I
One May morning in 1922 (meaning nearly winter here in the Warmbad district) a young engineering student named Kurt Mondaugen, late of the Technical University in Munich, arrived at a white outpost near the village of Kalkfontein South. More voluptuous2 than fat, with fair hair, long eyelashes and a shy smile that enchanted5 older women, Mondaugen sat in an aged6 Cape7 cart idly picking his nose, waiting for the sun to come up and contemplating the pontok or grass hut of Willem van Wijk, a minor8 extremity9 of the Administration in Windhoek. His horse drowsed and collected dew while Mondaugen squirmed on the seat, trying to control anger, confusion, petulance11; and below the farthest verge12 of the Kalahari, that vast death, the tardy13 sun mocked him.
Originally a native of Leipzig, Mondaugen exhibited at least two aberrations peculiar14 to the region. One (minor), he had the Saxon habit of attaching diminutive15 endings to nouns, animate16 or inanimate, at apparent random17. Two (major), he shared with his fellow-citizen Karl Baedeker a basic distrust of the South, however relative a region that might be. Imagine then the irony18 with which he viewed his present condition, and the horrid19 perversity20 he fancied had driven him first to Munich for advanced study, then (as if, like melancholy21, this southsickness were progressive and incurable) finally to leave depression-time in Munich, journey into this other hemisphere, and enter mirror-time in the South-West Protectorate.
Mondaugen was here as part of a program having to do with atmospheric22 radio disturbances24: sferics for short. During the Great War one H. Barkhausen, listening in on telephone messages among the Allied25 forces, heard a series of falling tones, much like a slide whistle descending26 in pitch. Each of these "whistlers" (as Barkhausen named them) lasted only about a second and seemed to be in the low or audio-frequency range. As it turned out, the whistler was only the first of a family of sferics whose taxonomy was to include clicks, hooks, risers, nose-whistlers and one like a warbling of birds called the dawn chorus. No one knew exactly what caused any of them. Some said sunspots, others lightning bursts; but everyone agreed that in there someplace was the earth's magnetic field, so a plan evolved to keep a record of sferics received at different latitudes28. Mondaugen, near the bottom of the list, drew South-West Africa, and was ordered to set up his equipment as close to 28 degrees S. as he conveniently could.
It had disturbed him at first, having to live in what had once been a German colony. Like most violent young men - and not a few stuffy29 old ones - he found the idea of defeat hateful. But he soon discovered that many Germans who'd been landowners before the war had simply continued on, allowed by the government of the Cape to keep their citizenship30, property and native workers. A kind of expatriate social life bad indeed developed at the farm of one Foppl, in the northern part of the district, between the Karas range and the marches of the Kalahari, and within a day's journey of Mondaugen's recovery station. Boisterous31 were the parties, lively the music, jolly the girls that had filled Foppl's baroque plantation32 house nearly every night since Mondaugen's arrival, in a seemingly eternal Fasching. But now what well-being33 he'd found in this godforsaken region seemed about to evaporate.
The sun rose and van Wijk appeared in his doorway34 like a two-dimensional figure jerked suddenly onstage by hidden pulleys. A vulture lit in front of the but and stared at van Wijk. Mondaugen himself acquired motion; jumped down off the cart, moved toward the but.
Van Wijk waved a bottle of homemade beer at him. "I know," he shouted across the parched35 earth between them, "I know. I've been up all night with it. You think I don't have more to worry about?"
"My antennas36," Mondaugen cried.
"Your antennas, my Warmbad district," the Boer said. He was half drunk. "Do you know what happened yesterday? Get worried. Abraham Morris has crossed the Orange."
Which, as had been intended, shook Mondaugen. He managed, "Only Morris?"
"Six men, some women and children rifles, stock. It isn't that. Morris isn't a man. He's a Messiah."
Mondaugen's annoyance37 had given way all at once to fear; fear began to bud from his intestinal38 walls.
"They threatened to rip down your antennas, didn't they."
But he'd done nothing ....
Van Wijk snorted. "You contributed. You told me you'd listen for disturbances and record certain data. You didn't say you'd blast them out all over my bush country and become a disturbance23 yourself. The Bondelswaartz believe in ghosts, the sferics frighten them. Frightened, they're dangerous."
Mondaugen admitted he'd been using an audio amplifier and loudspeaker. "I fall asleep," he explained. "Different sorts come in at different times of day. I'm a one-man research team, I have to sleep sometime. The little loudspeaker is set up at the head of my cot, I've conditioned myself to awake instantaneously, so no more than the first few of any group are lost . . ."
"When you return to your station," van Wijk cut in, "those antennas will be down, and your equipment smashed. A moment -" as the young man turned, redfaced and snuffling - "before you dash off screaming revenge, one word. Just one. An unpleasant word: rebellion."
"Every time a Bondel talks back to you people, it's rebellion." Mondaugen looked as if he might cry.
"Abraham Morris has joined forces by now with Jacobus Christian39 and Tim Beukes. They're trekking41 north. You saw for yourself that they'd heard about it already in your own neighborhood. It wouldn't surprise me if every Bondelswaartz in the district were under arms within the week. Not to mention a number of homicidally-disposed Veldschoendragers and Witboois from up north. Witboois are always looking for a fight." Inside the but a telephone began to ring. Van Wijk saw the look on Mondaugen's face. "Yes," he said. "Wait here, it may be interesting news." He vanished inside. From a nearby but came the sound of a Bondelswaartz pennywhistle, insubstantial as wind monotonous43 as sunlight in a dry season. Mondaugen listened as if it had something to say to him. It didn't.
Van Wijk appeared in the doorway. "Now listen to me, younker, if I were you I would go to Warmbad and stay there until this blows over."
"What's happened."
"That was the location superintendent44 at Guruchas. Apparently45 they caught up with Morris, and a Sergeant46 van Niekerk tried an hour ago to get him to come in to Warmbad peacefully. Morris refused, van Niekerk placed his hand an Morris's shoulder in token of arrest. According to the Bondel version - which you may be sure has already spread to the Portuguese47 frontier - the Sergeant then proclaimed 'Die lood van die Goevernement sal nou op julle smelt48.' The lead of the Government shall now melt upon you. Poetic49, Wouldn't you say?
"The Bondels with Morris took it as a declaration of war. So the balloon's gone up, Mondaugen. Go to Warmbad, better yet keep going and get safely across the Orange. That's my best advice."
"No, no," Mondaugen said, "I am something of a coward, you know that. But tell me your second-best advice, because you see there are my antennas."
"You worry about your antennas as if they sprouted50 from your forehead. Go ahead. Return - if you have the courage, which I certainly don't - return up-country and tell them at Foppl's what you've heard here. Hole up in that fortress51 of his. If you want my own opinion it will be a blood bath. You weren't here in 1904. But ask Foppl. He remembers. Tell him the days of yon Trotha are back again."
"You could have prevented this," Mondaugen cried. "Isn't that what you're all here for, to keep them happy? To remove any need for rebellion?"
Van Wijk exploded in a bitter fit of laughing. "You seem," he finally drawled, "to be under certain delusions52 about the civil service. History, the proverb says, is made at night. The European civil servant normally sleeps at night. What waits in his IN basket to confront him at nine in the morning is history. He doesn't fight it, he tries to coexist with it.
"Die lood van die Goevernement indeed. We are, perhaps, the lead weights of a fantastic clock, necessary to keep it in motion, to keep an ordered sense of history and time prevailing53 against chaos54. Very well! Let a few of them melt. Let the clock tell false time for a while. But the weights will be reforged, and rehung, and if there doesn't happen to be one there in the shape or name of Willem van Wijk to make it run right again, so much the worse for me."
To this curious soliloquy Kurt Mondaugen flipped55 a desperate farewell salute56, climbed into his Cape cart, and headed back up-country. The trip was uneventful. Once in a great while an oxcart would materialize out of the scrubland; or a jet-black kite would come to hang in the sky, studying something small and quick among the cactus57 and thorn trees. The sun was hot. Mondaugen leaked at every orifice; fell asleep, was jolted58 awake; once dreamed gunshots and human screams. He arrived at the recovery station in the afternoon, found the Bondel village nearby quiet and his equipment undisturbed. Working as quickly as he could, he dismantled59 the antennas and packed them and the receiving equipment in the Cape cart. Half a dozen Bondelswaartz stood around watching. By the time he was ready to leave the sun was nearly down. From time to time, at the edges of his field of vision, Mondaugen would see small scurrying60 bands of Bondels, seeming almost to merge61 with the twilight62, moving in and out of the small settlement in every direction. Somewhere to the west a dogfight had started. As he tightened63 the last half-hitch a pennywhistle began to play nearby, and it took him only a moment to realize that the player was imitating sferics. Bondels who were watching started to giggle64. The laughter swelled65, until it sounded like a jungleful of small exotic animals, fleeing some basic danger. But Mondaugen knew well enough who was fleeing what. The sun set, he climbed on the cart. No one said anything in farewell: all he heard at his back were the whistle and the laughter.
It was several more hours to Foppl's. The only incident on route was a flurry of gunfire - real, this time - off to his left, behind a hill. At last, quite early in the morning, the lights of Foppl's burst on him suddenly out of the scrubland's absolute blackness. He crossed a small ravine on a plank66 bridge and drew up before the door.
As usual a party was in progress, a hundred windows blazed, the gargoyles, arabesques67, pargeting and fretwork of Foppl's "villa1" vibrated in the African night. A cluster of girls and Foppl himself stood at the door while the farm's Bondels offloaded the Cape cart and Mondaugen reported the situation.
The news alarmed certain of Foppl's neighbors who owned farms and stock nearby. "But it would be best," Foppl announced to the party, "if we all stayed here. If there's to be burning and destruction, it will happen whether or not you're there to defend your own. If we disperse69 our strength they can destroy us as well as our farms. This house is the best fortress in the region: strong, easily defended. House and grounds are protected on all sides by deep ravines. There is more than enough food, good wine, music and -" winking70 lewdly71 - "beautiful women.
"To hell with them out there. Let them have their war. In here we shall hold Fasching. Bolt the doors, seal the windows, tear down the plank bridges and distribute arms. Tonight we enter a state of siege."
II
Thus began Foppl's Siege Party. Mondaugen left after two and a half months. In that time no one had ventured outside, or received any news from the rest of the district. By the time Mondaugen departed, a dozen bottles of wine still lay cobwebbed in the cellar, a dozen cattle remained to be slaughtered72. The vegetable garden behind the house was still abundant with tomatoes, yams, chard, herbs. So affluent73 was the farmer Foppl.
The day after Mondaugen's arrival, the house and grounds were sealed off from the outside world. Up went an inner palisade of strong logs, pointed74 at the top, and down went the bridges. A watch list was made up, a General Staff appointed, all in the spirit of a new party game.
A curious crew were thus thrown together. Many, of course, were German: rich neighbors, visitors from Windhoek and Swakopmund. But there were also Dutch and English from the union; Italians, Austrians, Belgians from the diamond fields near the coast; French, Russian, Spanish and one Pole from various corners of the earth; all creating the appearance of a tiny European Conclave75 or League of Nations, assembled here while political chaos howled outside.
Early on the morning after his arrival, Mondaugen was up on the roof, stringing his antennas along the iron fanciwork that topped the villa's highest gable. He had an uninspiring view of ravines, grass dry pans, dust, scrub; all repeating, undulating east to the eventual76 wastes of the Kalahari; north to a distant yellow exhalation that rose from far under the horizon and seemed to hang eternally over the Tropic of Capricorn.
Back here Mondaugen could also see down into a kind of inner courtyard. Sunlight, filtered through a great sandstorm far away in the desert, bounced off an open bay window and down, too bright, as if amplified77, into the courtyard to illuminate78 a patch or pool of deep red. Twin tendrils of it extended to a nearby doorway. Mondaugen shivered and stared. The reflected sunlight vanished up a wall and into the sky. He looked up, saw the window opposite complete its swing open and a woman of indeterminate age in a negligee of peacock blues79 and greens squint80 into the sun. Her left hand rose to her left eye, fumbled81 there as if positioning a monocle. Mondaugen crouched82 behind curlicues of wrought83 iron, astonished not so much at anything in her appearance as at his own latent desire to see and not be seen. He waited for the sun or her chance movement to show him nipples, navel, pubic hair.
But she had seen him. "Come out, come out, gargoyle," she called playfully. Mondaugen lurched vertical84, lost his balance, nearly fell off the roof, grabbed hold of a lightning rod, slid to a 45 degree angle and began to laugh.
"My little antennas," he gurgled.
"Come to the roof garden," she invited, and disappeared then back into a white room turned to blinding enigma85 by a sun finally free of its Kalahari.
He completed his job of setting up the antennas, then made his way round cupolas and chimney pots, up and down slopes and slates86 till at length he vaulted87 clumsily over a low wall and it seemed some tropic as well, for the life there he found too lavish88, spectral89, probably carnivorous; not in good taste.
"How pretty he is." The woman, dressed now in jodhpurs and an army shirt, leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette. All at once, as he'd been half-expecting, cries of pain lanced a morning quiet that had known only visiting kites and wind, and the dry rustling90 of the exterior91 veld.
Mondaugen knew, without having to run to see, that the cries had come from the courtyard where he'd seen the crimson92 stain. Neither he nor the woman moved. It somehow having become part of a mutual93 constraint94 that neither of them show curiosity. Voila: conspiracy95 already, without a dozen words having passed between them.
Her name proved to be Vera Meroving, her companion a Lieutenant96 Weissmann, her city Munich.
"Perhaps we even met one Fasching," she said, "masked and strangers."
Mondaugen doubted, but had they met: were there any least basis for that "conspiracy" a moment ago: it would surely have been somewhere like Munich, a city dying of abandon, venality97, a mark swollen98 with fiscal99 cancer.
