One man slowly moving on towards Chalons was the only visible figure in the landscape. Cain might have looked as lonely and avoided. With an old sheepskin knapsack at his back, and a rough, unbarked stick cut out of some wood in his hand; miry, footsore, his shoes and gaiters trodden out, his hair and beard untrimmed; the cloak he carried over his shoulder, and the clothes he wore, sodden4 with wet; limping along in pain and difficulty; he looked as if the clouds were hurrying from him, as if the wail5 of the wind and the shuddering6 of the grass were directed against him, as if the low mysterious plashing of the water murmured at him, as if the fitful autumn night were disturbed by him.
He glanced here, and he glanced there, sullenly7 but shrinkingly; and sometimes stopped and turned about, and looked all round him. Then he limped on again, toiling8 and muttering.
‘To the devil with this plain that has no end! To the devil with these stones that cut like knives! To the devil with this dismal9 darkness, wrapping itself about one with a chill! I hate you!’
And he would have visited his hatred10 upon it all with the scowl11 he threw about him, if he could. He trudged12 a little further; and looking into the distance before him, stopped again.
‘I, hungry, thirsty, weary. You, imbeciles, where the lights are yonder, eating and drinking, and warming yourselves at fires! I wish I had the sacking of your town; I would repay you, my children!’
But the teeth he set at the town, and the hand he shook at the town, brought the town no nearer; and the man was yet hungrier, and thirstier, and wearier, when his feet were on its jagged pavement, and he stood looking about him.
There was the hotel with its gateway13, and its savoury smell of cooking; there was the cafe with its bright windows, and its rattling14 of dominoes; there was the dyer’s with its strips of red cloth on the doorposts; there was the silversmith’s with its earrings15, and its offerings for altars; there was the tobacco dealer’s with its lively group of soldier customers coming out pipe in mouth; there were the bad odours of the town, and the rain and the refuse in the kennels16, and the faint lamps slung17 across the road, and the huge Diligence, and its mountain of luggage, and its six grey horses with their tails tied up, getting under weigh at the coach office. But no small cabaret for a straitened traveller being within sight, he had to seek one round the dark corner, where the cabbage leaves lay thickest, trodden about the public cistern18 at which women had not yet left off drawing water. There, in the back street he found one, the Break of Day. The curtained windows clouded the Break of Day, but it seemed light and warm, and it announced in legible inscriptions19 with appropriate pictorial20 embellishment of billiard cue and ball, that at the Break of Day one could play billiards21; that there one could find meat, drink, and lodgings22, whether one came on horseback, or came on foot; and that it kept good wines, liqueurs, and brandy. The man turned the handle of the Break of Day door, and limped in.
He touched his discoloured slouched hat, as he came in at the door, to a few men who occupied the room. Two were playing dominoes at one of the little tables; three or four were seated round the stove, conversing23 as they smoked; the billiard-table in the centre was left alone for the time; the landlady24 of the Daybreak sat behind her little counter among her cloudy bottles of syrups25, baskets of cakes, and leaden drainage for glasses, working at her needle.
Making his way to an empty little table in a corner of the room behind the stove, he put down his knapsack and his cloak upon the ground. As he raised his head from stooping to do so, he found the landlady beside him.
‘Good. One can dine—sup—what you please to call it?’
‘Ah, perfectly!’ cried the landlady as before.
‘Dispatch then, madame, if you please. Something to eat, as quickly as you can; and some wine at once. I am exhausted28.’
‘It is very bad weather, monsieur,’ said the landlady.
‘Cursed weather.’
‘And a very long road.’
‘A cursed road.’
His hoarse29 voice failed him, and he rested his head upon his hands until a bottle of wine was brought from the counter. Having filled and emptied his little tumbler twice, and having broken off an end from the great loaf that was set before him with his cloth and napkin, soup-plate, salt, pepper, and oil, he rested his back against the corner of the wall, made a couch of the bench on which he sat, and began to chew crust, until such time as his repast should be ready.
