“Oh, what have you been doing?”
She had been worried all day, unable to account for the money, a month’s rent and board in advance, in the envelope addressed to her.
“I set out to-day on my last adventure. This is the end of it. I’m here for the rest of time.”
“You’ll be in the churchyard for the rest of eternity5, if you don’t go to bed at once,” she declared.
She packed him to his room; fussed motherwise about him; dosed him with ammoniated quinine; stuck hot-water bottles in his bed; stood over him with hot Bovril with an egg in it. She prescribed whisky, also hot; but since the fatal night at Rowington’s dinner party, he had abjured6 alcohol.
“Now perhaps you’ll tell me what has happened,” she said.
“Woorow! Why that’s the other side of the county!” She looked at him aghast. “Do you mean to say that you walked to Woorow in your state? Really men oughtn’t to be allowed to run about loose.”
“I’ve run about loose since I was fourteen,” said he.
“And a pretty mess you seem to have made of it. And then what did you do?”
She took away the cup of Bovril and poached egg which he had devoured8 ravenously9, to her womanly satisfaction, and handed him another. He continued his story, recounting it, between spoonfulls, in his imaginative way. When he found he could go no further he curled up to sleep in a wood. When things went wrong, he assured her, there was nothing like going to sleep in a wood. All the pixies and elves and rabbits and stoats and weasels came and sat round you in a magic circle, shielding you from harm. What would have happened to the Babes in the Wood, he cried, if it hadn’t been for the robins10?
“I wonder what your temperature is,” said Mrs. Pettiland.
“Normal,” said he. “This is the first hour I’ve been normal for months.”
“I’ll take it before I leave you,” she said. “Well, you went to sleep?”
Yes. He slept like an enchanted11 dog. He woke up four hours afterwards to find it pouring with rain. What could he do? He had to get back. Walking, with his rotten old leg, was out of the question. In the daytime a decent looking pedestrian may have the chance of stopping a motoring Good Samaritan and, with a tale of sudden lameness12, get a lift by the side of the chauffeur13. But at night it was impossible. To stand with arresting arms outspread in front of the hell-lamps of an advancing car would be an act of suicidal desperation. No; he had returned by all sorts of stages. He had almost forgotten them. A manure14 cart had brought him some way. Then he had gone dot and carry one for a mile. Then something else. He could only hail slow moving traffic in the wet and darkness. Then he spent an endless time in the cab of a steam traction15 engine which he had abandoned on seeing a two-seater car with flaring16 head-lamps, stationed at a cottage gate.
“The old campaigner’s instinct, Mrs. Pettiland. What should it be but a doctor’s car, outside a poor little cottage? And as the head-lamps were pointing to where I had come from, I concluded he had drawn17 up and would turn round and go where I wanted to get to.”
“And was it a doctor?”
He laughed. Of course it was. He had taken shelter from the rain under the hood19 of the car for an hour. Then, when the cottage door opened, he had scrambled20 out and waited for the owner. There had been a few words of explanation. By luck, it was Doctor Stansfield of Fanstead——
“Dr. Stansfield—why——”
“Why of course. He knows you inside and out. A charming fellow. He dropped me here, or rather I dropped him.”
“And he never came in to look after you—a man in your condition? I’ll give him a piece of my mind when I see him.”
He soothed21 the indignant lady. The good doctor was unaware22 that anything particular was wrong with him. Poor man, he had been on the go since five o’clock the previous morning—human beings are born inconsiderate of the feelings of others—and he was dog-tired. Too dog-tired even to argue. He would have given a lift to Judas Iscariot, or the Leper of Aosta, so long as he wasn’t worried.
“He nearly pitched us over, at a curve called Hell’s Corner—you know. The near front wheel was just an inch off the edge. And then he stopped dead and flung his hands over his eyes and said: ‘Oh, my God!’ He had lost his nerve. Then when I told his I had driven everything from a General’s Rolls Royce to an armoured car all over Russia in the war, he let me take the wheel. And that’s the whole thing.”
