Nicholas was one of those whose joy is incomplete unless it is shared by the friends of adverse2 and less fortunate days. Surrounded by every fascination3 of love and hope, his warm heart yearned4 towards plain John Browdie. He remembered their first meeting with a smile, and their second with a tear; saw poor Smike once again with the bundle on his shoulder trudging5 patiently by his side; and heard the honest Yorkshireman’s rough words of encouragement as he left them on their road to London.
Madeline and he sat down, very many times, jointly6 to produce a letter which should acquaint John at full length with his altered fortunes, and assure him of his friendship and gratitude7. It so happened, however, that the letter could never be written. Although they applied8 themselves to it with the best intentions in the world, it chanced that they always fell to talking about something else, and when Nicholas tried it by himself, he found it impossible to write one-half of what he wished to say, or to pen anything, indeed, which on reperusal did not appear cold and unsatisfactory compared with what he had in his mind. At last, after going on thus from day to day, and reproaching himself more and more, he resolved (the more readily as Madeline strongly urged him) to make a hasty trip into Yorkshire, and present himself before Mr. and Mrs. Browdie without a word of notice.
Thus it was that between seven and eight o’clock one evening, he and Kate found themselves in the Saracen’s Head booking-office, securing a place to Greta Bridge by the next morning’s coach. They had to go westward9, to procure10 some little necessaries for his journey, and, as it was a fine night, they agreed to walk there, and ride home.
The place they had just been in called up so many recollections, and Kate had so many anecdotes11 of Madeline, and Nicholas so many anecdotes of Frank, and each was so interested in what the other said, and both were so happy and confiding12, and had so much to talk about, that it was not until they had plunged13 for a full half-hour into that labyrinth14 of streets which lies between Seven Dials and Soho, without emerging into any large thoroughfare, that Nicholas began to think it just possible they might have lost their way.
The possibility was soon converted into a certainty; for, on looking about, and walking first to one end of the street and then to the other, he could find no landmark15 he could recognise, and was fain to turn back again in quest of some place at which he could seek a direction.
It was a by-street, and there was nobody about, or in the few wretched shops they passed. Making towards a faint gleam of light which streamed across the pavement from a cellar, Nicholas was about to descend16 two or three steps so as to render himself visible to those below and make his inquiry17, when he was arrested by a loud noise of scolding in a woman’s voice.
‘Oh come away!’ said Kate, ‘they are quarrelling. You’ll be hurt.’
‘Wait one instant, Kate. Let us hear if there’s anything the matter,’ returned her brother. ‘Hush!’
‘You nasty, idle, vicious, good-for-nothing brute,’ cried the woman, stamping on the ground, ‘why don’t you turn the mangle18?’
‘So I am, my life and soul!’ replied the man’s voice. ‘I am always turning. I am perpetually turning, like a demd old horse in a demnition mill. My life is one demd horrid19 grind!’
‘Then why don’t you go and list for a soldier?’ retorted the woman; ‘you’re welcome to.’
‘For a soldier!’ cried the man. ‘For a soldier! Would his joy and gladness see him in a coarse red coat with a little tail? Would she hear of his being slapped and beat by drummers demnebly? Would she have him fire off real guns, and have his hair cut, and his whiskers shaved, and his eyes turned right and left, and his trousers pipeclayed?’
‘Dear Nicholas,’ whispered Kate, ‘you don’t know who that is. It’s Mr Mantalini I am confident.’
‘Do make sure! Peep at him while I ask the way,’ said Nicholas. ‘Come down a step or two. Come!’
Drawing her after him, Nicholas crept down the steps and looked into a small boarded cellar. There, amidst clothes-baskets and clothes, stripped up to his shirt-sleeves, but wearing still an old patched pair of pantaloons of superlative make, a once brilliant waistcoat, and moustache and whiskers as of yore, but lacking their lustrous20 dye—there, endeavouring to mollify the wrath21 of a buxom22 female—not the lawful23 Madame Mantalini, but the proprietress of the concern—and grinding meanwhile as if for very life at the mangle, whose creaking noise, mingled24 with her shrill25 tones, appeared almost to deafen26 him—there was the graceful27, elegant, fascinating, and once dashing Mantalini.