As the distance between them gradually diminished Mondaugen saw that her left eye was artificial: she, noticing his curiosity, obligingly removed the eye and held it out to him in the hollow of her hand. A bubble blown translucent100, its "white" would show up when in the socket101 as a half-lit sea green. A fine network of nearly microscopic102 fractures covered its surface. Inside were the delicately-wrought wheels, springs, ratchets of a watch, wound by a gold key which Fraulein Meroving wore on a slender chain round her neck. Darker green and flecks103 of gold had been fused into twelve vaguely zodiacal shapes, placed annular104 on the surface of the bubble to represent the iris105 and also the face of the watch.
"What was it like outside?"
He told her the little he knew. Her hands had begun to tremble: he noticed it when she went to replace the eye. He could scarcely hear her when she said:
"It could be 1904 again."
Curious: van Wijk had said that. What was 1904 to these people? He was about to ask her when Lieutenant Weissmann appeared in mufti from behind an unwholesomelooking palm and pulled her by the hand, back into the depths of the house.
Two things made Foppl's a fortunate place to be carrying on sferic research. First, the farmer had given Mondaugen a room to himself in a turret106 at one corner of the house; a little enclave of scientific endeavor, buffered108 by a number of empty storage roams and with access to the roof through a stained-glass window portraying109 an early Christian martyr110 being devoured112 by wild beasts.
Second, modest though their demands were, there was an auxiliary113 source of electric power for his receivers in the small generator114 Foppl kept to light the giant chandelier in the dining hall. Rather than rely, as he had been doing, on a number of bulky batteries, Mondaugen was sure it wouldn't be too difficult simply to tap off and devise circuitry to modify what power he needed, either to operate the equipment directly or to recharge the batteries. Accordingly, that afternoon, after arranging his effects, equipment and the attendant paper work into an imitation of professional disorder115, Mondaugen set off into the house and down, in search of this generator.
Soon, padding down a narrow, sloping corridor, he was brought to attention by a mirror hung some twenty feet ahead, angled to reflect the interior of a room around the next corner. Framed for him there were Vera Meroving and her lieutenant in profile, she striking at his chest with what appeared to be a small riding crop, he twisting a gloved hand into her hair and talking to her all the while, so precisely116 that the voyeur117 Mondaugen could lip-read each obscenity. The geometry of the corridors somehow baffled all sound: Mondaugen, with the queer excitement he'd felt watching her at her window that morning, expected captions118 explaining it all to flash on to the mirror. But she finally released Weissmann; he reached out with the curiously119 gloved hand and closed the door, and it was as if Mondaugen had dreamed them.
Presently he began to hear music, which grew louder the deeper he descended into this house. Accordion120, fiddle121 and guitar were playing a tango full of minor chords and an eerie122 Ratting of certain notes which to German ears should have remained natural. A young girl's voice was singing sweetly:
Love's a lash3,
Kisses gall123 the tongue, harrow the heart;
Caresses124 tease
Cankered tissue apart.
Liebchen, come
Be my Hottentot bondsman tonight,
The sjambok's kiss
Is unending delight.
Love, my little slave,
Is color-blind;
For white and black
Are only states of mind.
So at my feet
Nod and genuflect126, whimper for me:
Though tears are dried
Their pain is yet to be.
Enchanted, Mondaugen peered round the door jamb and found the singer to be a child of not more than sixteen, with white-blond, hip-length hair and breasts perhaps too large for her slender frame.
"I am Hedwig Vogelsang," she informed him, "and my purpose on earth is to tantalize128 and send raving129 the race of man." Whereupon the musicians, hidden from them in an alcove130 behind a hanging arras, struck up a kind of schottische; Mondaugen, overcome by the sudden scent131 of musk132, brought in a puff133 to his nostrils134 by interior winds which could not have arisen by accident, seized her round the waist and wheeled with her across the room, and out, and through a bedroom lined with mirrors round a canopied four-poster and into a long gallery, stabbed at ten-yard intervals135 down its length by yellow daggers136 of African sun, hung with nostalgic landscapes of a Rhine valley that never existed, portraits of Prussian officers who'd died long before Caprivi (some even before Bismarck) and their blond, untender ladies who'd nothing now but dust to bloom in; past rhythmic137 gusts138 of blond sun that crazed the eyeballs with vein-images; out of the gallery and into a tiny unfurnished room hung all in black velvet139, high as the house, narrowing into a chimney and open at the top, so that one could see the stars in the daytime; finally down three or four steps to Foppl's own planetarium140, a circular room with a great wooden sun, overlaid with gold leaf, burning cold in the very center and round it the nine planets and their moons, suspended from tracks in the ceiling, actuated by a coarse cobweb of chains, pulleys, belts, racks, pinions141 and worms, all receiving their prime impulse from a treadmill142 in the corner, usually operated for the amusement of the guests by a Bondelswaartz, now unoccupied. Having long fled all vestiges143 of music Mondaugen released her here, skipped to the treadmill and began a jog-trot that set the solar system in motion, creaking and whining144 in a way that raised a prickling in the teeth. Rattling145, shuddering146, the wooden planets began to rotate and spin, Saturn's rings to whirl, moons their precessions, our own Earth its nutational wobble, all picking up speed; as the girl continued to dance, having chosen the planet Venus for her partner; as Mondaugen dashed along his own geodesic, following in the footsteps of a generation of slaves.
When at length he tired, slowed and stopped she'd gone, vanished into the wooden reaches of what remained after all a parody147 of space. Mondaugen, breathing heavily, staggered off the treadmill to carry on his descent and search for the generator.
Soon he stumbled into a basement room where gardening implements148 were stored. As if the entire day had come into being only to prepare him for this, he discovered a Bondel male, face down and naked, the back and buttocks showing scar tissue from old sjambokings as well as more recent wounds, laid open across the flesh like so many toothless smiles. Hardening himself the weakling Mondaugen approached the man and stooped to listen for breathing or a heartbeat, trying not to see the white vertebra that winked at him from one long opening.
"Don't touch him." Foppl stood holding a sjambok or cattle whip of giraffe hide, tapping the handle against his leg in a steady, syncopated figure. "He doesn't want you to help. Even to sympathize. He doesn't want anything but the sjambok." Raising his voice till it found the hysterical-bitch level Foppl always affected150 with Bondels: "You like the sjambok, don't you, Andreas."
Andreas moved his head feebly and whispered; "Baas . . ."
"Your people have defied the Government," Foppl continued, "they've rebelled, they have sinned. General yon Trotha will have to come back to punish you all. He'll have to bring his soldiers with the beards and the bright eyes, and his artillery151 that speaks with a loud voice. How you will enjoy it, Andreas. Like Jesus returning to earth, yon Trotha is coming to deliver you. Be joyful152; sing hymns153 of thanks. And until then love me as your parent, because I am yon Trotha's arm, and the agent of his will."
As van Wijk had bade him do, Mondaugen remembered to ask Foppl about 1904 and the "days of yon Trotha." If Foppl's response was sick, it was sick of more than simple enthusiasm; not only did he yarn154 about the past - first there in the cellar as both stood watching a Bondelswaartz whose face Mondaugen was never to see continue to die; later at riotous155 feasting, on watch or patrol, to ragtime156 accompaniment in the grand ballroom157; even up in the turret, as deliberate interruption to the experiment - but he also seemed under compulsion somehow to recreate the Deutsch-Sudwestafrika of nearly twenty years ago, in word and perhaps in deed. "Perhaps" because as the siege party progressed it became more and more difficult to make the distinction.
One midnight Mondaugen stood on a small balcony just under the eaves, officially on watch, though little could be seen in the uncertain illumination. The moon, or half of it, had risen above the house: his antennas cut like rigging dead-black across its face. As he swung his rifle idly by its shoulder strap158, gazing out across the ravine at nothing in particular, someone stepped on to the balcony beside him: it was an old Englishman named Godolphin, tiny in the moonlight. Small scrubland noises now and again rose to them from the outside.
"I hope I don't disturb you," Godolphin said. Mondaugen shrugged159, keeping his eyes in a constant sweep over what he guessed to be the horizon. "I enjoy it on watch," the Englishman continued, "it's the only peace there is to this eternal celebration." He was a retired160 sea captain; in his seventies, Mondaugen would guess. "I was in Cape Town, trying to raise a crew for the Pole."
Mondaugen's eyebrows161 went up. Embarrassed, he began to pick at his nose. "The South Pole?"
"Of course. Rather awkward if it were the other, haw-haw.
"And I'd heard of a stout162 boat in Swakopmund. But of course she was too small. Hardly do for the pack ice. Foppl was in town, and invited me out for a weekend. I imagine I needed the rest."
"You sound cheerful. In the face of what must be frequent disappointment."
"They leave the sting out. Treat the doddering old fool with sympathy. He's living in the past. Of course I'm living in the past. I was there."
"At the Pole."
"Certainly. Now I have to go back, it's that simple. I'm beginning to think that if I get through our siege party I shall be quite ready for anything the Antarctic has for me."
Mondaugen was inclined to agree. "Though I don't plan on any little Antarctic."
The old sea dog chuckled163. "Oh there will be. You wait. Everyone has an Antarctic."
Which it occurred to Mondaugen, was as far South as one could get. At first he'd plunged164 eagerly into the social life that jittered165 all over the sprawling166 plantation house, usually leaving his Scientific duties until the early afternoon, when everyone but the watch was asleep. He had even begun a dogged pursuit of Hedwig Vogelsang, but somehow kept running into Vera Meroving instead. Southsickness in its tertiary stage, whispered that adenoidal Saxon youth who was Mondaugen's doubleganger: beware, beware.
The woman, twice as old as he, exerted a sexual fascination167 he found impossible to explain away. He'd meet her head-on in corridors, or rounding some salient of cabinetwork, or on the roof, or simply in the night, always unlooked for. He would make no advances, she no response; but despite all efforts to hold it in check, their conspiracy grew.
As if it were a real affair, Lieutenant Weissmann cornered him in the billiard room. Mondaugen quivered and prepared to flee: but it proved to be something else entirely168.
"You're from Munich," Weissmann established. "Ever been around the Schwabing quarter?" On occasion. "The Brennessel cabaret?" Never. "Ever heard of D'Annunzio?" Then: Mussolini? Fiume? Italia irredenta? Fascisti? National Socialist169 German Workers' Party? Adolf Hitler? Kautsky's Independents?
"So many capital letters," Mondaugen protested.
"From Munich, and never heard of Hitler," said Weissmann, as if "Hitler" were the name of an avant-garde play. "What the hell's wrong with young people." Light from the green overhead lamp turned his spectacles to twin, tender leaves, giving him a gentle look.
"I'm an engineer, you see. Politics isn't my line."
"Someday we'll need you," Weissmann told him, "for something or other, I'm sure. Specialized170 and limited as you are, you fellows will be valuable. I didn't mean to get angry."
"Politics is a kind of engineering, isn't it. With people as your raw material."
"I don't know," Weissmann said. "Tell me, how long are you staying in this part of the world."
"No longer than I have to. Six months? it's indefinite."
"If I could put you in the way of something, oh, with a little authority to it, not really involving much of your time . . ."
"Organizing, you'd call it?"
"Yes, you're sharp. You knew right away, didn't you. Yes. You are my man. The young people especially, Mondaugen because you see - I know this won't be repeated - we could be getting it back."
"The Protectorate? But it's under the League of Nations."
Weissmann threw back his head and began to laugh, and would say no more. Mondaugen shrugged, took down a cue, dumped the three balls from their velvet bag and practiced draw shots till well into the morning.
He emerged from the billiard room to hot jazz from somewhere overhead. Blinking, he made his way up marble steps to the grand ballroom and found the dance floor empty. Clothing of both sexes was littered about; the music, which came from a Gramophone in the corner, roared gay and hollow under the electric chandelier. But no one was there, no one at all. He plodded171 up to his turret room with its ludicrous circular bed and found that a typhoon of sferics had been bombarding the earth. He fell asleep and dreamed, for the first time since he'd left it, of Munich.
In the dream it was Fasching, the mad German Carnival172 or Mardi Gras that ends the day before Lent begins. The season in Munich, under the Weimar Republic and the inflation, had followed since the war a constantly rising curve, taking human depravity as ordinate. Chief reason being that no one in the city knew if he'd be alive or well come next Fasching. Any windfall - food, firewood, coal - was consumed as quickly as possible. Why hoard173, why ration10? Depression hung in the gray strata174 of clouds, looked at you out of faces waiting in bread queues and dehumanized by the bitter cold. Depression stalked the Liebigstrasse, where Mondaugen had had an attic175 room in a mansarde: a figure with an old woman's face, bent176 against the wind off the Isar and wrapped tightly in a frayed177 black coat; who might, like some angel of death, mark in pink spittle the doorsteps of those who'd starve tomorrow.
It was dark. He was in an old cloth jacket, a stocking cap tugged178 down over his ears, arms linked with a number of young people he didn't know but suspected were students, all singing a death-song and weaving side to side in a chain, broadside to the street's centerline. He could hear bands of other rollickers, drunk and singing lustily in other streets. Beneath a tree, near one of the infrequent street lights, he came upon a boy and girl, coupled, one of the girl's fat and aging thighs179 exposed to the still-winter wind. He stooped and covered them with his old jacket, his tears fell and froze in mid-air, and rattled180 like sleet181 on the couple, who'd turned to stone.
He was in a beer hall. Young, old, students, workmen, grandfathers, adolescent girls drank, sang, cried, fondled blindly after same and different-sexed alike. Someone had set a blaze in the fireplace and was roasting a cat he'd found in the street. The black oak clock above the fireplace ticked terribly loud in strange waves of silence that swept regularly over the company. Girls appeared out of the confusion of moving faces, sat on his lap while he squeezed breasts and thighs and tweaked noses; beer spilled at the far end of the table and swept the table's length in a great foam182 cascade183. The fire that had been roasting the cat spread to a number of tables and had to be doused184 with more beer; fat and charred-black, the cat itself was snatched from the hands of its unfortunate cook and tossed about the room like a football, blistering185 the hands that passed it on, till it disintegrated186 among roars of laughter. Smoke hung like winter fog in the beer hall, changing the massed weaving of bodies to more a writhing187 perhaps of damned in some underworld. Faces all had the same curious whiteness: concave cheeks, highlighted temples, bone of the starved corpse188 there just tinder the skin.