He chatted boyishly, in high spirits, and smoked a cigarette. Mrs. Pettiland went for a clinical thermometer. To her secret disappointment, his temperature was only just above normal. She would have loved to keep him in bed a few days and have the proper ordering of him. A woman loves to have an amazing fool of a man at her mercy, especially if she is gifted with a glimmer24 of humour. When she left him, he laughed out loud. Well, he had had his adventure with a vengeance25. A real old Will-o’-the-Wisp chase, which had landed him, as ever, into disaster. Yet it had been worth it, every bit, until his leg gave out on the quarry26 hill. Even his slumber27 he did not regret. His miserable28 journey back, recalling old days, had its points. It was good to get the better of circumstances.
As to his money which was to have started him in life among coral reefs and conch-shells, that had gone irretrievably. Of course, he could have gone to the nearest police-station. But if the miscreants29 were arrested, he would have to prosecute30. Highway robbery was a serious affair; the stolen belt packed with bank notes, a romantic one. The trial would provide a good newspaper story. There would be most undesirable31 publicity32; and publicity is the last thing a man dead to the world would desire. He shrugged33 philosophic34 shoulders. Let the money go. The humour of the situation tickled35 his vagabond fancy. He was penniless. That was the comical end of his pursuit of the ignis fatuus. The freak finality and inevitability36 of it stimulated37 his sense of the romantic. If he had been possessed38 of real courage, he would have made over all his money, months ago, to Olivia and disappeared, as he was now, into the unknown. His experience of life ought to have taught him the inexorable fatality39 of compromise. What would he do? He did not know. Drowsy40 after the day’s fatigue41, and very warm and comfortable, he did not care. He curled himself up in the bed and went to sleep.
One afternoon, a week afterwards, he limped into Mrs. Pettiland’s post-office with a gay air.
“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” she replied undisturbed in her official duties which consisted in taking the coppers43 from a small child in payment for two stamps. “You’ve been rather restless these last few days.”
Triona watched the child depart, clasping the stamps in a clammy hand.
“When one hasn’t a penny in the world and starvation stares you in the face, one may be excused for busy search for a means of livelihood44.”
“You’ve got plenty of money.”
“I haven’t.”
“You paid me a month’s board and lodging45 in advance, the other day—though why you did it, I can’t understand.”
“I was going to run away,” he said cheerfully. “To compensate46 you in that miserable manner for inconvenience was the least I could do. But the gods rightly stepped in and hauled me back.” He swung himself on the counter and smiled at her. “I’m a fraud, you know.”
The plump and decorous lady could not realize his earnestness. Behind his words lay some jest which she could not fathom47.
“You don’t believe me?”
He sighed. If he had told her a fairy tale she, like all the rest of the world in his past life, would have believed him. Now that he told the truth, he met with blank incredulity.
“I’m going to earn my living. I’m taking on a job as chauffeur.”
She stared at him. “A chauffeur—you?”
“Yes. Why not?”
Her mind ran over his intellectual face, his clothes, his manners, his talk—free and sometimes disconcertingly allusive48, like that of the rare and impeccably introduced artists whom she had lodged—his books . . .
“Oh no. Not really. I’ve been all kinds of things in my time. Among them I’ve passed as a gentleman. But by trade I’m a chauffeur. I practically started life as a chauffeur—in Russia. For years I drove a Russian Prince all over Europe. Now there aren’t any more Russian Princes I’m going to drive the good people of Fanstead to railway stations and dinner parties.”
“Well, I never,” said Mrs. Pettiland.
“There’s a young man—an ex-officer—Radnor by name, in Fanstead—who has just set up a motor garage.” “He’ll fail,” said Mrs. Pettiland. “They all do. Old Hetherington of ‘The Bull’ has all the custom.”
“With one rickety death-trap for hire and a fool of a mechanic who has wrecked50 every car sent in for repairs for a radius51 of thirty miles. I offered Hetherington to teach him his business. You might as well sing ‘Il Trovatore’ to a mule52. So I went to Radnor. He had just sacked a man, and with my invariable luck, I stepped in at the right moment. No, Mrs. Pettiland—” he swung his sound leg and looked at her, enjoying her mystification “—the reign53 of Hetherington is over. Radnor’s Garage is going to be the wonder of the countryside.”