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‘False! Oh dem! Now my soul, my gentle, captivating, bewitching, and most demnebly enslaving chick-a-biddy, be calm,’ said Mr. Mantalini, humbly29.
‘I won’t!’ screamed the woman. ‘I’ll tear your eyes out!’
‘You’re never to be trusted,’ screamed the woman; ‘you were out all day yesterday, and gallivanting somewhere I know. You know you were! Isn’t it enough that I paid two pound fourteen for you, and took you out of prison and let you live here like a gentleman, but must you go on like this: breaking my heart besides?’
‘I will never break its heart, I will be a good boy, and never do so any more; I will never be naughty again; I beg its little pardon,’ said Mr Mantalini, dropping the handle of the mangle, and folding his palms together; ‘it is all up with its handsome friend! He has gone to the demnition bow-wows. It will have pity? It will not scratch and claw, but pet and comfort? Oh, demmit!’
Very little affected31, to judge from her action, by this tender appeal, the lady was on the point of returning some angry reply, when Nicholas, raising his voice, asked his way to Piccadilly.
Mr. Mantalini turned round, caught sight of Kate, and, without another word, leapt at one bound into a bed which stood behind the door, and drew the counterpane over his face: kicking meanwhile convulsively.
‘Demmit,’ he cried, in a suffocating32 voice, ‘it’s little Nickleby! Shut the door, put out the candle, turn me up in the bedstead! Oh, dem, dem, dem!’
The woman looked, first at Nicholas, and then at Mr. Mantalini, as if uncertain on whom to visit this extraordinary behaviour; but Mr. Mantalini happening by ill-luck to thrust his nose from under the bedclothes, in his anxiety to ascertain33 whether the visitors were gone, she suddenly, and with a dexterity34 which could only have been acquired by long practice, flung a pretty heavy clothes-basket at him, with so good an aim that he kicked more violently than before, though without venturing to make any effort to disengage his head, which was quite extinguished. Thinking this a favourable35 opportunity for departing before any of the torrent36 of her wrath discharged itself upon him, Nicholas hurried Kate off, and left the unfortunate subject of this unexpected recognition to explain his conduct as he best could.
The next morning he began his journey. It was now cold, winter weather: forcibly recalling to his mind under what circumstances he had first travelled that road, and how many vicissitudes37 and changes he had since undergone. He was alone inside the greater part of the way, and sometimes, when he had fallen into a doze38, and, rousing himself, looked out of the window, and recognised some place which he well remembered as having passed, either on his journey down, or in the long walk back with poor Smike, he could hardly believe but that all which had since happened had been a dream, and that they were still plodding39 wearily on towards London, with the world before them.
To render these recollections the more vivid, it came on to snow as night set in; and, passing through Stamford and Grantham, and by the little alehouse where he had heard the story of the bold Baron40 of Grogzwig, everything looked as if he had seen it but yesterday, and not even a flake41 of the white crust on the roofs had melted away. Encouraging the train of ideas which flocked upon him, he could almost persuade himself that he sat again outside the coach, with Squeers and the boys; that he heard their voices in the air; and that he felt again, but with a mingled sensation of pain and pleasure now, that old sinking of the heart, and longing42 after home. While he was yet yielding himself up to these fancies he fell asleep, and, dreaming of Madeline, forgot them.
He slept at the inn at Greta Bridge on the night of his arrival, and, rising at a very early hour next morning, walked to the market town, and inquired for John Browdie’s house. John lived in the outskirts43, now he was a family man; and as everbody knew him, Nicholas had no difficulty in finding a boy who undertook to guide him to his residence.
Dismissing his guide at the gate, and in his impatience44 not even stopping to admire the thriving look of cottage or garden either, Nicholas made his way to the kitchen door, and knocked lustily with his stick.