There had been that momentary30 interruption of the talk about the stove, and that temporary inattention to and distraction31 from one another, which is usually inseparable in such a company from the arrival of a stranger. It had passed over by this time; and the men had done glancing at him, and were talking again.
‘That’s the true reason,’ said one of them, bringing a story he had been telling, to a close, ‘that’s the true reason why they said that the devil was let loose.’ The speaker was the tall Swiss belonging to the church, and he brought something of the authority of the church into the discussion—especially as the devil was in question.
The landlady having given her directions for the new guest’s entertainment to her husband, who acted as cook to the Break of Day, had resumed her needlework behind her counter. She was a smart, neat, bright little woman, with a good deal of cap and a good deal of stocking, and she struck into the conversation with several laughing nods of her head, but without looking up from her work.
‘Ah Heaven, then,’ said she. ‘When the boat came up from Lyons, and brought the news that the devil was actually let loose at Marseilles, some fly-catchers swallowed it. But I? No, not I.’
‘Madame, you are always right,’ returned the tall Swiss. ‘Doubtless you were enraged32 against that man, madame?’
‘Ay, yes, then!’ cried the landlady, raising her eyes from her work, opening them very wide, and tossing her head on one side. ‘Naturally, yes.’
‘He was a bad subject.’
‘He was a wicked wretch,’ said the landlady, ‘and well merited what he had the good fortune to escape. So much the worse.’
‘Stay, madame! Let us see,’ returned the Swiss, argumentatively turning his cigar between his lips. ‘It may have been his unfortunate destiny. He may have been the child of circumstances. It is always possible that he had, and has, good in him if one did but know how to find it out. Philosophical33 philanthropy teaches—’
The rest of the little knot about the stove murmured an objection to the introduction of that threatening expression. Even the two players at dominoes glanced up from their game, as if to protest against philosophical philanthropy being brought by name into the Break of Day.
‘Hold there, you and your philanthropy,’ cried the smiling landlady, nodding her head more than ever. ‘Listen then. I am a woman, I. I know nothing of philosophical philanthropy. But I know what I have seen, and what I have looked in the face in this world here, where I find myself. And I tell you this, my friend, that there are people (men and women both, unfortunately) who have no good in them—none. That there are people whom it is necessary to detest34 without compromise. That there are people who must be dealt with as enemies of the human race. That there are people who have no human heart, and who must be crushed like savage35 beasts and cleared out of the way. They are but few, I hope; but I have seen (in this world here where I find myself, and even at the little Break of Day) that there are such people. And I do not doubt that this man—whatever they call him, I forget his name—is one of them.’
The landlady’s lively speech was received with greater favour at the Break of Day, than it would have elicited36 from certain amiable37 whitewashers of the class she so unreasonably38 objected to, nearer Great Britain.
‘My faith! If your philosophical philanthropy,’ said the landlady, putting down her work, and rising to take the stranger’s soup from her husband, who appeared with it at a side door, ‘puts anybody at the mercy of such people by holding terms with them at all, in words or deeds, or both, take it away from the Break of Day, for it isn’t worth a sou.’
As she placed the soup before the guest, who changed his attitude to a sitting one, he looked her full in the face, and his moustache went up under his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache.
‘Well!’ said the previous speaker, ‘let us come back to our subject. Leaving all that aside, gentlemen, it was because the man was acquitted39 on his trial that people said at Marseilles that the devil was let loose. That was how the phrase began to circulate, and what it meant; nothing more.’
‘How do they call him?’ said the landlady. ‘Biraud, is it not?’
‘Rigaud, madame,’ returned the tall Swiss.
‘Rigaud! To be sure.’
The traveller’s soup was succeeded by a dish of meat, and that by a dish of vegetables. He ate all that was placed before him, emptied his bottle of wine, called for a glass of rum, and smoked his cigarette with his cup of coffee. As he became refreshed, he became overbearing; and patronised the company at the Daybreak in certain small talk at which he assisted, as if his condition were far above his appearance.