He believed it implicitly54. Radnor, a mild and worried young man, with quite a sound knowledge of his business, might struggle along and earn a hand-to-mouth living. But he lacked driving-power. To Triona, during his two or three interviews with him, that was obvious. He had sufficient capital for a start, a good garage equipment, a fairly modern 25 h.p. utility car and was trying to make up his mind to buy another. Triona divined his irresolution55. He would be at the mercy of unscrupulous mechanics and chauffeurs56. His spirit seemed to have been broken by two years imprisonment57 in Germany. He had lost the secret of command. And, by nature, a modest, retiring gentleman. Triona pitied him. He had wandered through the West of England seeking a pitch where the competition was not too fierce, and finding unprogressive Fanstead, had invested all his capital in the business. He had been there a couple of months during which very little work had come in. He could stick it out for six months more. After that the deluge58.
“Give me four pounds a week as head mechanic and chauffeur,” said Triona, “and the deluge will be golden rain.”
This was after the exhibition of John Briggs’ papers—Armoured Car Column and Minesweeper—and the tale of his Russian chauffeurdom. He had also worked magic, having a diagnostician’s second sight into the inside of a car’s mechanism59, with a mysteriously broken down 40 h.p. foreign car, the only one in the garage for repairs, which, apparently60 flawless, owner and chauffeur and Radnor himself regarded with hebetude.
“I’ll take you on all right,” said Radnor. “But, surely a man like you ought to be running a show of his own.”
“I haven’t a cent in the world,” replied Triona. “So I can’t!”
All this he told Mrs. Pettiland, swinging his sound leg, as he sat on the counter.
“The only fly in the ointment,” said he, “is that I shall have to move.”
“From here? Whatever for?”
“Chauffeurs don’t have luxurious61 bed-sitting-rooms with specially23 designed scenery for views. They can’t afford it. Besides, they’re not desirable lodgers62.”
She flushed indignantly. If he thought she would prefer his room to his company, because he drove a car, he was very much mistaken. The implication hurt. Even suppose he was fit to look after a car, he was not yet fit to look after himself. Witness his folly63 of a week ago. He would pay her whatever he could afford and she would be more than contented64.
“What wonderful people there are in the world,” he sighed.
But he withstood her generous blandishments. No, there was an eternal fitness of things. Besides, he must live at the garage, ready to attend telephone calls by day or by night. He couldn’t be hobbling backwards65 and forwards between Fanstead and Pendish. Against this practical side of the question there could be no argument.
“And what shall I do with the money you’ve paid in advance?”
“Keep it for a while,” said he. “Perhaps Randor will give me the sack and I’ll come creeping back to you.”
Thus did Triona, with bag and baggage take up his quarters in an attic66 loft67 in the garage yard at Fanstead.
Not since his flight from Olivia had he felt so free of care. Fate had condemned68 him to the backwater and in the backwater he would pass his contented life, a life of truth and honesty. And he had before him an essential to his soul’s health—an ideal. He would inspire the spiritless with spirit, the ineffectual with efficiency, the sick heart with health. The man Radnor had deserved well of his country through gallant69 service, wounds and imprisonment. His country had given him the military Cross and a lieutenant’s gratuity70, and told him not to worry it any more. If Mrs. Pettiland’s prophecy came true and he failed, he would be cast upon a country that wouldn’t be worried. Triona swore that he should pull through. He would save a fellow-man from shipwreck71, without his knowledge. It was something to live for. He became once more the perfect chauffeur, the enthusiastic motor-man, dreaming of a great garage—a sort of Palace of Automobiles72 for the West of England.