Vera Meroving appeared (why Vera? her black mask covered the entire head) in black sweater and black dancer's tights. "Come," she whispered; led him by the hand through narrow streets, hardly lit but thronged189 with celebrants who sang and cheered in tubercular voices. White faces, like diseased blooms, bobbed along in the dark as if moved by other forces toward some graveyard, to pay homage190 at an important burial.
At dawn she came in through the stained-glass window to tell him that another Bondel had been executed, this time by hanging.
"Come and see," she urged him. "In the garden."
"No, no." It had been a popular form of killing191 during the Great Rebellion of 1904-07, when the Hereros and Hottentots, who usually fought one another, staged a simultaneous but uncoordinated rising against an incompetent192 German administration. General Lothar von Trotha, having demonstrated to Berlin during his Chinese and East African campaigns a certain expertise193 at suppressing pigmented populations, was brought in to deal with the Hereros. In August 1904, von Trotha issued his "Vernichtungs Befehl," whereby the German forces were ordered to exterminate194 systematically195 every Herero man, woman and child they could find. He was about 80 per cent successful. Out of the estimated 80,000 Hereros living in the territory in 1904, an official German census196 taken seven years later set the Herero population at only 15,130, this being a decrease of 64,870. Similarly the Hottentots were reduced in the same period by about 10,000, the Berg-Damaras by 17,000. Allowing for natural causes during those unnatural197 years, von Trotha, who stayed for only one of them, is reckoned to have done away with about 60,000 people. This is only 1 per cent of six million, but still pretty good.
Foppl had first come to Sudwestafrika as a young Army recruit. It didn't take him long to find out how much he enjoyed it all. He'd ridden out with von Trotha that August, that inverted198 spring. "You'd find them wounded, or sick, by the side of the road," he told Mondaugen, "but you didn't want to waste the ammunition199. Logistics at the time were sluggish200. Some you bayoneted, others you hanged. Procedure was simple: one led the fellow or woman to the nearest tree, stood him on an ammunition box, fashioned a noose201 of rope (failing that, telegraph or fencing wire), slipped it round his neck, ran the rope through a fork in the tree and secured it to the trunk, kicked the box away. It was slow strangulation, but then these were summary courts-martial. Field expedients202 had to be used when you couldn't put up a scaffold each time."
"Of course not," said Mondaugen in his nit-picking engineer's way, "but with so much telegraph wire and so many ammunition boxes lying around, logistics couldn't have been all that sluggish."
"Oh," Foppl said. "Well. You're busy."
As it happened, Mondaugen was. Though it may have been only because of bodily exhaustion203 from too much partying, he'd begun to notice something unusual in the sferic signals. Having dexterously204 scavenged a motor from one of Foppl's phonographs, a pen and rollers and several long sheets of paper, the resourceful Mondaugen had fashioned a crude sort of oscillograph to record signals in his absence. The project hadn't seen fit to provide him with one and he'd had nowhere to go at his former station, making one up till now unnecessary. As he looked now at the cryptic205 pen-scrawls, he detected a regularity206 or patterning which might almost have been a kind of code. But it took him weeks even to decide that the only way to see if it were a code was to try to break it. His room became littered with tables, equations, graphs; he appeared to labor207 to the accompaniment of twitterings, hisses208, clicks and carolings but in reality he dawdled209. Something kept him off. Events intimidated210 him: one night during another "typhoon" the oscillograph broke, chattering211 and scratching away madly. The difficulty was minor and Mondaugen was able to fix it. But he wondered if the malfunction had been quite an accident.
He took to roaming the house at odd hours, at loose ends. Like the "eye" in his dream of Fasching he now found he had a gift of visual serendipity212: a sense of timing213, a perverse214 certainty about not whether but when to play the voyeur. A taming, possibly, of the original heat with which he'd watched Vera Meroving in the earlier days of the siege party. For example, leaning in bleak215 winter sunlight against a Corinthian column, Mondaugen could hear her voice not far away.
"No. Non-military it may be, but a false siege it is not."
Mondaugen lit a cigarette and peered around the column. She was sitting in the rockery with old Godolphin, beside a goldfish pool.
"Do you remember," she began. But then noticed perhaps the pain of a return home choking him more than any noose of memory she could provide, because she let him interrupt:
"I have done believing in siege as anything more than military technic. That was well over with twenty years ago, before even your beloved 1904."
Condescending216, she explained that she'd been off in another country in 1904, and that a year and place don't have to include the physical person for there to be a certain ownership.
It was beyond Godolphin. "I was advising the Russian Fleet in 1904," he remembered. "They didn't take my advice, the Japanese you'll remember bottled us up in Port Arthur. Good God. It was a siege in the great tradition, it lasted a year. I remember frozen hillsides, and the ghastly nagging217 of those field-mortars, coughing away day in and day out. And white spotlights218, moving over the positions at night. Blinding you. A devout junior officer with an arm gone and the empty sleeve pinned across like a sash said they looked like the fingers of God, seeking soft throats to strangle."
"Lieutenant Weissmann and Herr Foppl have given me my 1904," she told him, like a schoolgirl enumerating219 birthday gifts. "Just as you were given your Vheissu."
Hardly any time at all passed before he cried, "No! No, I was there." Then, his head moving with difficulty to face her, "I didn't tell you about Vheissu. Did I?"
"Of course you did."
"I hardly remember Vheissu myself."
"I do. I have remembered for us."
"'Have remembered,'" with a sudden canny220 tilt221 to one eye. But it relaxed, and he rambled222 off:
"If anything gave me my Vheissu it was the time, the Pole, the service . . . But it's all been taken away, I mean the leisure and the sympathy. It's fashionable to say the War did it. Whatever you choose. But Vheissu is gone and impossible to bring back, along with so many other old jokes, songs, 'rages.' And the sort of beauty one had in Cleo de Merode, or Eleonora Duse. The way those eyes turned down at the corners; the incredible expanse of eyelid223 above, like old vellum . . . But you're too young, you wouldn't remember."
"I'm past forty," smiled Vera Meroving, "and of course I remember. I was given the Duse too, by the man in fact who gave her to Europe, over twenty years ago, in Il Fuoco. We were in Fiume. Another siege. The Christmas before last, he called it the Christmas of blood. He gave her to me as memories, in his palace, while the Andrea Doria dropped shells on us."
"They'd go to the Adriatic on holiday," Godolphin said with a foolish smile, as if the memory were his own; "he, naked, rode his sorrel into the sea while she waited on the strand224 . . ."
"No," suddenly and only for the moment vicious, "not selling her jewels to suppress the novel about her, nor using a virgin's skull225 for a loving cup, none of that's true. She was past forty and in love, and he hurt her. Went out of his way to hurt her. That's all there was to it.
"Weren't we both in Florence then? While he was writing the novel about their affair; how could we have avoided them! Yet it seemed always that I was just missing him. First in Florence, then in Paris just before the war, as if I'd been condemned226 to wait until he reached his supreme227 moment, his peak of virtu: Fiume!"
"In Florence . . . we . . ." quizzical, weak.
She leaned forward, as if hinting she'd like to be kissed. "Don't you see? This siege. It's Vheissu. It's finally happened."
Abruptly228 then occurred one of those ironic229 reversals in which the weakling for a short while gains the upper hand, and the attacker is forced, at best, into a holding operation. Mondaugen, watching, credited this less to any internal logic230 in their discussion than to a latent virility231 in the old man, hidden against contingencies232 like this from the cormorant233 graspings of age.
Godolphin laughed at her. "There's been a war, Fraulein. Vheissu was a luxury, an indulgence. We can no longer afford the likes of Vheissu."
"But the need," she protested, "its void. What can fill that?"
He cocked his head and grinned at her. "What is already filling it. The real thing. Unfortunately. Take your friend D'Annunzio. Whether we like it or not that war destroyed a kind of privacy, perhaps the privacy of dream. Committed us like him to work out three-o'clock anxieties, excesses of character, political hallucinations on a live mass, a real human population. The discretion234, the sense of comedy about the Vheissu affair are with us no more, our Vheissus are no longer our own, or even confined to a circle of friends; they're public property, God knows how much of it the world will see, or what lengths it will be taken to. It's a pity; and I'm only glad I don't have to live in it too much longer."
"You're remarkable235," was all she'd say; and after braining an inquisitive goldfish with a rock, she left Godolphin.
Alone, he said: "We simply grow up. In Florence, at age fifty-four, I was a brash youth. Had I known the Duse was there her poet chap might have found dangerous competition, ha-ha. The only trouble is that now, nearing eighty, I keep discovering that damned war has made the world older than I. The world frowns now on youth in a vacuum, it insists youth be turned-to, utilized236, exploited. No time for pranks237. No more Vheissus. Ah, well." And to a catchy238, rather syncopated fox-trot tune239, he sang:
Once we could flirt240 and spoon,
Down by the summertime sea.
Your aunt Iphigenia found it terribly odd
To see us stealing a kiss there on the Promenade241, oh
You weren't past seventeen,
Parasol-pretty for me;
Ah, could we but return to that season of light,
With our puppy-love soaring like a gay summer kite,
When it wasn't yet time to think of autumn, or night;
Down by the summertime sea.
(Here Eigenvalue made his single interruption: "They spoke242 in German? English? Did Mondaugen know English then?" Forestalling243 a nervous outburst by Stencil244: "I only think it strange that he should remember an unremarkable conversation, let alone in that much detail, thirty-four years later. A conversation meaning nothing to Mondaugen but everything to Stencil."
Stencil, silenced puffed245 his pipe and watched the psychodontist, a quirk246 to one side of his mouth revealed now and again, enigmatic, through the white fumes248. Finally: "Stencil called it serendipity, not he. Do you understand? Of course you do. But you want to hear him say it."
"I understand only," Eigenvalue drawled, "that your attitude toward V. must have more sides to it than you're ready to admit. It's what the psychoanalysts used to call ambivalence249, what we now call simply a heterodont configuration250."
Stencil made no answer; Eigenvalue shrugged and let him continue.)
In the evening a roasted veal247 was set out on a long table in the dining hall. Guests fell upon it drunkenly, tearing away choice pieces of flesh with their hands, staining what clothes they wore with gravy251 and grease. Mondaugen was feeling his usual reluctance252 to return to work. He padded along crimson-carpeted passageways, mirrored, unpopulated, ill-lit, without echoes. He was, tonight, a bit upset and depressed253 without being able to say exactly why. Perhaps because he'd begun to detect the same desperation in Foppl's siege party as there'd been in Munich during Fasching; but without any clear reason, for here after all was abundance not depression, luxury not a daily struggle for life; above all, possibly, breasts and buttocks that could be pinched.
Somehow he'd wandered by Hedwig's room. Her door was open. She sat before her vanity mirror making up her eyes. "Come in," she called, "don't stand there leering."
"Your little eyes look so antiquated254."
"Herr Foppl has ordered all the ladies to dress and make up as they would have done in 1904." She giggled255. "I wasn't even born in 1904, so I really shouldn't be wearing anything." She sighed. "But after all the trouble I'd gone to to pluck my eyebrows to look like Dietrich's. Now I must draw them in again like great dark wings, and point them at either end; and so much mascara!" She pouted256, "Pray no one breaks my heart, Kurt, for tears would ruin these old-fashioned eyes."
"Oh, you have a heart then."
"Please, Kurt, I said don't make me cry. Come: you may help me arrange my hair."
When he lifted the heavy, pale locks from her nape he saw two parallel rings of recently chafed257 skin running round the neck, about two inches apart. If surprise was communicated through her hair by any movement his hands may have made, Hedwig gave no sign. Together they put up her hair in an elaborate curly bun, securing it with a black satin band. Round her neck, to cover each abrasion258, she wound a thin string of little onyx beads259, letting three more loops or so drop progressively looser down between her breasts,
He bent to kiss one shoulder. "No," she moaned, then went berserk; picked up a flacon of Cologne water, inverted it on his head arose from her vanity, hitting Mondaugen in the jaw260 with the shoulder he'd been trying to kiss. He, felled, lost consciousness for a fraction of a minute, woke to see her cakewalking out the door, singing Auf dem Zippel-Zappel-Zeppelin, a tune popular at the turn of the century.
He staggered to the corridor: she'd vanished. Feeling rather a sexual failure, Mondaugen set out for his turret and oscillograph, and the comforts of Science, which are glacial and few.
He got as far as a decorative261 grotto262, located in the very guts263 of the house. There Weissmann, in full uniform, lunged at him from behind a stalagmite. "Upington!" he screamed.
"Ah?" inquired Mondaugen, blinking.
"You're a cool one. Professional traitors264 are always so cool." His mouth remaining open, Weissmann sniffed265 the air. "Oh, my. Don't we smell nice." His eyeglasses blazed.
Mondaugen, still groggy266 and enveloped267 in a miasma268 of cologne, wanted only to sleep. He tried to push past the piqued269 lieutenant, who barred his path with the butt149 end of a sjambok.
"Whom have you been in contact with at Upington?"
"Upington."
"It has to be, it's the nearest large town in the union. You can't expect English operatives to give up the comforts of civilization."
"I don't know anyone in the union."
"Careful how you answer, Mondaugen."
It finally came to him that Weissmann was talking about the sferic experiment. "It can't transmit," he yelled. "If you knew anything at all you'd see that immediately. It's for receiving only, stupid."
Weissmann favored him with a smile. "You just convicted yourself. They send you instructions. I may not know electronics, but I can recognize the scrawlings of a bad cryptanalyst."
If you can do any better you're welcome," Mondaugen sighed. He told Weissmann about his whim127, the "code."
"You mean that?" abruptly almost childlike. "You'll let me see what you've received?"
"You've obviously seen everything. But it'll put us that much closer to a solution."
Quite soon he had Weissmann laughing shyly. "Oh. Oh, I see. You're ingenious. Amazing. Ja. Stupid of me, you see. I do apologize."
Struck by an inspiration, Mondaugen whispered, "I'm monitoring their little broadcasts."
Weissmann frowned. "That's what I just said."