The company might have had other engagements, or they might have felt their inferiority, but in any case they dispersed40 by degrees, and not being replaced by other company, left their new patron in possession of the Break of Day. The landlord was clinking about in his kitchen; the landlady was quiet at her work; and the refreshed traveller sat smoking by the stove, warming his ragged feet.
‘Pardon me, madame—that Biraud.’
‘Rigaud, monsieur.’
‘Rigaud. Pardon me again—has contracted your displeasure, how?’
The landlady, who had been at one moment thinking within herself that this was a handsome man, at another moment that this was an ill-looking man, observed the nose coming down and the moustache going up, and strongly inclined to the latter decision. Rigaud was a criminal, she said, who had killed his wife.
‘Ay, ay? Death of my life, that’s a criminal indeed. But how do you know it?’
‘All the world knows it.’
‘Hah! And yet he escaped justice?’
‘Monsieur, the law could not prove it against him to its satisfaction. So the law says. Nevertheless, all the world knows he did it. The people knew it so well, that they tried to tear him to pieces.’
‘Being all in perfect accord with their own wives?’ said the guest. ‘Haha!’
The landlady of the Break of Day looked at him again, and felt almost confirmed in her last decision. He had a fine hand, though, and he turned it with a great show. She began once more to think that he was not ill-looking after all.
‘Did you mention, madame—or was it mentioned among the gentlemen—what became of him?’
The landlady shook her head; it being the first conversational41 stage at which her vivacious42 earnestness had ceased to nod it, keeping time to what she said. It had been mentioned at the Daybreak, she remarked, on the authority of the journals, that he had been kept in prison for his own safety. However that might be, he had escaped his deserts; so much the worse.
The guest sat looking at her as he smoked out his final cigarette, and as she sat with her head bent43 over her work, with an expression that might have resolved her doubts, and brought her to a lasting44 conclusion on the subject of his good or bad looks if she had seen it. When she did look up, the expression was not there. The hand was smoothing his shaggy moustache.
‘May one ask to be shown to bed, madame?’
Very willingly, monsieur. Hola, my husband! My husband would conduct him up-stairs. There was one traveller there, asleep, who had gone to bed very early indeed, being overpowered by fatigue45; but it was a large chamber46 with two beds in it, and space enough for twenty. This the landlady of the Break of Day chirpingly explained, calling between whiles, ‘Hola, my husband!’ out at the side door.
My husband answered at length, ‘It is I, my wife!’ and presenting himself in his cook’s cap, lighted the traveller up a steep and narrow staircase; the traveller carrying his own cloak and knapsack, and bidding the landlady good night with a complimentary47 reference to the pleasure of seeing her again to-morrow. It was a large room, with a rough splintery floor, unplastered rafters overhead, and two bedsteads on opposite sides. Here ‘my husband’ put down the candle he carried, and with a sidelong look at his guest stooping over his knapsack, gruffly gave him the instruction, ‘The bed to the right!’ and left him to his repose48. The landlord, whether he was a good or a bad physiognomist, had fully49 made up his mind that the guest was an ill-looking fellow.
The guest looked contemptuously at the clean coarse bedding prepared for him, and, sitting down on the rush chair at the bedside, drew his money out of his pocket, and told it over in his hand. ‘One must eat,’ he muttered to himself, ‘but by Heaven I must eat at the cost of some other man to-morrow!’
As he sat pondering, and mechanically weighing his money in his palm, the deep breathing of the traveller in the other bed fell so regularly upon his hearing that it attracted his eyes in that direction. The man was covered up warm, and had drawn50 the white curtain at his head, so that he could be only heard, not seen. But the deep regular breathing, still going on while the other was taking off his worn shoes and gaiters, and still continuing when he had laid aside his coat and cravat51, became at length a strong provocative52 to curiosity, and incentive53 to get a glimpse of the sleeper’s face.
The waking traveller, therefore, stole a little nearer, and yet a little nearer, and a little nearer to the sleeping traveller’s bed, until he stood close beside it. Even then he could not see his face, for he had drawn the sheet over it. The regular breathing still continuing, he put his smooth white hand (such a treacherous54 hand it looked, as it went creeping from him!) to the sheet, and gently lifted it away.
‘Death of my soul!’ he whispered, falling back, ‘here’s Cavalletto!’
The little Italian, previously55 influenced in his sleep, perhaps, by the stealthy presence at his bedside, stopped in his regular breathing, and with a long deep respiration56 opened his eyes. At first they were not awake, though open. He lay for some seconds looking placidly57 at his old prison companion, and then, all at once, with a cry of surprise and alarm, sprang out of bed.
‘Hush! What’s the matter? Keep quiet! It’s I. You know me?’ cried the other, in a suppressed voice.
But John Baptist, widely staring, muttering a number of invocations and ejaculations, tremblingly backing into a corner, slipping on his trousers, and tying his coat by the two sleeves round his neck, manifested an unmistakable desire to escape by the door rather than renew the acquaintance. Seeing this, his old prison comrade fell back upon the door, and set his shoulders against it.
‘Cavalletto! Wake, boy! Rub your eyes and look at me. Not the name you used to call me—don’t use that—Lagnier, say Lagnier!’
John Baptist, staring at him with eyes opened to their utmost width, made a number of those national, backhanded shakes of the right forefinger58 in the air, as if he were resolved on negativing beforehand everything that the other could possibly advance during the whole term of his life.
‘Cavalletto! Give me your hand. You know Lagnier, the gentleman. Touch the hand of a gentleman!’
Submitting himself to the old tone of condescending59 authority, John Baptist, not at all steady on his legs as yet, advanced and put his hand in his patron’s. Monsieur Lagnier laughed; and having given it a squeeze, tossed it up and let it go.
‘Not shaved? No. See here!’ cried Lagnier, giving his head a twirl; ‘as tight on as your own.’
John Baptist, with a slight shiver, looked all round the room as if to recall where he was. His patron took that opportunity of turning the key in the door, and then sat down upon his bed.
‘Look!’ he said, holding up his shoes and gaiters. ‘That’s a poor trim for a gentleman, you’ll say. No matter, you shall see how soon I’ll mend it. Come and sit down. Take your old place!’
John Baptist, looking anything but reassured61, sat down on the floor at the bedside, keeping his eyes upon his patron all the time.
‘That’s well!’ cried Lagnier. ‘Now we might be in the old infernal hole again, hey? How long have you been out?’
‘Two days after you, my master.’
‘How do you come here?’
‘I was cautioned not to stay there, and so I left the town at once, and since then I have changed about. I have been doing odds62 and ends at Avignon, at Pont Esprit, at Lyons; upon the Rhone, upon the Saone.’ As he spoke63, he rapidly mapped the places out with his sunburnt hand upon the floor.
‘And where are you going?’
‘Going, my master?’
‘Ay!’
John Baptist seemed to desire to evade64 the question without knowing how. ‘By Bacchus!’ he said at last, as if he were forced to the admission, ‘I have sometimes had a thought of going to Paris, and perhaps to England.’
‘Cavalletto. This is in confidence. I also am going to Paris and perhaps to England. We’ll go together.’
The little man nodded his head, and showed his teeth; and yet seemed not quite convinced that it was a surpassingly desirable arrangement.
‘We’ll go together,’ repeated Lagnier. ‘You shall see how soon I will force myself to be recognised as a gentleman, and you shall profit by it. It is agreed? Are we one?’
‘Oh, surely, surely!’ said the little man.
‘Then you shall hear before I sleep—and in six words, for I want sleep—how I appear before you, I, Lagnier. Remember that. Not the other.’
‘Altro, altro! Not Ri——’ Before John Baptist could finish the name, his comrade had got his hand under his chin and fiercely shut up his mouth.