‘Halloa!’ cried a voice inside. ‘Wa’et be the matther noo? Be the toon a-fire? Ding, but thou mak’st noise eneaf!’
With these words, John Browdie opened the door himself, and opening his eyes too to their utmost width, cried, as he clapped his hands together, and burst into a hearty45 roar:
‘Ecod, it be the godfeyther, it be the godfeyther! Tilly, here be Misther Nickleby. Gi’ us thee hond, mun. Coom awa’, coom awa’. In wi ‘un, doon beside the fire; tak’ a soop o’ thot. Dinnot say a word till thou’st droonk it a’! Oop wi’ it, mun. Ding! but I’m reeght glod to see thee.’
Adapting his action to his text, John dragged Nicholas into the kitchen, forced him down upon a huge settle beside a blazing fire, poured out from an enormous bottle about a quarter of a pint46 of spirits, thrust it into his hand, opened his mouth and threw back his head as a sign to him to drink it instantly, and stood with a broad grin of welcome overspreading his great red face like a jolly giant.
‘I might ha’ knowa’d,’ said John, ‘that nobody but thou would ha’ coom wi’ sike a knock as you. Thot was the wa’ thou knocked at schoolmeasther’s door, eh? Ha, ha, ha! But I say; wa’at be a’ this aboot schoolmeasther?’
‘You know it then?’ said Nicholas.
‘They were talking aboot it, doon toon, last neeght,’ replied John, ‘but neane on ‘em seemed quite to un’erstan’ it, loike.’
‘After various shiftings and delays,’ said Nicholas, ‘he has been sentenced to be transported for seven years, for being in the unlawful possession of a stolen will; and, after that, he has to suffer the consequence of a conspiracy47.’
‘Whew!’ cried John, ‘a conspiracy! Soom’at in the pooder-plot wa’? Eh? Soom’at in the Guy Faux line?’
‘No, no, no, a conspiracy connected with his school; I’ll explain it presently.’
‘Thot’s reeght!’ said John, ‘explain it arter breakfast, not noo, for thou be’est hoongry, and so am I; and Tilly she mun’ be at the bottom o’ a’ explanations, for she says thot’s the mutual48 confidence. Ha, ha, ha! Ecod, it’s a room start, is the mutual confidence!’
The entrance of Mrs. Browdie, with a smart cap on, and very many apologies for their having been detected in the act of breakfasting in the kitchen, stopped John in his discussion of this grave subject, and hastened the breakfast: which, being composed of vast mounds49 of toast, new-laid eggs, boiled ham, Yorkshire pie, and other cold substantials (of which heavy relays were constantly appearing from another kitchen under the direction of a very plump servant), was admirably adapted to the cold bleak50 morning, and received the utmost justice from all parties. At last, it came to a close; and the fire which had been lighted in the best parlour having by this time burnt up, they adjourned51 thither52, to hear what Nicholas had to tell.
Nicholas told them all, and never was there a story which awakened53 so many emotions in the breasts of two eager listeners. At one time, honest John groaned54 in sympathy, and at another roared with joy; at one time he vowed55 to go up to London on purpose to get a sight of the brothers Cheeryble; and, at another, swore that Tim Linkinwater should receive such a ham by coach, and carriage free, as mortal knife had never carved. When Nicholas began to describe Madeline, he sat with his mouth wide open, nudging Mrs Browdie from time to time, and exclaiming under his breath that she must be ‘raa’ther a tidy sart,’ and when he heard at last that his young friend had come down purposely to communicate his good fortune, and to convey to him all those assurances of friendship which he could not state with sufficient warmth in writing—that the only object of his journey was to share his happiness with them, and to tell them that when he was married they must come up to see him, and that Madeline insisted on it as well as he—John could hold out no longer, but after looking indignantly at his wife, and demanding to know what she was whimpering for, drew his coat sleeve over his eyes and blubbered outright56.
