit. He saw himself naked, a mere93 impostor. If his past found absolution in the theory of psychic domination, his present was none the less in a parlous94 state.
He had no more gone to Helsingfors in the last year’s autumn than he had gone there now. What should John Briggs, obscure and demobilized able seaman95, have to do in Helsingfors? Why the elaborate falsehood? He shrugged96 his shoulders and made a helpless gesture with his elbows. The obsession again. The quietude of Medlow had got on his nerves. He had to break away, to seek fresh environment. He had invented Helsingfors; it was dramatic, in his romantic past; it kept up, in the direct mind of Blaise Olifant, the mystery of Alexis Triona; and it gave him freedom. He had spoken truth as to his vagabond humour. He loved the eternal change of the broad highway. The Salvation Yeo inspiration had persisted ever since he had run away from home to the El Dorado beyond the seas. Had he been set down in a torpid97 household, no matter how princely, sooner or later he would have revolted and have fled, smitten with the wander madness. But the Prince, the nomadic98 Tartar atavism asserting itself, suffered too much from this unrest; and in their mighty99 journeyings through Russia, up and down, north and south, east and west, and in the manifold adventures and excitements by the way, the young chief mechanic found the needful satisfaction of his cravings. On leaving Medlow he had started on a tramp, knapsack on back, to the north of Scotland, stopping at his mother’s house, en route, and had reached the John o’ Groats whither, on an eventful day, Olivia had professed100 herself ready to accompany him. She had little guessed how well he knew that long, long road. . . . Yet, when he met Blaise Olifant again, and was forced to vague allusion101 to his mythical102 travels, he almost persuaded himself that he had just arrived from Finland.
But now had come an irreparable shifting of psychological values. He could not return to Olivia, eating her heart out for news of him, and persuade himself that he had been to Helsingfors. The lie had been facile enough. How else to account for his absence? His attendance at his mother’s death-bed had been imperative103: to disregard the summons had never entered his mind. Yet simple avowal104 would have been pulling down the keystone of the elaborate structure which, to her, represented Alexis Triona. The parting lie had been easy: but the lie on his return—the inevitable105 fabrication of imaginary travel—that would be hatefully difficult. For the first time since he had loved her he was smitten with remorse106 for his deception and with terror of her discovery.
He could not sleep of nights aching for her, shivering with dread107 at the possibility of loss of her, picturing her alone in the sweet, wind-swept house, utterly108 trustful and counting the long hours till he should come again. Still, thank God, this was the last time they would be parted. His mother had been the only link to his John Briggs past.
There were no testamentary complications, which he had somewhat feared. His mother had only a life interest in the tiny estate which went, under his father’s will, to his sister Ellen. And Ellen did not count. Absorbed in her family cares, she would pass out of his life for ever without thought of regret. It would be the final falsehood.
At breakfast, on the morning of the funeral, Ellen said suddenly, in her dour way:
“I’ve been reading your book. It’s a pack of lies.”
“It would have been if I had signed it John Briggs,” he answered. “But everything in it is true about Alexis Triona.”
“Your ways don’t seem to be our ways, John,” she remarked coldly.
He felt the words like a slap in the face. He flushed with anger.
“How dare you?”
“I’m sorry,” she answered. “I oughtn’t to have said it with mother lying cold upstairs.”
He shrugged his shoulders, forced to accept the evasive apology. But her challenge rankled109. They parted stonily110 after the funeral, with the perfunctory handshake.
“I don’t suppose I shall ever see you again.”
“It’s rather unlikely,” said he.
“Well, good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
He threw himself back in the taxi-cab with a great sigh of relief. Thank God the nightmare of the past few days was over. Now to awaken111 to the real and wonderful things of life—the miraculous112 love of the dark-eyed, quivering princess of his dreams: the work which since he had loved her had grown into the sacred aim of their perfect lives.
And just as he had wired her from Newcastle announcing his sailing, so did he wire her when he reached the railway station.
Olivia smiled as she kissed the telegram. No one but her Alexis would have used the word “speeding.”
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
dismal
|
|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
villas
|
|
| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
diminutive
|
|
| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
conversed
|
|
| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
riveter
|
|
| 打铆机； 铆枪； 铆工 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
ailing
|
|
| v.生病 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
discoursed
|
|
| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
paragon
|
|
| n.模范，典型 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
exasperating
|
|
| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
mischief
|
|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
inane
|
|
| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
devouring
|
|
| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
acquiesced
|
|
| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
gauging
|
|
| n.测量[试]，测定，计量v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的现在分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
liar
|
|
| n.说谎的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
salvation
|
|
| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
smitten
|
|
| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
rambling
|
|
| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
deception
|
|
| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
justification
|
|
| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
obedience
|
|
| n.服从，顺从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
dour
|
|
| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
lure
|
|
| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
impelled
|
|
| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
procure
|
|
| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
fascination
|
|
| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
Forsaken
|
|
| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
racing
|
|
| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
strenuous
|
|
| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
poetic
|
|
| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
ragged
|
|
| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
lout
|
|
| n.粗鄙的人；举止粗鲁的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
thereby
|
|
| adv.因此，从而 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
differentiating
|
|
| [计] 微分的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
absolving
|
|
| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的现在分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
judgments
|
|
| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
frugal
|
|
| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
avarice
|
|
| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
negotiations
|
|
| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
devoid
|
|
| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
cataclysm
|
|
| n.洪水，剧变，大灾难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
disintegrated
|
|
| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
patriotism
|
|
| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
naval
|
|
| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
amputation
|
|
| n.截肢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
remodel
|
|
| v.改造，改型，改变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
tempestuous
|
|
| adj.狂暴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
perils
|
|
| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
crumbled
|
|
| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
chaos
|
|
| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
esteem
|
|
| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
junction
|
|
| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
undoing
|
|
| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
procured
|
|
| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
pallid
|
|
| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
stark
|
|
| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
constricted
|
|
| adj.抑制的，约束的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
uncommon
|
|
| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
intervals
|
|
| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
tattered
|
|
| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
judicial
|
|
| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
confiscated
|
|
| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
fugitive
|
|
| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
bribery
|
|
| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
illiterate
|
|
| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
torpedoed
|
|
| 用鱼雷袭击（torpedo的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
ashore
|
|
| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
fictitious
|
|
| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
narrative
|
|
| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
catastrophe
|
|
| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
obsession
|
|
| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
scant
|
|
| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
talisman
|
|
| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
scroll
|
|
| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
enchantment
|
|
| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
hunched
|
|
| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
descended
|
|
| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
intensity
|
|
| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
unravel
|
|
| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
attic
|
|
| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
irresistible
|
|
| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
mightier
|
|
| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
psychic
|
|
| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
barefaced
|
|
| adj.厚颜无耻的，公然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
parlous
|
|
| adj.危险的，不确定的，难对付的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
seaman
|
|
| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
shrugged
|
|
| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
torpid
|
|
| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
nomadic
|
|
| adj.流浪的；游牧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
mighty
|
|
| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
professed
|
|
| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
allusion
|
|
| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
mythical
|
|
| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
imperative
|
|
| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
avowal
|
|
| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
inevitable
|
|
| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
remorse
|
|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
rankled
|
|
| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
stonily
|
|
| 石头地，冷酷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
awaken
|
|
| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
miraculous
|
|
| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
longing
|
|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |