I thought that it was a Sunday morning in May, that it was Easter Sunday, and as yet very early in the morning. I was standing12, as it seemed to me, at the door of my own cottage. Right before me lay the very scene which could really be commanded from that situation, but exalted13, as was usual, and solemnised by the power of dreams. There were the same mountains, and the same lovely valley at their feet; but the mountains were raised to more than Alpine14 height, and there was interspace far larger between them of meadows and forest lawns; the hedges were rich with white roses; and no living creature was to be seen, excepting that in the green churchyard there were cattle tranquilly16 reposing17 upon the verdant18 graves, and particularly round about the grave of a child whom I had tenderly loved, just as I had really beheld19 them, a little before sunrise in the same summer, when that child died. I gazed upon the well-known scene, and I said aloud (as I thought) to myself, “It yet wants much of sunrise, and it is Easter Sunday; and that is the day on which they celebrate the first fruits of resurrection. I will walk abroad; old griefs shall be forgotten to-day; for the air is cool and still, and the hills are high and stretch away to heaven; and the forest glades20 are as quiet as the churchyard, and with the dew I can wash the fever from my forehead, and then I shall be unhappy no longer.” And I turned as if to open my garden gate, and immediately I saw upon the left a scene far different, but which yet the power of dreams had reconciled into harmony with the other. The scene was an Oriental one, and there also it was Easter Sunday, and very early in the morning. And at a vast distance were visible, as a stain upon the horizon, the domes21 and cupolas of a great city—an image or faint abstraction, caught perhaps in childhood from some picture of Jerusalem. And not a bow-shot from me, upon a stone and shaded by Judean palms, there sat a woman, and I looked, and it was—Ann! She fixed22 her eyes upon me earnestly, and I said to her at length: “So, then, I have found you at last.” I waited, but she answered me not a word. Her face was the same as when I saw it last, and yet again how different! Seventeen years ago, when the lamplight fell upon her face, as for the last time I kissed her lips (lips, Ann, that to me were not polluted), her eyes were streaming with tears: the tears were now wiped away; she seemed more beautiful than she was at that time, but in all other points the same, and not older. Her looks were tranquil15, but with unusual solemnity of expression, and I now gazed upon her with some awe23; but suddenly her countenance24 grew dim, and turning to the mountains I perceived vapours rolling between us. In a moment all had vanished, thick darkness came on, and in the twinkling of an eye I was far away from mountains, and by lamplight in Oxford25 Street, walking again with Ann—just as we walked seventeen years before, when we were both children.
The dream commenced with a music which now I often heard in dreams—a music of preparation and of awakening27 suspense28, a music like the opening of the Coronation Anthem29, and which, like that, gave the feeling of a vast march, of infinite cavalcades30 filing off, and the tread of innumerable armies. The morning was come of a mighty31 day—a day of crisis and of final hope for human nature, then suffering some mysterious eclipse, and labouring in some dread32 extremity33. Somewhere, I knew not where—somehow, I knew not how—by some beings, I knew not whom—a battle, a strife34, an agony, was conducting, was evolving like a great drama or piece of music, with which my sympathy was the more insupportable from my confusion as to its place, its cause, its nature, and its possible issue. I, as is usual in dreams (where of necessity we make ourselves central to every movement), had the power, and yet had not the power, to decide it. I had the power, if I could raise myself to will it, and yet again had not the power, for the weight of twenty Atlantics was upon me, or the oppression of inexpiable guilt35. “Deeper than ever plummet36 sounded,” I lay inactive. Then like a chorus the passion deepened. Some greater interest was at stake, some mightier37 cause than ever yet the sword had pleaded, or trumpet38 had proclaimed. Then came sudden alarms, hurryings to and fro, trepidations of innumerable fugitives—I knew not whether from the good cause or the bad, darkness and lights, tempest and human faces, and at last, with the sense that all was lost, female forms, and the features that were worth all the world to me, and but a moment allowed—and clasped hands, and heart-breaking partings, and then—everlasting farewells! And with a sigh, such as the caves of Hell sighed when the incestuous mother uttered the abhorred39 name of death, the sound was reverberated—everlasting farewells! And again and yet again reverberated—everlasting farewells!
And I awoke in struggles, and cried aloud—“I will sleep no more.”
But I am now called upon to wind up a narrative40 which has already extended to an unreasonable41 length. Within more spacious42 limits the materials which I have used might have been better unfolded, and much which I have not used might have been added with effect. Perhaps, however, enough has been given. It now remains43 that I should say something of the way in which this conflict of horrors was finally brought to a crisis. The reader is already aware (from a passage near the beginning of the introduction to the first part) that the Opium44-eater has, in some way or other, “unwound almost to its final links the accursed chain which bound him.” By what means? To have narrated45 this according to the original intention would have far exceeded the space which can now be allowed. It is fortunate, as such a cogent46 reason exists for abridging47 it, that I should, on a maturer view of the case, have been exceedingly unwilling48 to injure, by any such unaffecting details, the impression of the history itself, as an appeal to the prudence49 and the conscience of the yet unconfirmed opium-eater—or even (though a very inferior consideration) to injure its effect as a composition. The interest of the judicious50 reader will not attach itself chiefly to the subject of the fascinating spells, but to the fascinating power. Not the Opium-eater, but the opium, is the true hero of the tale, and the legitimate51 centre on which the interest revolves52. The object was to display the marvellous agency of opium, whether for pleasure or for pain: if that is done, the action of the piece has closed.
However, as some people, in spite of all laws to the contrary, will persist in asking what became of the Opium-eater, and in what state he now is, I answer for him thus: The reader is aware that opium had long ceased to found its empire on spells of pleasure; it was solely53 by the tortures connected with the attempt to abjure54 it that it kept its hold. Yet, as other tortures, no less it may be thought, attended the non-abjuration of such a tyrant55, a choice only of evils was left; and that might as well have been adopted which, however terrific in itself, held out a prospect56 of final restoration to happiness. This appears true; but good logic57 gave the author no strength to act upon it. However, a crisis arrived for the author’s life, and a crisis for other objects still dearer to him—and which will always be far dearer to him than his life, even now that it is again a happy one. I saw that I must die if I continued the opium. I determined58, therefore, if that should be required, to die in throwing it off. How much I was at that time taking I cannot say, for the opium which I used had been purchased for me by a friend, who afterwards refused to let me pay him; so that I could not ascertain59 even what quantity I had used within the year. I apprehend60, however, that I took it very irregularly, and that I varied61 from about fifty or sixty grains to 150 a day. My first task was to reduce it to forty, to thirty, and as fast as I could to twelve grains.
I triumphed. But think not, reader, that therefore my sufferings were ended, nor think of me as of one sitting in a dejected state. Think of me as one, even when four months had passed, still agitated62, writhing63, throbbing64, palpitating, shattered, and much perhaps in the situation of him who has been racked, as I collect the torments65 of that state from the affecting account of them left by a most innocent sufferer {20} of the times of James I. Meantime, I derived66 no benefit from any medicine, except one prescribed to me by an Edinburgh surgeon of great eminence67, viz., ammoniated tincture of valerian. Medical account, therefore, of my emancipation68 I have not much to give, and even that little, as managed by a man so ignorant of medicine as myself, would probably tend only to mislead. At all events, it would be misplaced in this situation. The moral of the narrative is addressed to the opium-eater, and therefore of necessity limited in its application. If he is taught to fear and tremble, enough has been effected. But he may say that the issue of my case is at least a proof that opium, after a seventeen years’ use and an eight years’ abuse of its powers, may still be renounced69, and that he may chance to bring to the task greater energy than I did, or that with a stronger constitution than mine he may obtain the same results with less. This may be true. I would not presume to measure the efforts of other men by my own. I heartily70 wish him more energy. I wish him the same success. Nevertheless, I had motives71 external to myself which he may unfortunately want, and these supplied me with conscientious72 supports which mere73 personal interests might fail to supply to a mind debilitated74 by opium.
Jeremy Taylor conjectures75 that it may be as painful to be born as to die. I think it probable; and during the whole period of diminishing the opium I had the torments of a man passing out of one mode of existence into another. The issue was not death, but a sort of physical regeneration; and I may add that ever since, at intervals76, I have had a restoration of more than youthful spirits, though under the pressure of difficulties which in a less happy state of mind I should have called misfortunes.