‘Tell’ee wa’at though,’ said John seriously, when a great deal had been said on both sides, ‘to return to schoolmeasther. If this news aboot ‘un has reached school today, the old ‘ooman wean’t have a whole boan in her boddy, nor Fanny neither.’
‘Oh, John!’ cried Mrs. Browdie.
‘Ah! and Oh, John agean,’ replied the Yorkshireman. ‘I dinnot know what they lads mightn’t do. When it first got aboot that schoolmeasther was in trouble, some feythers and moothers sent and took their young chaps awa’. If them as is left, should know waat’s coom tiv’un, there’ll be sike a revolution and rebel!—Ding! But I think they’ll a’ gang daft, and spill bluid like wather!’
In fact, John Browdie’s apprehensions57 were so strong that he determined58 to ride over to the school without delay, and invited Nicholas to accompany him, which, however, he declined, pleading that his presence might perhaps aggravate59 the bitterness of their adversity.
‘Thot’s true!’ said John; ‘I should ne’er ha’ thought o’ thot.’
‘I must return tomorrow,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I mean to dine with you today, and if Mrs. Browdie can give me a bed—’
‘Bed!’ cried John, ‘I wish thou couldst sleep in fower beds at once. Ecod, thou shouldst have ‘em a’. Bide60 till I coom back; on’y bide till I coom back, and ecod we’ll make a day of it.’
Giving his wife a hearty kiss, and Nicholas a no less hearty shake of the hand, John mounted his horse and rode off: leaving Mrs. Browdie to apply herself to hospitable61 preparations, and his young friend to stroll about the neighbourhood, and revisit spots which were rendered familiar to him by many a miserable62 association.
John cantered away, and arriving at Dotheboys Hall, tied his horse to a gate and made his way to the schoolroom door, which he found locked on the inside. A tremendous noise and riot arose from within, and, applying his eye to a convenient crevice63 in the wall, he did not remain long in ignorance of its meaning.
The news of Mr. Squeers’s downfall had reached Dotheboys; that was quite clear. To all appearance, it had very recently become known to the young gentlemen; for the rebellion had just broken out.
It was one of the brimstone-and-treacle64 mornings, and Mrs. Squeers had entered school according to custom with the large bowl and spoon, followed by Miss Squeers and the amiable65 Wackford: who, during his father’s absence, had taken upon him such minor66 branches of the executive as kicking the pupils with his nailed boots, pulling the hair of some of the smaller boys, pinching the others in aggravating67 places, and rendering68 himself, in various similar ways, a great comfort and happiness to his mother. Their entrance, whether by premeditation or a simultaneous impulse, was the signal of revolt. While one detachment rushed to the door and locked it, and another mounted on the desks and forms, the stoutest69 (and consequently the newest) boy seized the cane71, and confronting Mrs Squeers with a stern countenance72, snatched off her cap and beaver73 bonnet74, put them on his own head, armed himself with the wooden spoon, and bade her, on pain of death, go down upon her knees and take a dose directly. Before that estimable lady could recover herself, or offer the slightest retaliation75, she was forced into a kneeling posture76 by a crowd of shouting tormentors, and compelled to swallow a spoonful of the odious77 mixture, rendered more than usually savoury by the immersion78 in the bowl of Master Wackford’s head, whose ducking was intrusted to another rebel. The success of this first achievement prompted the malicious79 crowd, whose faces were clustered together in every variety of lank80 and half-starved ugliness, to further acts of outrage81. The leader was insisting upon Mrs. Squeers repeating her dose, Master Squeers was undergoing another dip in the treacle, and a violent assault had been commenced on Miss Squeers, when John Browdie, bursting open the door with a vigorous kick, rushed to the rescue. The shouts, screams, groans82, hoots83, and clapping of hands, suddenly ceased, and a dead silence ensued.
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‘Squeers is in prison, and we are going to run away!’ cried a score of shrill voices. ‘We won’t stop, we won’t stop!’
‘Weel then, dinnot stop,’ replied John; ‘who waants thee to stop? Roon awa’ loike men, but dinnot hurt the women.’