And as he dreamed, so did it begin to come to pass. The efficiency of the Quantock Garage became known for miles around. Owners of valuable cars forsook73 the professional wreckers in the great junction74 town and sent them to Fanstead. Radnor soon bought his second car; by the end of the autumn a third car; and increased his staff. Triona was foreman mechanician. Had he not so desired, he need not have driven. Nor need he have driven in the brass-buttoned livery on which he insisted that Radnor’s chauffeurs should be attired75. Smartness, he argued rightly, caught the eye and imagination. But he loved the wheel. Driving cooled the vagabond fire in his veins76. There was an old touring-car of high horse-power, excellent when nursed with loving hand and understanding heart, but a box of dismal77 caprice to the inexpert, which he would allow no one to drive but himself. Radnor held the thing in horror and wanted to sell it as a bad bargain. He had had it out once and it had broken down ten miles from home and had suffered the ignominy of a tow back. Triona wrought78 at it for three weeks, conjuring79 up spare parts from nowhere, and fitting to it new devices, and turned out a going concern in which he took inordinate80 pride. He whirled touring parties prodigious81 distances in this once rickety creature of his adoption82. He could get thirty-five or forty out of her easily.
“All right. It’s your funeral, not mine,” said Radnor during one of their discussions.
It was a healthy life. His lameness did not matter. Whatever internal lesions he suffered from gave no symptoms of existence. His face lost its lines of suffering, his eyes their shifty haggardness. He put on flesh, as far as is possible for a naturally spare-built man. Randor, an honourable83 soul, when the business in the new year shewed proof of immense development, offered him a substantial increase in salary. But Triona refused.
“What do I want with money, my dear fellow? If I had more I’d only spend it for books. And I’ve more of them now than I know where to put them. No; keep all you can for capital in the business. Or stick it into an advertisement scheme I’ve been working out—”
“You’re an odd devil, Briggs,” said Radnor. He was a small dark man with great mournful eyes and a little clipped moustache over a timorous84 mouth, and his lips were always twitching85. “A queer devil. What I should have done without you, I don’t know. If I could do what I want, I should offer you a partnership86.”
“Don’t be a damned fool,” said Triona. “A partner puts in money and I haven’t a bean. Besides if I were a partner, the whole show would go to hell.”
“Why?”
“I should immediately want to go and do something else,” replied Triona.
“I give it up,” said Radnor.
“Best thing you can do,” said Triona.
How could the very grateful young proprietor87 divine the spiritual crankiness of his foreman? He went through the English equivalent of shoulder shrugging.
Briggs, from the business point of view, was a treasure fallen from Heaven. And Briggs was a mystery. He didn’t begin to pretend to understand Briggs. Briggs obviously didn’t want to be understood. Radnor was a gentleman. He could press the matter no further.
“Let us get this business up to a net profit of three thousand a year and then we may talk,” said Triona.
“Three thou—! Good God, man, I couldn’t talk. I’d slobber and gibber!”
“That’s where I’ll come in,” laughed Triona.
He had set his heart on this wash-out from the war making good. Just before Christmas he had an added incentive88. A melancholy89 lady and a wistful pretty girl had flashed for a week end through Fanstead. They had come from London and had put up at The King’s Head. Radnor had made the tour of the proprietor through the garage.
“This is Mr. Briggs, my foreman, whom I’ve so often told you about.”
And afterwards, to Triona, with an air of inconsequence:
“A kind of aunt and cousin of mine who wanted to see how I was getting on.”
Poor old chap! Of course they wanted to see how he was getting on. The girl’s assessing eyes took in everything, himself included.
The unbidden phrase flashed through his brain.
“He shall marry the girl by Michaelmas Day!”
The sudden impishness of it delighted him.
“By God, he shall!” he swore to himself.
So he refused an increase of salary and, by following an ignis fatuus of an ideal, he kept his conscience in a state of interested amusement at the mystification of his employer.
April came and found the Quantock Garage in full tide of business. Hetherington of “The Bull” had long since given up his wheezy station car and the motor-destroying works in which he housed it. Triona laboured from morning to night, for a while content to see the wheels of an efficient establishment go round. And then he began to grow restless. He had set Radnor permanently90 on his feet. If he left, the business would go on by its own momentum91. Nothing more was needed than Radnor’s own conscientious92 plodding93. Why should he stay? He had achieved his purpose. Radnor would surely be in a financial position warranting him to marry the girl by Michaelmas.