Mondaugen shrugged. The lieutenant lit a whale-oil lamp and they set out for the turret. As they ascended270 a sloping hallway, the great villa was filled with a single, deafening271 pulse of laughter. Mondaugen became numb42, the lantern went smash behind him. He turned to see Weissmann standing272 among little blue flames and shiny fragments of glass.
"The strand wolf," was all Weissmann could manage.
In his room Mondaugen had brandy, but Weissmann's face remained the color of cigar smoke. He wouldn't talk. He got drunk and presently feel asleep in a chair.
Mondaugen worked on the code into the early morning, getting, as usual, nowhere. He kept dozing273 off and being brought awake by brief chuckling sounds from the loudspeaker. They sounded to Mondaugen, half in dream, like that other chilling laugh, and made him reluctant to go back to sleep. But he continued to, fitfully.
Somewhere out in the house (though he may have dreamed that too) a chorus had begun singing a Dies Irae in plainsong. It got so loud it woke Mondaugen. Irritated, he lurched to the door and went out to tell them to keep quiet.
Once past the storage rooms, he found the adjoining corridors brilliantly lit. On the whitewashed274 floor he saw a trail of blood-spatters, still wet. Intrigued275, he followed. The blood led him perhaps fifty yards through drapes and around corners to what may have been a human form, lying covered with a piece of old canvas sail, blocking further passage. Beyond it the floor of the corridor gleamed white and bloodless.
Mondaugen broke into a sprint276, jumped neatly277 over whatever it was and continued on at a jogging pace. Eventually he found himself at the head of a portrait gallery he and Hedwig Vogelsang had once danced down. His head still reeled with her cologne. Halfway278 along, illuminated279 by a nearby sconce, he saw Foppl, dressed in his old private-soldier's uniform and standing on tiptoe to kiss one of the portraits. When he'd gone, Mondaugen looked at the brass280 plate on the frame to verify his suspicion. It was indeed von Trotha.
"I loved the man," he'd said. "He taught us not to fear. It's impossible to describe the sudden release; the comfort, the luxury; when you knew you could safely forget all the rote-lessons you'd had to learn about the value and dignity of human life. I had the same feeling once in the Realgymnasium when they told us we wouldn't be responsible in the examination for all the historical dates we'd spent weeks memorizing ....
"Till we've done it, we're taught that it's evil. Having done it, then's the struggle: to admit to yourself that it's not really evil at all. That like forbidden sex it's enjoyable."
Shuffling281 sounds behind him. MondaugEn turned; it was Godolphin. "Evan," the old man whispered.
"I beg your pardon."
"It's I, son. Captain Hugh."
Mondaugen came closer, thinking possibly Godolphin's eyes were troubling him. But worse troubled him and there was nothing remarkable about the eyes save tears.
"Good morning, Captain."
"You don't have to hide any more, son. She told me; I know; it's all right. You can be Evan again. Father's here." The old man gripped his arm above the elbow and smiled bravely. "Son. It's time we went home. God, we've been so long away. Come."
Trying to be gentle, Mondaugen let the sea captain steer282 him along the corridor. "Who told you? You said 'she.'"
Godolphin had gone vague. "The girl. Your girl. What's-her-name."
A minute passed before Mondaugen remembered enough of Godolphin to ask, with a certain sense of shock: "What has she done to you."
Godolphin's little head nodded, brushed Mondaugen's arm. "I'm so tired."
Mondaugen stooped and picked up the old man, who seemed to weigh less than a child, and bore him along the white ramps283, between mirrors and past tapestries284, among scores of separate lives brought to ripeness by this siege and hidden each behind its heavy door; up through the enormous house to his own turret. Weissmann still snored in the chair. Mondaugen laid the old man on the circular bed, covered him with a black satin comforter. And stood over him, and sang:
Dream tonight of peacock tails,
Diamond fields and spouter285 whales.
Ills are many, blessings286 few,
But dreams tonight will shelter you.
Let the vampire's creaking wing
Hide the stars while banshees sing;
Let the ghouls gorge287 all night long;
Dreams will keep you safe and strong.
Skeletons with poison teeth,
Risen from the world beneath,
Ogre, troll, and loup-garou,
Bloody288 wraith289 who looks like you,
Shadow on the window shade,
Harpies in a midnight raid,
Goblins seeking tender prey290,
Dreams will chase them all away.
Dreams are like a magic cloak
Woven by the fairy folk,
Covering from top to toe,
Keeping you from winds and woe291.
And should the Angel come this night
To fetch your soul away from light,
Cross yourself, and face the wall:
Dreams will help you not at all.
Outside the strand wolf screamed again. Mondaugen pounded a bag of dirty laundry into a pillow, doused the light, and lay down trembling on the rug to sleep.
III
But his own musical commentary on dreams had not included the obvious and perhaps for him indispensable: that if dreams are only waking sensation first stored and later operated on, then the dreams of a voyeur can never be his own. This soon showed up, not too surprisingly, as an increasing inability to distinguish Godolphin from Foppl: it may or may not have been helped along by Vera Meroving, and some of it could have been dreamed. There, precisely, was the difficulty. He'd no idea, for instance, where this had come from:
. . . so much rot spoken about their inferior kultur-position and our herrenschaft - but that was for the Kaiser and the businessmen at home; no one, not even our gay Lothario (as we called the General), believed it out here. They may have been as civilized292 as we, I'm not an anthropologist293, you can't compare anyway - they were an agricultural, pastoral people. They loved their cattle as we perhaps love toys from childhood. Under Leutwein's administration the cattle were taken away and given to white settlers. Of course the Hereros revolted, though the Bondelswaartz Hottentots actually started it because their chief Abraham Christian had been shot in Warmbad. No one is sure who fired first. It's an old dispute: who knows, who cares? The flint had been struck, and we were needed, and we came.
Foppl. Perhaps.
Except that the shape of Mondaugen s "conspiracy" with Vera Meroving was finally beginning to come clear to him. She apparently wanted Godolphin, for reasons he could only guess at, though her desire seemed to arise out of a nostalgic sensuality whose appetites knew nothing at all of nerves, or heat, but instead belonged entirely to the barren touchlessness of memory. She had obviously needed Mondaugen only to be called (he might assume cruelly) a long-ago son, to weaken her prey.
Not unreasonably294 then she would also have used Foppl, perhaps to replace the father as she thought she'd replaced the son, Foppl the siege party's demon, who was in fact coming more and more to define his guests assembled, to prescribe their common dream. Possibly Mondaugen alone among them was escaping it, because of his peculiar habits of observation. So in a passage (memory, nightmare, yarn, maundering, anything) ostensibly his host's Mondaugen could at least note that though the events were Foppl's, the humanity could easily have been Godolphin's.
Again one night he heard the Dies Irae, or some organized foreign chant, approach to the verge of his buffer107 zone of empty rooms. Feeling invisible he glided296 out to look and not be seen. His neighbor, an elderly merchant from Milan, had in recent days it seemed collapsed297 from a heart attack, lingered, died. The others, roisterers, had organized a wake. With ceremony they wrapped his body in silk sheets stripped from his bed: but before the last brightness of dead flesh had been covered Mondaugen saw in a quick sly look its decoration of furrows298 and poor young scar tissue cut down in its prime. Sjambok, makoss, donkey whip . . . something long that could cut.
They took the cadaver299 off to a ravine to toss it in. One stayed behind.
"He remains301 in your room, then," she began.
"By choice."
"He has no choice. You'll make him go."
"You'll have to make him go, Fraulein."
"Then bring me to him?" almost importunate302. Her eyes, rimmed303 in black after Foppl's 1904, needed something less hermetic than this empty corridor to frame them: palazzo's facade304, provincial305 square, esplanade in the winter - yet more human, perhaps only more humorous than, say, the Kalahari. It was her inability to come to rest anywhere inside plausible306 extremes, her nervous, endless motion, like the counter-crepitating of the ball along its roulette spokes307, seeking a random compartment308 but finally making, having made, sense only as precisely the dynamic uncertainty309 she was, this that upset Mondaugen enough to scowl310 quietly and say with a certain dignity no, turn, leave her there and, return to his sferics. They both knew he'd done nothing decisive.
Having found the sad imitation of a strayed son, Godolphin wouldn't think of returning to his own room. One of them had taken the other in. The old officer slept, drowsed, talked. Because he'd "found" Mondaugen only after she'd well begun some program of indoctrination on him that Mondaugen would rather not guess at, there was no way to say for certain, later, whether Foppl himself might not have come in to tell tales of when he'd been a trooper, eighteen years ago.
Eighteen years ago everyone was in better condition. You were shown how his upper arms and thighs had become flabby; and the roll of fat around his middle. His hair was beginning to fall out. He was developing breasts; even they reminded him of when he first arrived in Africa. They'd all had their inoculations on route: for bubonic plague the ship's medic jabbed you with a tremendous needle in the muscle by the left breast, and for a week or so it puffed up. In the way troops have when there's not much else to do, they amused themselves by unbuttoning the tops of their shirts and coyly exposing these new female acquisitions.
Later, when it had got into deep winter, the sun bleached311 their hair white and browned their skins. The standing joke was "Don't walk up on me unless you're in uniform, I might mistake you for a nigger." The "mistake" was made more than once. Around Waterberg especially, he remembered, when they were chasing Hereros into the bush and the desert, there were a few unpopular soldiers - reluctant? humanitarian312. Their bitching got so bad you found yourself hoping . . . How much of a "mistake" it was was open to question, that's all be meant. By him bleeding hearts like that weren't much better than the natives.
Most of the time, thank God, you were with your own kind: comrades who all felt the same way, who weren't going to give you any nonsense no matter what you did. When a man wants to appear politically moral he speaks of human brotherhood313. In the field you actually found it. You weren't ashamed. For the first time in twenty years of continuous education-to-guilt, a guilt that had never really had meaning, that the Church and the secular entrenched314 had made out of whole cloth; after twenty years, simply not to he ashamed. Before you disemboweled or whatever you did with her to be able to take a Herero girl before the eyes of your superior officer, and stay potent315. And talk with them before you killed them without the sheep's eye, the shuffling, the prickly-heat of embarrassment316 . . .
His efforts at the code, such as they were, didn't succeed in keeping back the nightfall of ambiguity317 that filled his room progressively as time - such as it was - went by. When Weissmann came in and asked if he could help, Mondaugen turned surly. "Out," he snarled318.
"But we were to collaborate319."
"I know what your interest is," Mondaugen said mysteriously. "I know what 'code' you're after."
"It's part of my job." Putting on his sincere farm-lad face, removing the eyeglasses and cleaning them mock-distracted on his necktie.
"Tell her it won't, it didn't work," Mondaugen said.
The lieutenant ground his teeth solicitously320. "I can't indulge your whims much longer," he tried to explain; "Berlin is impatient, I'm not going to make excuses forever."
"I am working for you?" Mondaugen screamed. "Scheisse." But this woke up Godolphin, who began to sing splinters of sentimental321 ballads322 and to call for his Evan. Weissmann regarded the old man with wide eyes and only his two front teeth showing.
"My God," he said finally, tonelessly; about-faced and left.
But when Mondaugen found the first oscillograph roll missing he was charitable enough to ask, "Lost or taken?" out loud to his inert323 equipment and a faraway old skipper, before putting the blame on Weissmann.
"He must have come in when I was asleep." Not even Mondaugen knew when that was. And was the roll all he'd taken? Shaking Godolphin: "Do you know who I am, where we are," and other elementary questions that we shouldn't ask, that only prove how afraid we are to a hypothetical anybody.
Afraid he was and as it turned out with good reason. For, half an hour later, the old man still sat on the edge of the bed, making friends with Mondaugen, whom he was seeing for the first time. With the Weimar Republic's bitter breed of humor (but none of his own) Mondaugen stood at his stained-glass window and asked that evening's veld: was I being that successful a voyeur? As his days at the siege party became less current and more numbered (though not by him) he was to wonder with exponential frequency who in fact had seen him. Anyone at all? Being cowardly and thus a gourmet324 of fear, Mondaugen prepared himself for an unprecedented325, exquisite treat. This unglimpsed item on his menu of anxieties took the form of a very German question: if no one has seen me then am I really here at all; and as a sort of savory326, if I am not here then where are all these dreams coming from, if dreams is what they are.
He was given a lovely mare295 named Firelily: how he adored that animal! You couldn't keep her from prancing327 and posturing328; she was a typical woman. How her deep sorrel flanks and hindquarters would flash in the sun! He was careful to have his Bastard329 servant keep her always curried330 and clean. He believed the first time the General ever addressed him directly was to compliment him on Firelily.
He rode her all over the territory. From the coastal331 desert to the Kalahari, from Warmbad to the Portuguese frontier Firelily and he, and his good comrades Schwach and Fleische, they dashed madcap over sand, rock, bush; forded streams that could go from a trickle332 to a mile-wide flood in half an hour. Always, no matter which region it was through those ever-dwindling herds333 of blacks. What were they chasing? What youthful dream?
For it was hard to avoid a feeling of impracticality334 about their adventure. Idealism, fatedness. As if first the missionaries335, then the merchants and miners, and lately the settlers and bourgeoisie had all had their chance at something and had failed, and now it was the army's turn. To go in and chase about that silly wedge of German earth two tropics away for no other reason, apparently, than to give the warrior336 class equal time with God, Mammon, Freyr. Certainly not for the usual soldatesque reasons-young as they were they could see that. Next to nothing to plunder337; and as for glory, what was there to hanging, clubbing, bayoneting something that did not resist? It had been a terribly unequal show from the start: Hereros were simply not the adversaries338 a young warrior expects. He felt cheated out of the army life the posters had shown. Only a pitiful minority of the niggers were even armed, and then only a fraction of those had rifles that worked, or ammunition. The army had Maxim339 and Krupp guns, and little howitzers. Often they never even saw the natives before they killed them; merely stood off on a kopje and bombarded the village, then went in afterward340 to finish any they'd missed.