‘Hurrah?’ repeated John. ‘Weel, hurrah loike men too. Noo then, look out. Hip—hip,—hip—hurrah!’
‘Hurrah!’ cried the voices.
‘Hurrah! Agean;’ said John. ‘Looder still.’
The boys obeyed.
‘Anoother!’ said John. ‘Dinnot be afeared on it. Let’s have a good ‘un!’
‘Hurrah!’
‘Noo then,’ said John, ‘let’s have yan more to end wi’, and then coot off as quick as you loike. Tak’a good breath noo—Squeers be in jail—the school’s brokken oop—it’s a’ ower—past and gane—think o’ thot, and let it be a hearty ‘un! Hurrah!’
Such a cheer arose as the walls of Dotheboys Hall had never echoed before, and were destined87 never to respond to again. When the sound had died away, the school was empty; and of the busy noisy crowd which had peopled it but five minutes before, not one remained.
‘Very well, Mr. Browdie!’ said Miss Squeers, hot and flushed from the recent encounter, but vixenish to the last; ‘you’ve been and excited our boys to run away. Now see if we don’t pay you out for that, sir! If my pa is unfortunate and trod down by henemies, we’re not going to be basely crowed and conquered over by you and ‘Tilda.’
‘Noa!’ replied John bluntly, ‘thou bean’t. Tak’ thy oath o’ thot. Think betther o’ us, Fanny. I tell ‘ee both, that I’m glod the auld88 man has been caught out at last—dom’d glod—but ye’ll sooffer eneaf wi’out any crowin’ fra’ me, and I be not the mun to crow, nor be Tilly the lass, so I tell ‘ee flat. More than thot, I tell ‘ee noo, that if thou need’st friends to help thee awa’ from this place—dinnot turn up thy nose, Fanny, thou may’st—thou’lt foind Tilly and I wi’ a thout o’ old times aboot us, ready to lend thee a hond. And when I say thot, dinnot think I be asheamed of waa’t I’ve deane, for I say again, Hurrah! and dom the schoolmeasther. There!’
His parting words concluded, John Browdie strode heavily out, remounted his nag89, put him once more into a smart canter, and, carolling lustily forth90 some fragments of an old song, to which the horse’s hoofs91 rang a merry accompaniment, sped back to his pretty wife and to Nicholas.
For some days afterwards, the neighbouring country was overrun with boys, who, the report went, had been secretly furnished by Mr. and Mrs. Browdie, not only with a hearty meal of bread and meat, but with sundry92 shillings and sixpences to help them on their way. To this rumour93 John always returned a stout70 denial, which he accompanied, however, with a lurking94 grin, that rendered the suspicious doubtful, and fully95 confirmed all previous believers.
There were a few timid young children, who, miserable as they had been, and many as were the tears they had shed in the wretched school, still knew no other home, and had formed for it a sort of attachment96, which made them weep when the bolder spirits fled, and cling to it as a refuge. Of these, some were found crying under hedges and in such places, frightened at the solitude97. One had a dead bird in a little cage; he had wandered nearly twenty miles, and when his poor favourite died, lost courage, and lay down beside him. Another was discovered in a yard hard by the school, sleeping with a dog, who bit at those who came to remove him, and licked the sleeping child’s pale face.
They were taken back, and some other stragglers were recovered, but by degrees they were claimed, or lost again; and, in course of time, Dotheboys Hall and its last breaking-up began to be forgotten by the neighbours, or to be only spoken of as among the things that had been.
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1
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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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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13
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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mangle
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| vt.乱砍，撕裂，破坏，毁损，损坏，轧布 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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deafen
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| vt.震耳欲聋；使听不清楚 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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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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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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flake
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| v.使成薄片；雪片般落下；n.薄片 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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45
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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46
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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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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mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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54
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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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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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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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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crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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treacle
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| n.糖蜜 | |
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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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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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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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beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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immersion
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| n.沉浸；专心 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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hoots
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| 咄，啐 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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95
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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96
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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97
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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