One memorial of my former condition still remains—my dreams are not yet perfectly77 calm; the dread swell78 and agitation79 of the storm have not wholly subsided80; the legions that encamped in them are drawing off, but not all departed; my sleep is still tumultuous, and, like the gates of Paradise to our first parents when looking back from afar, it is still (in the tremendous line of Milton)

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1
expounds
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论述,详细讲解( expound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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exuberant
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adj.充满活力的;(植物)繁茂的 | |
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riotous
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adj.骚乱的;狂欢的 | |
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prodigality
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n.浪费,挥霍 | |
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antagonist
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n.敌人,对抗者,对手 | |
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sterility
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n.不生育,不结果,贫瘠,消毒,无菌 | |
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antagonism
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n.对抗,敌对,对立 | |
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mutual
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adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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banish
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vt.放逐,驱逐;消除,排除 | |
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obstinately
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ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
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immediate
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adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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standing
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n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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exalted
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adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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alpine
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adj.高山的;n.高山植物 | |
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tranquil
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adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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tranquilly
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adv. 宁静地 | |
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reposing
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v.将(手臂等)靠在某人(某物)上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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verdant
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adj.翠绿的,青翠的,生疏的,不老练的 | |
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beheld
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v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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glades
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n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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domes
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n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 );像圆屋顶一样的东西;圆顶体育场 | |
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fixed
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adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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awe
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n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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countenance
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n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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Oxford
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n.牛津(英国城市) | |
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specimen
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n.样本,标本 | |
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awakening
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n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
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suspense
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n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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anthem
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n.圣歌,赞美诗,颂歌 | |
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cavalcades
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n.骑马队伍,车队( cavalcade的名词复数 ) | |
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mighty
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adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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dread
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vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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extremity
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n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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strife
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n.争吵,冲突,倾轧,竞争 | |
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guilt
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n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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plummet
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vi.(价格、水平等)骤然下跌;n.铅坠;重压物 | |
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mightier
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adj. 强有力的,强大的,巨大的 adv. 很,极其 | |
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trumpet
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n.喇叭,喇叭声;v.吹喇叭,吹嘘 | |
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abhorred
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v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 );(厌恶地)回避;拒绝;淘汰 | |
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narrative
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n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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unreasonable
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adj.不讲道理的,不合情理的,过度的 | |
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spacious
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adj.广阔的,宽敞的 | |
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remains
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n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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opium
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n.鸦片;adj.鸦片的 | |
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narrated
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v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cogent
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adj.强有力的,有说服力的 | |
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abridging
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节略( abridge的现在分词 ); 减少; 缩短; 剥夺(某人的)权利(或特权等) | |
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unwilling
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adj.不情愿的 | |
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prudence
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n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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judicious
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adj.明智的,明断的,能作出明智决定的 | |
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legitimate
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adj.合法的,合理的,合乎逻辑的;v.使合法 | |
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52
revolves
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v.(使)旋转( revolve的第三人称单数 );细想 | |
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solely
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adv.仅仅,唯一地 | |
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abjure
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v.发誓放弃 | |
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tyrant
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n.暴君,专制的君主,残暴的人 | |
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prospect
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n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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logic
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n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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determined
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adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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ascertain
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vt.发现,确定,查明,弄清 | |
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apprehend
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vt.理解,领悟,逮捕,拘捕,忧虑 | |
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61
varied
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adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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agitated
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adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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writhing
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(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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throbbing
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a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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torments
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(肉体或精神上的)折磨,痛苦( torment的名词复数 ); 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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derived
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vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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eminence
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n.卓越,显赫;高地,高处;名家 | |
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emancipation
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n.(从束缚、支配下)解放 | |
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renounced
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v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 );宣布放弃;宣布与…决裂;宣布摒弃 | |
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heartily
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adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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motives
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n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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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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mere
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adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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debilitated
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adj.疲惫不堪的,操劳过度的v.使(人或人的身体)非常虚弱( debilitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conjectures
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推测,猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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intervals
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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 | |
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perfectly
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adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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swell
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vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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agitation
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n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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subsided
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v.(土地)下陷(因在地下采矿)( subside的过去式和过去分词 );减弱;下降至较低或正常水平;一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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fiery
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adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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