His gums ached, he felt tired and possibly slept mare than normal, whatever normal was. But this had modulated341 at some paint into yellow skin, high thirst, flat purple spots on his legs; and his own breath sickened him. Godolphin in one of his lucid342 moments diagnosed this as scurvy343, the cause being simply had (in fact hardly any) diet: he'd lost twenty pounds since the beginning of the siege.
"You want fresh vegetables," the sea dog informed him, fretting344. "There must be something in the larder345."
"No. For God's sake," Mondaugen raved346, "don't leave the room. Hyenas347 and jackals are padding up and down those little corridors."
"Try to lie quietly," Godolphin told him. "I can handle myself. I won't be a moment."
Mondaugen lunged off the bed, but flaccid muscles betrayed him. Nimble Godolphin vanished, the door swung to. Far the first time since hearing about the Treaty of Versailles in detail, Mondaugen found himself crying.
They'll drain his juices, he thought; caress125 his bones with their paw-pads, gag on his fine white hair.
Mondaugen's own father had died not so many years ago, somehow involved in the Kiel revolt. That the son should think of him at this point indicated perhaps that Godolphin hadn't been the only one in that room to be "visited." As the partying rushed in phantasmagoria at and around their supposedly insulated turret, into blur349, there had grown increasingly more visible one unwavering projection350 on the wall of night: Evan Godolphin, whom Mondaugen had never seen save by the dubious351 fluorescence of nostalgia352 he didn't want, nostalgia forced on him by something he was coming to look on as a coalition353.
Presently, heavy footsteps approached through the outer regions of his Versuchsstelle. Too heavy, he decided354, to be Godolphin's returning: so craftily355 Mondaugen wiped his gums once more on the bedsheets and allowed himself to fall off the bed and roll back under an arras of satin comforter, into that cool, dusty world of old burlesque356 jokes and so many unhappy-go-accident-prone lovers in this real life. He made a little peephole in the coverlet and looked out: his view was directly into a high mirror that commanded, say, a third of the circular room. The knob turned, the door opened and Weissmann, draped in an ankle-length white dress with ruffled357 neck, bodice and sleeves, circa 1904, tiptoed into the room, crossing between the mirror's frontiers and vanishing again near the sferic equipment. All at once a dawn chorus burst from the loudspeaker, chaotic358 at first but resolving eventually into a deep-space madrigal359 for three or four voices. To which the intruder Weissmann, out of sight, added still another, in falsetto, to a minor-keyed Charleston:
Now that the twilight's just beginning,
World, stop
Spinning;
Cuckoo's in his clock with laryngitis,
So he can't tell us what night tonight is.
No one among the other dancers has
Any
Answers, just
You, I, the night
And a little black sjambok . . .
When Weissmann came back into the mirror he was carrying another oscillograph roll. Mondaugen lay among dust babies, feeling too impotent to yell stop, thief. The transvestite lieutenant had parted his hair in the middle and larded his eyelashes with mascara; these, batting against his lenses, left dark parallel streaks360 so that each eye looked out from its own prison window. As he passed the imprint361 on the coverlet of the scurvified body which had lately occupied it, Weissmann gave it (so Mondaugen fancied) a coy, sidewise smile. Then he vanished. Not too long after that Mondaugen's retinae withdrew, for a time from light. Or it is presumed they did; either that or Under-the-Bed is even stranger country than neurasthenic children have dreamt it to be.
One could as well have been a stonemason. It dawned on you slowly, but the conclusion was irresistible362: you were in no sense killing. The voluptuous feeling of safety, the delicious lassitude you went into the extermination363 with was sooner or later replaced by a very curious-not emotion because part of it was obviously a lack of what we commonly call "feeling" - "functional agreement" would come closer to it; operational sympathy.
The first clear instance of it he could remember came one day during a trek40 from Warmbad to Keetmanshoop. His outfit364 were moving consignments365 of Hottentot prisoners for some reason which doubtless made sense to the upper echelons366. It was 140 miles and took generally a week or ten days to do, and none of them liked the detail much. A lot of prisoners died on route, and that meant stopping the whole trek, finding the sergeant with the keys, who it seemed was always miles back under a kameeldoorn tree, dead drunk or well on the way, then riding back, unlocking the neck-ring of the fellow who'd died; sometimes rearranging the line so the weight of the extra chain would be more evenly distributed. Not to make it easier on them, exactly, but so one wouldn't wear out any more blacks than one had to.
It was a glorious day, December and hot, a bird somewhere gone mad with the season. Firelily, under him, seemed sexually aroused, she curveted and frolicked so about the line of march, covering five miles to the prisoners' one. From the side it always looked medieval, the way the chain hung down in bights between their neck-rings, the way the weight pulled them constantly toward earth, the force only just overcome as long as they managed to keep their legs moving. Behind them came army oxcarts, driven by loyal Rehoboth Bastards367. How many can understand the resemblance he saw? In his village church in the Palatinate was a mural of the Dance of Death, led by a rather sinuous368, effeminate Death in his black cloak, carrying his scythe369 and followed by all ranks of society from prince to peasant. Their own African progress was hardly so elegant: they could only boast a homogeneous string of suffering Negroes and a drunken sergeant in a wideawake hat who carried a Mauser. Yet that association, which most of them shared, was enough to give the unpopular chore an atmosphere of ceremony.
The trek hadn't been under way more than an hour before one of the blacks began to complain about his feet. They were bleeding, he said. His overseer brought Firelily close in and looked: so they were. Hardly would the blood soak into the sand than the prisoner behind would kick it invisible. Not long after that the same prisoner complained that the sand was working its way into the cuts on his feet and the pain was making it difficult for him to walk. No doubt this was also true. He was told either to be quiet or forfeit370 his share of water when they outspanned for the noon rest. The soldiers had learned on previous treks371 that if one native was allowed to complain the others soon enough took it up and this for some reason slowed everyone. They wouldn't sing or chant; that perhaps could have been borne. But the wailing373, self-indulgent babel that would go up - God, it was awful. Silence, for practical reasons, was the rule and was enforced.
But this Hottentot would not keep silent. He was only limping slightly, he didn't stumble. But he bitched more than the most malcontent374 of infantry375. The young trooper edged Firelily toward him in her sensual strut376 and flicked him once or twice with a sjambok. From the height of a man on horseback a good rhinoceros377 sjambok used properly can quiet a nigger in less time and with less trouble than it takes to shoot him. But it had no effect on this one. Fleische saw what was happening and brought his black gelding up from the other side. Together the troopers sjamboked the Hottentot on the buttocks and thighs, forcing him into a queer little dance. It took a certain talent to make a prisoner dance that way without slowing down the rest of the trek because of the way they were all chained together. They were doing quite well until through some stupid misjudgment, Fleische's sjambok caught in the chain and he was pulled from his horse and under the feet of the prisoners.
Their reflexes are fast, they're like animals. Before the other trooper had really taken it in the fellow they'd been sjamboking leaped on Fleische, trying to get his bight of chain around Fleische's neck. The rest of the line, realizing through some extra sense what had happened - anticipating murder - had come to a halt.
Fleische managed to roll away. The two of them got the key from the sergeant, unlocked and removed their Hottentot from the trek, and brought him off to the side. After Fleische, with the tip of his sjambok, had had the obligatory378 sport with the black's genitals, they clubbed him to death with the butts379 of their rifles and tossed what was left behind a rock for the vultures and flies.
But as they did this thing - and Fleische said later that he'd felt something like it too - there came over him for the first time an odd sort of peace, perhaps like what the black was feeling as he gave up the ghost. Usually the most you felt was annoyance; the kind of annoyance you have for an insect that's buzzed around you far too long. You have to obliterate380 its life, and the physical effort, the obviousness of the act, the knowledge that this is only one unit in a seemingly infinite series, that killing this one won't end it won't relieve you from having to kill more tomorrow, and the day after, and on, and on . . . the futility381 of it irritates you and so to each individual act you bring something of the savagery382 of military boredom383, which as any trooper knows is mighty384 indeed.
This time it wasn't like that. Things seemed all at once to fall into a pattern: a great cosmic fluttering in the blank, bright sky and each grain of sand, each cactus spine385, each feather of the circling vulture above them and invisible molecule386 of heated air seemed to shift imperceptibly so that this black and he, and he and every other black he would henceforth have to kill slid into alignment388, assumed a set symmetry, a dancelike poise389. It finally meant something different: different from the recruiting poster, the mural in the church and the natives already exterminated390 - sleeping and lame burned en masse in their pontoks, babies tossed in the air and caught on bayonets, girls approached with organ at the ready, their eyes filming over in anticipated pleasure or possibly only an anticipated five more minutes of life, only to be shot through the head first and then ravished, after of course being made aware at the last moment that this would happen to them - different from the official language of yon Trotha's orders and directives, different from the sense of function and the delightful, powerless languor391 that are both part of following a military order that's filtered like spring rain down countless392 levels before reaching you; different from colonial policy, international finagling, hope of advancement within the army or enrichment out of it.
It had only to do with the destroyer and the destroyed, and the act which united them, and it had never been that way before. Returning from the Waterberg with von Trotha and his staff, they came upon an old woman digging wild onions at the side of the road. A trooper named Konig jumped down off his horse and shot her dead: but before he pulled the trigger he put the muzzle393 against her forehead and said, "I am going to kill you." She looked up and said, "I thank you." Later, toward dusk, there was one Herero girl, sixteen or seventeen years old, for the platoon; and Firelily's rider was last. After he'd had her he must have hesitated a moment between sidearm and bayonet. She actually smiled then; pointed to both, and began to shift her hips394 lazily in the dust. He used both.
When through some levitation395 he again found himself on top of the bed, Hedwig Vogelsang was just entering the room astride a male Bondel who crawled on all fours. She wore only a pair of black tights and had let her long hair down.
"Good evening, poor Kurt." She rode the Bondel as far as the bed and dismounted. "You may go, Firelily. I call it Firelily," she smiled at Mondaugen, "because of its sorrel skin."
Mondaugen attempted a greeting, found himself too weak to talk. Hedwig was slithering out of the tights. "I made up only my eyes," she told him in a decadent396 whisper: "my lips can redden with your blood as we kiss." She began making love to him. He tried to respond but the scurvy had weakened him. How long it went on he didn't know. It seemed to go on for days. The light in the room kept changing, Hedwig seemed to be everywhere at once in this black satin circle the world had shrunk to: either she was inexhaustible or Mondaugen had lost all sense of duration. They seemed wound into a cocoon397 of blond hair and ubiquitous, dry kisses: once or twice she may have brought in a Bondel girl to assist.
"Where is Godolphin," he cried.
"She has him."
"O God . . ."
Sometimes impotent, sometimes aroused despite his lassitude, Mondaugen stayed neutral, neither enjoying her attentions nor worrying about her opinion of his virility. At length she grew frustrated398. He knew what she was looking for.
"You hate me," her lip quivering unnaturally399 as a forced vibrato.
"But I have to recuperate400."
In through the window came Weissmann with his hair combed in bangs, wearing white silk lounging pajamas401, rhinestone402 pumps, and black eyeholes and lips, to steal another oscillograph roll. The loudspeaker blithered at him as if it were angry.
Later Foppl appeared in the door with Vera Meroving, held her hand, and sang to a sprightly403 waltz melody:
I know what you want,
Princess of coquettes:
Deviations404, fantasies and secret amulets405.
Only try to go
Further than you've gone
If you never want to live to see another dawn.
Seventeen is cruel,
Yet at forty-two,
Purgatory406 fires burn no livelier than you.
So, come away from him,
Take my hand instead,
Let the dead get to the task of burying their dead;
Through that hidden door again,
Bravo for '04 again; I'm a
Deutschesudwestafrikaner in love . . .
Once mustered407 out, those who stayed either drifted west to work at mines like the Khan or homesteaded their own land where the farming was good. He was restless. After doing what he'd been doing for three years a man doesn't settle down, at least not too quickly. So he went to the coast.
Just as its own loose sand was licked away by the cold tongue of a current from the Antarctic south, that coast began to devour111 time the moment you arrived. It offered life nothing: its soil was arid408; salt-bearing winds, chilled by the great Benguela, swept in off the sea to blight409 anything that tried to grow. There was constant battle between the fog, which wanted to freeze your marrow410, and the sun: which, once having burned off the fog, sought you. Over Swakopmund the sun often seemed to fill the entire sky, so diffracted was it by the sea fog. A luminous411 gray tending to yellow, that hurt the eyes. You learned soon enough to wear tinted412 glasses for the sky: If you stayed long enough you came to feel it was almost an affront413 for humans to be living there at all. The sky was too large, the coastal settlements under it too mean. The harbor at Swakopmund was slowly, continuously filling with sand, men were felled mysteriously by the afternoon's sun, horses went mad and were lost in the tenacious414 ooze415 down along the beaches. It was a brute416 coast, and survival for white and black less a matter of choice than anywhere else in the Territory.
He'd been deceived, that was his first thought: it wasn't to be like the army. Something had changed. The blacks mattered even less. You didn't recognize their being there in the same way you once had. Objectives were different, that may simply have been all. The harbor needed dredging; railroads had to be built inland from the seaports417, which couldn't thrive by themselves any more than the interior could survive without them. Having legitimized their presence in the Territory the colonists418 were now obliged to improve what they had taken.
There were compensations, but they were not the luxuries army life had offered. As Schachtmeister you got a house to yourself and first look at girls who came in from the bush to surrender. Lindequist, who'd succeeded von Trotha, had canceled the extermination order, asking all the natives who'd fled to return, promising419 that no one would be hurt. It was cheaper than sending out search expeditions and rounding them up. Because they were starving out in the bush, promises of mercy included promises of food. After being fed they were taken into custody420 and sent out to the mines, or the coast, or the Cameroons. Their laagers, under military escort, arrived from the interior almost daily. Mornings he'd go down to the staging area and assist in the sorting-out. The Hottentots were mostly women. Among the few Hereros they got, the proportion was of course more nearly equal.