And then? Life once more became a blank. Of late he had drugged lonely and despairing thoughts by reading. Books grew into great piles in corners of his loft above the garage. But reading awoke him to the poignant95 craving96 for expression. He had half a dozen tantalizing97 plots for novels in his head, a score of great situations, a novelist’s gallery of vivid personalities98. As to the latter, he had a superstition99. If he gave one a name it would arise in flesh and blood, insistent100 on having its story told. So he shut tempting101 names resolutely102 from his brain; for he had made up his queer mind never to write another line of romance.
The spring stirred the sap within him. It was a year now since he had fled from Olivia. What was she doing, what feeling? Occasionally he called on Mrs. Pettiland.
Myra, he learned, had paid her weekly visit in October, had occupied his old room, had gone to visit her lunatic husband, had maintained her impenetrable silence as to her mistress’s doings. When Mrs. Pettiland had reported his chauffeur activities, Myra had said:
“I’m glad he has got honest employment.”
“Shall I let him know that you’re here?” Mrs. Pettiland had asked.
Myra had answered in her final way:
“I’ve no desire to see him and he certainly has no desire to see me.”
Myra, therefore, had come and gone without his knowledge. Often he wished that he had met her and wrung103 some information from her unwilling104 lips. And now, with his purpose accomplished105, his heart aching for change, his spirit craving to pour itself out in tumultuous words, and his soul crying for her that was lost, the thought that had haunted the back of his mind for the past year stood out grimly spectre-wise. What right had he to live? Olifant had spoken truly. What right had he to compel her to perpetual widowhood that was no widowhood? She was tied to him, a husband lost, as far as she was concerned, to human ken18, never to cross her path again; tied to him as much as Myra was tied to the poor wretch106 in the madhouse. And as Myra had grown soured and hard, so might Olivia grow. Olivia so young now, with all the joy of life before her. He gone, she could marry again. There was Olifant, that model of men, whom he guessed to have supplanted107. With him she could be happy until her life’s end. Once more she could be Lady Bountiful of “The Towers.” . . . The conception was an agony of the flesh, keeping him awake of nights on the hard little camp-bed in the loft. He grappled with the torture, resolved to triumph over it, as he had gritted108 his teeth and triumphed over physical pain in hospitals. The knife was essential, he told himself. It was for her sake. It was his duty to put himself out of the world.
And yet the days went on, and he felt the lust109 of life in his blood. The question tauntingly110 arose: Is it braver to die than to live? Is it more cowardly to live than to die? He couldn’t answer it.
In the meantime he went on mending broken-down motor-engines and driving gay tourists about the countryside, in his car of resurrection.
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1
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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overdo
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| vt.把...做得过头，演得过火 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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6
abjured
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| v.发誓放弃( abjure的过去式和过去分词 )；郑重放弃（意见）；宣布撤回（声明等）；避免 | |
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7
quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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ravenously
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| adv.大嚼地，饥饿地 | |
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10
robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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12
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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13
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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traction
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| n.牵引；附着摩擦力 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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miscreants
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| n.恶棍，歹徒( miscreant的名词复数 ) | |
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prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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35
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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inevitability
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| n.必然性 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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38
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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39
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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40
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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41
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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42
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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43
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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44
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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45
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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46
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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allusive
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| adj.暗示的；引用典故的 | |
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49
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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52
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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53
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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56
chauffeurs
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| n.受雇于人的汽车司机( chauffeur的名词复数 ) | |
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57
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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58
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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59
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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gratuity
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| n.赏钱，小费 | |
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71
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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73
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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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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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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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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86
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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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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99
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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100
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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101
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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102
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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103
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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104
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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105
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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106
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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107
supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
gritted
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的过去式和过去分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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109
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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110
tauntingly
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| 嘲笑地，辱骂地； 嘲骂地 | |
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