‘Death! what are you doing? Do you want me to be trampled65 upon and stoned? Do you want to be trampled upon and stoned? You would be. You don’t imagine that they would set upon me, and let my prison chum go? Don’t think it!’
There was an expression in his face as he released his grip of his friend’s jaw66, from which his friend inferred that if the course of events really came to any stoning and trampling67, Monsieur Lagnier would so distinguish him with his notice as to ensure his having his full share of it. He remembered what a cosmopolitan68 gentleman Monsieur Lagnier was, and how few weak distinctions he made.
‘I am a man,’ said Monsieur Lagnier, ‘whom society has deeply wronged since you last saw me. You know that I am sensitive and brave, and that it is my character to govern. How has society respected those qualities in me? I have been shrieked69 at through the streets. I have been guarded through the streets against men, and especially women, running at me armed with any weapons they could lay their hands on. I have lain in prison for security, with the place of my confinement70 kept a secret, lest I should be torn out of it and felled by a hundred blows. I have been carted out of Marseilles in the dead of night, and carried leagues away from it packed in straw. It has not been safe for me to go near my house; and, with a beggar’s pittance71 in my pocket, I have walked through vile72 mud and weather ever since, until my feet are crippled—look at them! Such are the humiliations that society has inflicted73 upon me, possessing the qualities I have mentioned, and which you know me to possess. But society shall pay for it.’
All this he said in his companion’s ear, and with his hand before his lips.
‘Even here,’ he went on in the same way, ‘even in this mean drinking-shop, society pursues me. Madame defames me, and her guests defame me. I, too, a gentleman with manners and accomplishments74 to strike them dead! But the wrongs society has heaped upon me are treasured in this breast.’
To all of which John Baptist, listening attentively75 to the suppressed hoarse voice, said from time to time, ‘Surely, surely!’ tossing his head and shutting his eyes, as if there were the clearest case against society that perfect candour could make out.
‘Put my shoes there,’ continued Lagnier. ‘Hang my cloak to dry there by the door. Take my hat.’ He obeyed each instruction, as it was given. ‘And this is the bed to which society consigns76 me, is it? Hah. Very well!’
As he stretched out his length upon it, with a ragged handkerchief bound round his wicked head, and only his wicked head showing above the bedclothes, John Baptist was rather strongly reminded of what had so very nearly happened to prevent the moustache from any more going up as it did, and the nose from any more coming down as it did.
‘Shaken out of destiny’s dice-box again into your company, eh? By Heaven! So much the better for you. You’ll profit by it. I shall need a long rest. Let me sleep in the morning.’
John Baptist replied that he should sleep as long as he would, and wishing him a happy night, put out the candle. One might have supposed that the next proceeding77 of the Italian would have been to undress; but he did exactly the reverse, and dressed himself from head to foot, saving his shoes. When he had so done, he lay down upon his bed with some of its coverings over him, and his coat still tied round his neck, to get through the night.
When he started up, the Godfather Break of Day was peeping at its namesake. He rose, took his shoes in his hand, turned the key in the door with great caution, and crept downstairs. Nothing was astir there but the smell of coffee, wine, tobacco, and syrups; and madame’s little counter looked ghastly enough. But he had paid madame his little note at it over night, and wanted to see nobody—wanted nothing but to get on his shoes and his knapsack, open the door, and run away.
0131m
Original
He prospered78 in his object. No movement or voice was heard when he opened the door; no wicked head tied up in a ragged handkerchief looked out of the upper window. When the sun had raised his full disc above the flat line of the horizon, and was striking fire out of the long muddy vista79 of paved road with its weary avenue of little trees, a black speck80 moved along the road and splashed among the flaming pools of rain-water, which black speck was John Baptist Cavalletto running away from his patron.
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收听单词发音
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1
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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2
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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3
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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4
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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5
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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6
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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7
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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8
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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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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10
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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15
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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syrups
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| n.糖浆，糖汁( syrup的名词复数 )；糖浆类药品 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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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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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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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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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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39
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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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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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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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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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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consigns
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的第三人称单数 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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