After three years of ripe, Southern indulgence to come upon this ash plain impregnated with a killer421 sea may have needed a strength not really found in nature: sustained necessarily by illusion. Not even whales could skirt that strand with impunity422: walking along what served for an esplanade you might see one of the rotting creatures, beached, covered by feeding gulls423 who with the coming of night would be relieved at the giant carrion424 by a pack of strand wolves. And in a matter of days there would be left only the portals of great jaws425 and a picked, architectural web of bone, mellowing426 eventually to false ivory in the sun and fog.
The barren islets off Luderitzbucht were natural concentration camps. Walking among huddled427 forms in the evening, distributing blankets, food and occasional kisses from the sjambok, you felt like the father colonial policy wanted you to be when it spoke of Vaterliche Zuchtigung; fatherly chastisement428, an inalienable right. Their bodies, so terribly thin and slick with cloud, lay drawn429 together to pool what marginal warmth was left to them. Here and there a torch of bound reeds soaked in whale oil hissed430 bravely in the fog. A swaddled silence would be over the island, nights like that: if they complained, or had to cry for some lesion or cramp431, it was baffled by the thick mists and all you heard was the tide, slapping ever sideways along the strand, viscous432, reverberating433; then seltzering back to sea, violently salt, leaving a white skin on the sand it hadn't taken. And only occasionally above the mindless rhythm, from across the narrow strait, aver300 on the great African continent itself, a sound would arise to make the fog colder, the night darker, the Atlantic more menacing: if it were human it could have been called laughter, but it was not human. It was a product of alien secretions434, boiling over into blood already choked and heady; causing ganglia to twitch435, the field of night-vision to be grayed into shapes that threatened, putting an itch27 into every fiber436, an unbalance, a general sensation of error that could only be nulled by those hideous paroxysms, those fat, spindle-shaped bursts of air up the pharynx, counter-irritating the top of the mouth cavity, filling the nostrils, easing the prickliness under the jaw and down the center-line of the skull: it was the cry of the brown hyena348 called the strand wolf, who prowled the beach singly or with companions in search of shellfish, dead gulls, anything flesh and unmoving.
And so, as you moved among them, you were forced to look at them as a collection: knowing from statistics that twelve to fifteen of them died per day, but eventually unable even to wonder which twelve to fifteen: in the dark they differed only in size, and that made it easier not to care as you once had. But every time the strand wolf howled across the water, as, perhaps, you were stooping down to examine a prospective437 concubine missed in the first winnowing438, it was only by suppressing memories of the three years just passed that you kept from wondering if it was this particular girl the beast waited far.
As a civilian439 Schachtmeister drawing government pay this was one among many luxuries he'd had to abandon: the luxury of being able to see them as individuals. This extended even to one's concubines; one had several, some purely440 for housework, others for pleasure, domesticity too having become a massed affair. They were the exclusive possession of no one save the high-ranking officers. Subalterns, enlisted441 men and gangers like himself shared them out of a common pool, housed in a barbed-wire compound near the B.O.Q.
It was problematical who among the females had the better time of it in the way of creature comfort; the courtesans who lived inside the barbed wire or the workers who were housed in a great thorn enclosure nearer the beach. They had to rely on primarily female labor, there simply being, for obvious reasons, a severe shortage of males. They found the distaff side useful for a number of functions. Women could be inspanned to the heavy-duty carts to pull loads of silt442 dredged from the floor of the harbor; or to carry the rails for the road of iron being driven across the Namib toward Keetmanshoop. That destination naturally enough reminded him of the old days when he'd helped march blacks there. Often, under the hazed-out sun, he'd daydream443; remembering water holes filled to the brim with black corpses444, their ears, nostrils and mouths bejeweled green, white, black, iridescent with flies and their offspring; human pyres whose flames seemed to leap high as the Southern Cross; the frangibility of bone, the splitting-open of body sacs, the sudden heaviness of even a frail445 child. But here there could be none of that: they were organized, made to perform en masse - you'd have to supervise not a chained trek but a long double line of women, carrying rails with iron ties attached; if one woman fell it meant only a fractional increase in the force required per carrier, not the confusion and paralysis resulting from a single failure in one of the old treks. Only once could he remember anything like that happening, and it may have been because the fog and cold the previous week had been worse than usual, so that their sockets and joints446 may have become inflamed447 - that day his own neck ached and he had trouble turning it to see what had happened - but a sudden wail372 went up and he saw that one of the women had stumbled and fallen and brought the whole line down. His heart rose, the wind off the ocean turned balmy; here was a fragment of the old past, revealed as if by a parting in the fog. He went back to her, ascertained448 that the falling rail had broken her leg; dragged her out from under it without bothering to lift it, rolled her down the embankment and left her to die. It did him good, he thought; it took him temporarily away from nostalgia, which on that coast was a kind of despondency.
But if physical labor exhausted450 those who lived inside thorns, sexual labor could as easily fatigue451 those who lived inside steel. Some of the military had brought with them curious ideas. One sergeant, too far down the chain of command to rate a young boy (young boys being rare), did the best he could with pre-adolescent, breastless girls whose heads he shaved and whom he kept naked except for shrunken army leggings. Another made his partners he still, like corpses; any sexual responses, sudden breaths or involuntary jerks were reprimanded with an elegant jeweled sjambok he'd had designed for him in Berlin. So if the women thought about any of this at all there couldn't have been much to choose between thorns and steel.
Himself, he could have been happy in that new corporative life; could have made a career out of construction work, except for one of his concubines, a Herero child named Sarah. She brought his discontent to a focus; perhaps even became one reason finally why he quit it all and headed inland to try to regain452 a little of the luxury and abundance that had vanished (he feared) with von Trotha.
He found her first a mile out in the Atlantic, on a breakwater they were building of sleek453 dark rocks that the women carried out by hand, deep-sixed and slowly, painfully stacked into a tentacle455 crawling along the sea. That day gray sheets were tacked454 to the sky, and a black cloud remained all day at the western horizon. It was her eyes he saw first, whites reflecting something of the sea's slow turbulence456; then her back, beaded with old sjambok scars. He supposed it was simple lust68 that made him go over and motion to her to put down the rock she'd begun to lift: scribble457 and give her a note for her compound supervisor458. "Give it to him," he warned her, "or - " and he made the sjambok whistle in the salt wind. In earlier days you hadn't had to warn them: somehow, because of that "operational sympathy," they always delivered notes, even when they knew the note might well be a death warrant.
She looked at the chit, then at him. Clouds moved across those eyes; whether reflected or transmitted he'd never know. Brine slapped at their feet, carrion birds wheeled in the sky. The breakwater stretched behind them back to land and safety; but it could take only a word; any, the most inconsequential, to implant459 in each of them the perverse notion that their own path lay the other way, on the invisible mole387 not yet built; as if the sea were pavement for them, as for our Redeemer.
Here was another like the woman pinned under the rail, another piece of those soldiering days. He knew he didn't want to share this girl; he was feeling again the pleasure of making a choice whose consequences, even the most terrible, he could ignore.
He asked her name, she answered Sarah, eyes never having left him. A squall, cold as Antarctica, came rushing across the water, drenched460 them, continued on toward the north, though it would die without ever seeing the Congo's mouth or the Bight of Benin. She shivered, his hand in apparent reflex went to touch her but she avoided it and stooped to pick up the rock. He tapped her lightly on the rear with his sjambok and the moment, whatever it had meant, was over.
That night she didn't come. Next morning he caught her on the breakwater, made her kneel, placed his boot on her nape and pushed her head under the sea until his sense of timing told him to let her up for air. He noticed then how long and snakelike her thighs were; how clearly the musculature of her hips stood under the skin, skin with a certain glow, but finely striated because of her long fast in the bush. That day he'd sjambok her on any least pretense461. At dusk he wrote out another chit and handed it to her. "You have an hour." She watched him, nothing about her at all of the animal he'd seen in other nigger women. Only eyes giving back the red sun, and the white stalks of fog that had already begun to rise off the water.
He didn't eat supper. He waited alone in his house near the barbed-wire compound, listening to the drunks selecting their mates for the night. He couldn't stay off his feet and perhaps he'd caught a chill. The hour passed; she didn't come. He walked out without a coat into low clouds and made his way to her thorn compound. It was pitch-black out. Wet gusts slapped his cheeks, he stumbled. Once at the enclosure he took up a torch and went looking for her. Perhaps they thought he was mad, perhaps he was. He didn't know how long he looked. He couldn't find her. They all looked alike.
The next morning she appeared as usual. He chose two strong women, bent her back over a rock and while they held her he first sjamboked, then took her. She lay in a cold rigor462; and when it was over he was astonished to find that at same point during it the women had, like goodnatured duennas, released her and gone about their morning's labor.
And that night, long after he'd turned in, she came to his house and slid into the bed next to him. Woman's perversity! She was his.
Yet how long could he have had her to himself? During the day he manacled her to the bed, and he continued to use the woman-pool at night so he wouldn't arouse suspicion. Sarah might have cooked, cleaned, comforted, been the closest thing to a wife he'd ever had. But on that foggy, sweating, sterile463 coast there were no owners, nothing owned. Community may have been the only solution possible against such an assertion of the Inanimate. Soon enough his neighbor the pederast had discovered her and become enchanted. He requested Sarah; this was answered by the lie that she'd come from the pool and the pederast could wait his turn. But it could only get them a reprieve464. The neighbor visited his house during the day, found her manacled and helpless, took her his own way and then decided, like a thoughtful sergeant, to share this good fortune with his platoon. Between noon and suppertime, as the fog's glare shifted in the sky, they took out an abnormal distribution of sexual preferences on her, poor Sarah, "his" Sarah only in a way that poisonous strand could never support.
He came home to find her drooling, her eyes drained for good of all weather. Not thinking, probably not having taken it all in, he unlocked her shackles and it was as if like a spring she'd been storing the additive465 force that convivial466 platoon had expended467 in amusing themselves; for with an incredible strength she broke out of his embrace and fled, and that was how he saw her, alive, for the last time.
The next day her body was washed up on the beach. She had perished in a sea they would perhaps never succeed in calming any part of. Jackals had eaten her breasts. It seemed then that something had at last been brought to consummation since his arrival centuries ago on the troop ship Habicht, that had only as obviousness and immediacy to do with the sergeant-pederast's preference as to women or that old bubonic plague injection. If it were parable468 (which he doubted) it probably went to illustrate469 the progress of appetite or evolution of indulgence, both in a direction he found unpleasant to contemplate470. If a season like the Great Rebellion ever came to him again, he feared, it could never be in that same personal, random array of picaresque acts he was to recall and celebrate in later years at best furious and nostalgic; but rather with a logic that chilled the comfortable perversity of the heart, that substituted capability471 for character, deliberate scheme for political epiphany (so incomparably African); and for Sarah, the sjambok, the dances of death between Warmbad and Keetmanshoop, the taut472 haunches of his Firelily, the black corpse impaled473 on a thorn tree in a river swollen with sudden rain, for these the dearest canvases in his soul's gallery, it was to substitute the bleak, abstracted and for him rather meaningless hanging on which he now turned his back, but which was to backdrop his retreat until he reached the Other Wall, the engineering design for a world he knew with numb leeriness nothing could now keep from becoming reality, a world whose full despair he, at the vantage of eighteen years later, couldn't even find adequate parables474 for, but a design whose first fumbling475 sketches476 he thought must have been done the year after Jacob Marengo died, on that terrible coast, where the beach between Luderitzbucht and the cemetery477 was actually littered each morning with a score of identical female corpses, an agglomeration478 no more substantial-looking than seaweed against the unhealthy yellow sand; where the soul's passage was more a mass migration479 across that choppy fetch of Atlantic the wind never left alone, from an island of low cloud, like an anchored prison ship, to simple integration480 with the unimaginable mass of their continent; where the single line of track still edged toward a Keetmanshoop that could in no conceivable iconology be any part of the Kingdom of Death; where, finally, humanity was reduced, out of a necessity which in his loonier moments he could almost believe was only Deutsch-Sudwestafrika's (actually he knew better), out of a confrontation481 the young of one's contemporaries, God help them, had yet to make, humanity was reduced to a nervous, disquieted482, forever inadequate483 but indissoluble Popular Front against deceptively unpolitical and apparently minor enemies, enemies that would be with him to the grave: a sun with no shape, a beach alien as the moon's antarctic, restless concubines in barbed wire, salt mists, alkaline earth, the Benguela Current that would never cease bringing sand to raise the harbor floor, the inertia484 of rock, the frailty485 of flesh, the structural486 unreliability of thorns; the unheard whimper of a dying woman; the frightening but necessary cry of the strand wolf in the fog.
IV
"Kurt, why do you never kiss me any more?"
"How long have I been sleeping," he wanted to know. Heavy blue drapes had at some point been drawn across the window.
"It's night."
He grew aware of an absence in the room: located this eventually as an absence of background noise from the loudspeaker, and was off the bed and tottering487 toward his receivers before realizing he'd recovered enough to be walking at all. His mouth tasted vile488 but his joints no longer ached, gums no longer felt as sore or spongy. The purple spots on his legs had gone.
Hedwig giggled. "They made you look like a hyena."
The mirror had nothing encouraging to show hint. He batted his eyes at himself and the lashes4 of the left one promptly489 stuck together.
"Don't squint, darling." She had a toe pointed toward the ceiling and was adjusting a stocking. Mondaugen leered at her crookedly490 and began trouble-shooting his equipment. Behind him he heard someone enter the room and Hedwig begin to moan. Chains tinkled491 in the heavy sickroom air, something whistled and impacted with a loud report against what might have been flesh. Satin tore, silk hissed, French heels beat a tattoo492 against the parquetry. Had the scurvy changed him from voyeur to ecouteur, or was it deeper and part of a general change of heart? The trouble was a burned-out tube in the power amplifier. He replaced it with a spare and turned and saw that Hedwig had vanished. Mondaugen stayed alone in the turret for a few dozen visitations from the sferics, this being the only link remaining with the kind of time that continued to pass outside Foppl's. He was awakened493 from a light sleep by the sound of explosions to the east. When he finally decided to climb out the stained-glass window to investigate, he found that everyone had rushed to the roof. A battle, a real one, was in progress across the ravine. Such was their elevation494 that they could see everything spread out in panorama495, as if for their amusement. A small group of Bondels huddled among some rocks: men, women, children and a few starved-looking goats. Hedwig inched her way across the roof's shallow slope to Mondaugen and held his hand. "How exciting," she whispered, eyes huger than he'd ever seen them, blood crusted on her wrists and ankles. Declining sunlight stained the bodies of the Bondels to a certain orange. Thin wisps of cirrus floated diaphanous496 in a late afternoon sky. But soon the sun had turned them blinding white.
Surrounding the besieged497 Bondels, in a ragged449 noose, were whites, closing, mostly volunteer except for a cadre of union officers and noncoms. They exchanged occasional gunfire with the natives, who seemed to have only half-a-dozen rifles among them. Doubtless there were human voices down there, uttering cries of command, triumph, pain; but at this distance only the tiny pop-pop of gunshots could be heard. To one side was a singed498 area, streaked499 with the gray of pulverized500 rock and littered with bodies and parts of bodies which had once belonged to Bondels.
"Bombs," Foppl commented. "That's what woke us up." Someone had come up from below with wine and glasses, and cigars. The accordionist501 had brought his instrument, but after a few bars was silenced: no one on the roof wanted to miss any sound of death that should reach them. They leaned toward the battle: cords of the neck drawn tense, eyes sleep-puffed, hair in disarray and dotted with dandruff, fingers with dirty nails clutching like talons502 the sun-reddened stems of their wine goblets503; lips blackened with yesterday's wine, nicotine504, blood and drawn back from the tartared teeth so that the original hue505 only showed in cracks. Aging women shifted their legs frequently, makeup506 they'd not cleaned away clinging in blotches507 to pore-riddled cheeks.
Over the horizon from the direction of the union came two biplanes, flying low and lazy, like birds wandered away from a flock. "That's where the bombs came from," announced Foppl to his company. So excited now that he slopped wine on the roof. Mondaugen watched it flow in twin streams all the way to the eaves. It reminded him somehow of his first morning at Foppl's, and the two streaks of blood (when had he began to call it blood?) in the courtyard. A kite lit lower down on the roof and began to peck at the wine. Soon it took wing again. When had he begun to call it blood?
The planes looked as if they would come no nearer, only hang forever in the sky. The sun was going down. The clouds had been blown terribly thin, and begun to glow red, and seemed to ribbon the sky its entire length, filmy and splendid, as if it were they that held it all together. One of the Bondels suddenly appeared to run amok: stood upright, waving a spear, and began to run toward the nearest part of the advancing cordon508. The whites there bunched together and fired at him in a flurry of pops, echoed by the pop of corks509 on Foppl's roof. He had almost reached them before he fell.
Now the planes could be heard: a snarling510, intermittent511 sound. They swooped clumsy in a dive toward the Bondelswaartz position: the sun caught suddenly the three canisters dropped from each, turned them to six drops of orange fire. They seemed to take a century to fall. But soon, two bracketing the rocks, two among the Bondels and two in the area where the corpses lay, there bloomed at last six explosions, sending earth, stone and flesh cascading512 toward the nearly black sky with its scarlet513 overlay of cloud. Seconds later the loud, coughing blasts, overlapping514, reached the roof. How the watchers cheered. The cordon moved rapidly then, through what was now a pall515 of thin smoke, killing the still-active and wounded, sending bullets into corpses, into women and children, even into the one goat that had survived. Then abruptly the crescendo516 of cork-pops ceased and night fell. And after a few minutes someone lit a campfire out on the battlefield. The watchers on the roof retired inside for a night of more than usually riotous celebration.
Had a new phase of the siege party begun with that dusk's intrusion from the present year, 1922, or was the change internal and Mondaugen's: a shift in the configuration of sights and sounds he was now filtering out, choosing not to notice? No way to tell; no one to say. Whatever it arose from, health returning or simple impatience517 with the hermetic, he was starting to feel those first tentative glandular518 pressures that one day develop into moral outrage519. At least he was to experience a for him rare Achphenomenon: the discovery that his voyeurism520 had been determined521 purely by events seen, and not by any deliberate choice, or preexisting set of personal psychic522 needs.
No one saw any more battles. From time to time a body of horse-soldiers might be noted523 in the distance, tearing desperate across the plateau, raising a little dust; there would be explosions, miles away in the direction of the Karas mountains. And they heard a Bondel one night, lost in the dark, scream the name of Abraham Morris as he stumbled and fell into a ravine. In the last weeks of Mondaugen's stay everyone remained in the house, getting only a few hours' sleep per twenty-four-hour period. Easily a third of their number were bedridden: several, besides Foppl's Bondels, had died. It had become an amusement to visit an invalid524 each night to feed him wine and arouse him sexually.
Mondaugen remained up in his turret, working diligently525 at his code, taking occasional breaks to stand out alone on the roof and wonder if he would ever escape a curse that seemed to have been put on him one Fasching: to become surrounded by decadence526 no matter what exotic region, north or south, he wandered into. It couldn't be only Munich, he decided at some point: nor even the fact of economic depression. This was a soul-depression which must surely infest527 Europe as it infested528 this house.
One night he was awakened by a disheveled Weissmann, who could scarcely stand still for excitement. "Look, look," he cried, waving a sheet of paper under Mondaugen's s slowly blinking eyes. Mondaugen read:
DIGEWOELDTIMSTEALALENSWTASNDEURFUALRLIKST
"So," he yawned.
"It's your code. I've broken it. See: I remove every third letter and obtain: GODMEANTNUURK. This rearranged spells Kurt Mondaugen."
"Well, then," Mondaugen snarled. "And who the hell told you you could read my mail."
"The remainder of the message," Weissmann continued, "now reads: DIEWELTISTALLESWASDERFALLIST."
"The world is all that the case is," Mondaugen said. "I've heard that somewhere before." A smile began to spread. "Weissmann, for shame. Resign your commission, you're in the wrong line of work. You'd make a fine engineer: you've been finagling."
"I swear," Weissmann protested, hurt.
Later on, finding the turret oppressive, Mondaugen exited through the window and wandered the gables, corridors and stairways of the villa till the moon was down. Early in the morning, with only the nacreous beginnings of a dawn visible out over the Kalahari, he came around a brick wall and entered a small hopyard. Hanging over the rows, each wrist attached to a different stringing-wire, feet dangling529 over young hops530 already sick with downy mildew531, was another Bondel, perhaps Foppl's last. Below, dancing about the body and flicking532 its buttocks with a sjambok, was old Godolphin. Vera Meroving stood by his side and they appeared to have exchanged clothing. Godolphin, keeping time with the sjambok, launched quaveringly into a reprise of Down by the Summertime Sea.
Mondaugen this time withdrew, preferring at last neither to watch nor to listen. Instead he returned to the turret and gathered up his log books, oscillograms and a small knapsack of clothing and toilet articles. He sneaked533 downstairs and went out by a French window; located a long plank at the rear of the house and dragged it to the ravine. Foppl and guests had been somehow alerted to his departure. They crowded the windows; some sat out on the balconies and roof, some came to the veranda534 to watch. With a final grunt535 Mondaugen dropped the plank across a narrow part of the ravine. As he was working his way gingerly across, trying not to look down at the tiny stream two hundred feet below, the accordion began a slow sad tango, as if piping him ashore536. This soon modulated into a rousing valediction537, which they all sang in chorus:
Why are you leaving the party so early,
Just when it was getting good?
Were the crowds and the laughter just a little too tame,
Did the girl you had your eye on go and forfeit the game?
O tell me
Where is there music any gayer than ours, and tell me
Where are wine and ladies in such ample supply?
If you know a better party in the Southwest Protectorate,
Tell us and we'll drop on by
(Right after this one)
Tell us and we'll drop on by.
He reached the other side, adjusted the knapsack and began to trudge538 toward a distant clump539 of trees. After a few hundred yards he decided to look back after all. They still watched him and their hush540 now was a part of the same that hung over all the scrubland. The morning's sun bleached their faces a Fasching-white he remembered seeing in another place. They gazed across the ravine dehumanized and aloof541, as if they were the last gods on earth.
Two miles further on at a fork in the road he met a Bondel riding on a donkey. The Bondel had lost his right arm. "All over," he said. "Many Bondels dead, baases dead, van Wijk dead. My woman, younkers dead." He let Mondaugen ride behind him. At that point Mondaugen didn't know where they were going. As the sun climbed he dozed542 on and off, his cheek against the Bondel's scarred back. They seemed the only three animate objects on the yellow road which led, he knew, sooner or later, to the Atlantic. The sunlight was immense, the plateau country wide, and Mondaugen felt little and lost in the dun-colored waste. Soon as they trotted543 along the Bondel began to sing, in a small voice which was lost before it reached the nearest Ganna bush. The song was in Hottentot dialect, and Mondaugen couldn't understand it.
点击收听单词发音
1 villa | |
n.别墅,城郊小屋 | |
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2 voluptuous | |
adj.肉欲的,骄奢淫逸的 | |
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3 lash | |
v.系牢;鞭打;猛烈抨击;n.鞭打;眼睫毛 | |
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4 lashes | |
n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 );鞭子;突然猛烈的一击;急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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5 enchanted | |
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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6 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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7 cape | |
n.海角,岬;披肩,短披风 | |
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8 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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9 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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10 ration | |
n.定量(pl.)给养,口粮;vt.定量供应 | |
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11 petulance | |
n.发脾气,生气,易怒,暴躁,性急 | |
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12 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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13 tardy | |
adj.缓慢的,迟缓的 | |
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14 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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15 diminutive | |
adj.小巧可爱的,小的 | |
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16 animate | |
v.赋于生命,鼓励;adj.有生命的,有生气的 | |
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17 random | |
adj.随机的;任意的;n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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18 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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19 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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20 perversity | |
n.任性;刚愎自用 | |
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21 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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22 atmospheric | |
adj.大气的,空气的;大气层的;大气所引起的 | |
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23 disturbance | |
n.动乱,骚动;打扰,干扰;(身心)失调 | |
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24 disturbances | |
n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 );打扰;困扰;障碍 | |
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25 allied | |
adj.协约国的;同盟国的 | |
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26 descending | |
n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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27 itch | |
n.痒,渴望,疥癣;vi.发痒,渴望 | |
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28 latitudes | |
纬度 | |
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29 stuffy | |
adj.不透气的,闷热的 | |
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30 citizenship | |
n.市民权,公民权,国民的义务(身份) | |
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31 boisterous | |
adj.喧闹的,欢闹的 | |
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32 plantation | |
n.种植园,大农场 | |
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33 well-being | |
n.安康,安乐,幸福 | |
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34 doorway | |
n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
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35 parched | |
adj.焦干的;极渴的;v.(使)焦干 | |
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36 antennas | |
[生] 触角,触须(antenna的复数形式) | |
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37 annoyance | |
n.恼怒,生气,烦恼 | |
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38 intestinal | |
adj.肠的;肠壁;肠道细菌 | |
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39 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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40 trek | |
vi.作长途艰辛的旅行;n.长途艰苦的旅行 | |
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41 trekking | |
v.艰苦跋涉,徒步旅行( trek的现在分词 );(尤指在山中)远足,徒步旅行,游山玩水 | |
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42 numb | |
adj.麻木的,失去感觉的;v.使麻木 | |
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43 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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44 superintendent | |
n.监督人,主管,总监;(英国)警务长 | |
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45 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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46 sergeant | |
n.警官,中士 | |
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47 Portuguese | |
n.葡萄牙人;葡萄牙语 | |
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48 smelt | |
v.熔解,熔炼;n.银白鱼,胡瓜鱼 | |
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49 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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50 sprouted | |
v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 );抽芽;出现;(使)涌现出 | |
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51 fortress | |
n.堡垒,防御工事 | |
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52 delusions | |
n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 );谬见;错觉;妄想 | |
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53 prevailing | |
adj.盛行的;占优势的;主要的 | |
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54 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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55 flipped | |
轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 ); 按(开关); 快速翻转; 急挥 | |
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56 salute | |
vi.行礼,致意,问候,放礼炮;vt.向…致意,迎接,赞扬;n.招呼,敬礼,礼炮 | |
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57 cactus | |
n.仙人掌 | |
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58 jolted | |
(使)摇动, (使)震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59 dismantled | |
拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 ); 拆卸; 废除; 取消 | |
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60 scurrying | |
v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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61 merge | |
v.(使)结合,(使)合并,(使)合为一体 | |
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62 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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63 tightened | |
收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)变紧; (使)绷紧; 加紧 | |
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64 giggle | |
n.痴笑,咯咯地笑;v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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65 swelled | |
增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 ); 肿胀; (使)凸出; 充满(激情) | |
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66 plank | |
n.板条,木板,政策要点,政纲条目 | |
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67 arabesques | |
n.阿拉伯式花饰( arabesque的名词复数 );错综图饰;阿拉伯图案;阿拉贝斯克芭蕾舞姿(独脚站立,手前伸,另一脚一手向后伸) | |
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68 lust | |
n.性(淫)欲;渴(欲)望;vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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69 disperse | |
vi.使分散;使消失;vt.分散;驱散 | |
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70 winking | |
n.瞬眼,目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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71 lewdly | |
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72 slaughtered | |
v.屠杀,杀戮,屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73 affluent | |
adj.富裕的,富有的,丰富的,富饶的 | |
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74 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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75 conclave | |
n.秘密会议,红衣主教团 | |
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76 eventual | |
adj.最后的,结局的,最终的 | |
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77 amplified | |
放大,扩大( amplify的过去式和过去分词 ); 增强; 详述 | |
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78 illuminate | |
vt.照亮,照明;用灯光装饰;说明,阐释 | |
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79 blues | |
n.抑郁,沮丧;布鲁斯音乐 | |
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80 squint | |
v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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81 fumbled | |
(笨拙地)摸索或处理(某事物)( fumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 乱摸,笨拙地弄; 使落下 | |
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82 crouched | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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84 vertical | |
adj.垂直的,顶点的,纵向的;n.垂直物,垂直的位置 | |
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85 enigma | |
n.谜,谜一样的人或事 | |
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86 slates | |
(旧时学生用以写字的)石板( slate的名词复数 ); 板岩; 石板瓦; 石板色 | |
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87 vaulted | |
adj.拱状的 | |
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88 lavish | |
adj.无节制的;浪费的;vt.慷慨地给予,挥霍 | |
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89 spectral | |
adj.幽灵的,鬼魂的 | |
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90 rustling | |
n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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91 exterior | |
adj.外部的,外在的;表面的 | |
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92 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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93 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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94 constraint | |
n.(on)约束,限制;限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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95 conspiracy | |
n.阴谋,密谋,共谋 | |
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96 lieutenant | |
n.陆军中尉,海军上尉;代理官员,副职官员 | |
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97 venality | |
n.贪赃枉法,腐败 | |
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98 swollen | |
adj.肿大的,水涨的;v.使变大,肿胀 | |
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99 fiscal | |
adj.财政的,会计的,国库的,国库岁入的 | |
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100 translucent | |
adj.半透明的;透明的 | |
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101 socket | |
n.窝,穴,孔,插座,插口 | |
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102 microscopic | |
adj.微小的,细微的,极小的,显微的 | |
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103 flecks | |
n.斑点,小点( fleck的名词复数 );癍 | |
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104 annular | |
adj.环状的 | |
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105 iris | |
n.虹膜,彩虹 | |
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106 turret | |
n.塔楼,角塔 | |
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107 buffer | |
n.起缓冲作用的人(或物),缓冲器;vt.缓冲 | |
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108 buffered | |
[医]缓冲的 | |
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109 portraying | |
v.画像( portray的现在分词 );描述;描绘;描画 | |
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110 martyr | |
n.烈士,殉难者;vt.杀害,折磨,牺牲 | |
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111 devour | |
v.吞没;贪婪地注视或谛听,贪读;使着迷 | |
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112 devoured | |
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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113 auxiliary | |
adj.辅助的,备用的 | |
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114 generator | |
n.发电机,发生器 | |
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115 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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116 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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117 voyeur | |
n.窥淫狂者,窥隐私者 | |
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118 captions | |
n.标题,说明文字,字幕( caption的名词复数 )v.给(图片、照片等)加说明文字( caption的第三人称单数 ) | |
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119 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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120 accordion | |
n.手风琴;adj.可折叠的 | |
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121 fiddle | |
n.小提琴;vi.拉提琴;不停拨弄,乱动 | |
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122 eerie | |
adj.怪诞的;奇异的;可怕的;胆怯的 | |
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123 gall | |
v.使烦恼,使焦躁,难堪;n.磨难 | |
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124 caresses | |
爱抚,抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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125 caress | |
vt./n.爱抚,抚摸 | |
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126 genuflect | |
v.屈膝,跪拜(之态度) | |
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127 whim | |
n.一时的兴致,突然的念头;奇想,幻想 | |
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128 tantalize | |
vt.使干着急,逗弄 | |
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129 raving | |
adj.说胡话的;疯狂的,怒吼的;非常漂亮的;令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话;疯话adv.胡言乱语地;疯狂地 | |
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130 alcove | |
n.凹室 | |
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131 scent | |
n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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132 musk | |
n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物,香猫 | |
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133 puff | |
n.一口(气);一阵(风);v.喷气,喘气 | |
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134 nostrils | |
鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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135 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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136 daggers | |
匕首,短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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137 rhythmic | |
adj.有节奏的,有韵律的 | |
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138 gusts | |
一阵强风( gust的名词复数 ); (怒、笑等的)爆发; (感情的)迸发; 发作 | |
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139 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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140 planetarium | |
n.天文馆;天象仪 | |
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141 pinions | |
v.抓住[捆住](双臂)( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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142 treadmill | |
n.踏车;单调的工作 | |
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143 vestiges | |
残余部分( vestige的名词复数 ); 遗迹; 痕迹; 毫不 | |
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144 whining | |
n. 抱怨,牢骚 v. 哭诉,发牢骚 | |
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145 rattling | |
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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146 shuddering | |
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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147 parody | |
n.打油诗文,诙谐的改编诗文,拙劣的模仿;v.拙劣模仿,作模仿诗文 | |
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148 implements | |
n.工具( implement的名词复数 );家具;手段;[法律]履行(契约等)v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 );执行;贯彻;使生效 | |
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149 butt | |
n.笑柄;烟蒂;枪托;臀部;v.用头撞或顶 | |
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150 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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151 artillery | |
n.(军)火炮,大炮;炮兵(部队) | |
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152 joyful | |
adj.欢乐的,令人欢欣的 | |
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153 hymns | |
n.赞美诗,圣歌,颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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154 yarn | |
n.纱,纱线,纺线;奇闻漫谈,旅行轶事 | |
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155 riotous | |
adj.骚乱的;狂欢的 | |
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156 ragtime | |
n.拉格泰姆音乐 | |
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157 ballroom | |
n.舞厅 | |
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158 strap | |
n.皮带,带子;v.用带扣住,束牢;用绷带包扎 | |
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159 shrugged | |
vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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160 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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161 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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163 chuckled | |
轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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165 jittered | |
v.紧张不安,战战兢兢( jitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166 sprawling | |
adj.蔓生的,不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 );蔓延;杂乱无序地拓展;四肢伸展坐着(或躺着) | |
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167 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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168 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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169 socialist | |
n.社会主义者;adj.社会主义的 | |
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170 specialized | |
adj.专门的,专业化的 | |
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171 plodded | |
v.沉重缓慢地走(路)( plod的过去式和过去分词 );努力从事;沉闷地苦干;缓慢进行(尤指艰难枯燥的工作) | |
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172 carnival | |
n.嘉年华会,狂欢,狂欢节,巡回表演 | |
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173 hoard | |
n./v.窖藏,贮存,囤积 | |
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174 strata | |
n.地层(复数);社会阶层 | |
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175 attic | |
n.顶楼,屋顶室 | |
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176 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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177 frayed | |
adj.磨损的v.(使布、绳等)磨损,磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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178 tugged | |
v.用力拉,使劲拉,猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179 thighs | |
n.股,大腿( thigh的名词复数 );食用的鸡(等的)腿 | |
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180 rattled | |
慌乱的,恼火的 | |
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181 sleet | |
n.雨雪;v.下雨雪,下冰雹 | |
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182 foam | |
v./n.泡沫,起泡沫 | |
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183 cascade | |
n.小瀑布,喷流;层叠;vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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184 doused | |
v.浇水在…上( douse的过去式和过去分词 );熄灯[火] | |
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185 blistering | |
adj.酷热的;猛烈的;使起疱的;可恶的v.起水疱;起气泡;使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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186 disintegrated | |
v.(使)破裂[分裂,粉碎],(使)崩溃( disintegrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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187 writhing | |
(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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188 corpse | |
n.尸体,死尸 | |
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189 thronged | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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190 homage | |
n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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191 killing | |
n.巨额利润;突然赚大钱,发大财 | |
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192 incompetent | |
adj.无能力的,不能胜任的 | |
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193 expertise | |
n.专门知识(或技能等),专长 | |
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194 exterminate | |
v.扑灭,消灭,根绝 | |
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195 systematically | |
adv.有系统地 | |
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196 census | |
n.(官方的)人口调查,人口普查 | |
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197 unnatural | |
adj.不自然的;反常的 | |
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198 inverted | |
adj.反向的,倒转的v.使倒置,使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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199 ammunition | |
n.军火,弹药 | |
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200 sluggish | |
adj.懒惰的,迟钝的,无精打采的 | |
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201 noose | |
n.绳套,绞索(刑);v.用套索捉;使落入圈套;处以绞刑 | |
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202 expedients | |
n.应急有效的,权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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203 exhaustion | |
n.耗尽枯竭,疲惫,筋疲力尽,竭尽,详尽无遗的论述 | |
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204 dexterously | |
adv.巧妙地,敏捷地 | |
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205 cryptic | |
adj.秘密的,神秘的,含义模糊的 | |
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206 regularity | |
n.规律性,规则性;匀称,整齐 | |
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207 labor | |
n.劳动,努力,工作,劳工;分娩;vi.劳动,努力,苦干;vt.详细分析;麻烦 | |
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208 hisses | |
嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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209 dawdled | |
v.混(时间)( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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210 intimidated | |
v.恐吓;威胁adj.害怕的;受到威胁的 | |
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211 chattering | |
n. (机器振动发出的)咔嗒声,(鸟等)鸣,啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的,啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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212 serendipity | |
n.偶然发现物品之才能;意外新发现 | |
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213 timing | |
n.时间安排,时间选择 | |
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214 perverse | |
adj.刚愎的;坚持错误的,行为反常的 | |
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215 bleak | |
adj.(天气)阴冷的;凄凉的;暗淡的 | |
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216 condescending | |
adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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217 nagging | |
adj.唠叨的,挑剔的;使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评(某人)( nag的现在分词 );不断地烦扰或伤害(某人);无休止地抱怨;不断指责 | |
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218 spotlights | |
n.聚光灯(的光)( spotlight的名词复数 );公众注意的中心v.聚光照明( spotlight的第三人称单数 );使公众注意,使突出醒目 | |
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219 enumerating | |
v.列举,枚举,数( enumerate的现在分词 ) | |
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220 canny | |
adj.谨慎的,节俭的 | |
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221 tilt | |
v.(使)倾侧;(使)倾斜;n.倾侧;倾斜 | |
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222 rambled | |
(无目的地)漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 ); (喻)漫谈; 扯淡; 长篇大论 | |
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223 eyelid | |
n.眼睑,眼皮 | |
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224 strand | |
vt.使(船)搁浅,使(某人)困于(某地) | |
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225 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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226 condemned | |
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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227 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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228 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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229 ironic | |
adj.讽刺的,有讽刺意味的,出乎意料的 | |
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230 logic | |
n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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231 virility | |
n.雄劲,丈夫气 | |
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232 contingencies | |
n.偶然发生的事故,意外事故( contingency的名词复数 );以备万一 | |
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233 cormorant | |
n.鸬鹚,贪婪的人 | |
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234 discretion | |
n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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235 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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236 utilized | |
v.利用,使用( utilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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237 pranks | |
n.玩笑,恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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238 catchy | |
adj.易记住的,诡诈的,易使人上当的 | |
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239 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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240 flirt | |
v.调情,挑逗,调戏;n.调情者,卖俏者 | |
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241 promenade | |
n./v.散步 | |
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242 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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243 forestalling | |
v.先发制人,预先阻止( forestall的现在分词 ) | |
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244 stencil | |
v.用模版印刷;n.模版;复写纸,蜡纸 | |
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245 puffed | |
adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 );喷着汽(或烟)移动;吹嘘;吹捧 | |
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246 quirk | |
n.奇事,巧合;古怪的举动 | |
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247 veal | |
n.小牛肉 | |
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248 fumes | |
n.(强烈而刺激的)气味,气体 | |
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249 ambivalence | |
n.矛盾心理 | |
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250 configuration | |
n.结构,布局,形态,(计算机)配置 | |
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251 gravy | |
n.肉汁;轻易得来的钱,外快 | |
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252 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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253 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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254 antiquated | |
adj.陈旧的,过时的 | |
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255 giggled | |
v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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256 pouted | |
v.撅(嘴)( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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257 chafed | |
v.擦热(尤指皮肤)( chafe的过去式 );擦痛;发怒;惹怒 | |
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258 abrasion | |
n.磨(擦)破,表面磨损 | |
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259 beads | |
n.(空心)小珠子( bead的名词复数 );水珠;珠子项链 | |
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260 jaw | |
n.颚,颌,说教,流言蜚语;v.喋喋不休,教训 | |
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261 decorative | |
adj.装饰的,可作装饰的 | |
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262 grotto | |
n.洞穴 | |
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263 guts | |
v.狼吞虎咽,贪婪地吃,飞碟游戏(比赛双方每组5人,相距15码,互相掷接飞碟);毁坏(建筑物等)的内部( gut的第三人称单数 );取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 );内脏;消化道的下段;肠 | |
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264 traitors | |
卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 ); 叛徒; 背叛者; 背信弃义的人 | |
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265 sniffed | |
v.以鼻吸气,嗅,闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 );抽鼻子(尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气);抱怨,不以为然地说 | |
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266 groggy | |
adj.体弱的;不稳的 | |
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267 enveloped | |
v.包围,笼罩,包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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268 miasma | |
n.毒气;不良气氛 | |
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269 piqued | |
v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 );激起(好奇心) | |
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270 ascended | |
v.上升,攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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271 deafening | |
adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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272 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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273 dozing | |
v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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274 whitewashed | |
粉饰,美化,掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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275 intrigued | |
adj.好奇的,被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式);激起…的兴趣或好奇心;“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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276 sprint | |
n.短距离赛跑;vi. 奋力而跑,冲刺;vt.全速跑过 | |
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277 neatly | |
adv.整洁地,干净地,灵巧地,熟练地 | |
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278 halfway | |
adj.中途的,不彻底的,部分的;adv.半路地,在中途,在半途 | |
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279 illuminated | |
adj.被照明的;受启迪的 | |
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280 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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281 shuffling | |
adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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282 steer | |
vt.驾驶,为…操舵;引导;vi.驾驶 | |
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283 ramps | |
resources allocation and multiproject scheduling 资源分配和多项目的行程安排 | |
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284 tapestries | |
n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 );绣帷,织锦v.用挂毯(或绣帷)装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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285 spouter | |
喷油井;捕鲸船;说话滔滔不绝的人;照管流出槽的工人 | |
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286 blessings | |
n.(上帝的)祝福( blessing的名词复数 );好事;福分;因祸得福 | |
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287 gorge | |
n.咽喉,胃,暴食,山峡;v.塞饱,狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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288 bloody | |
adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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289 wraith | |
n.幽灵;骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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290 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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291 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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292 civilized | |
a.有教养的,文雅的 | |
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293 anthropologist | |
n.人类学家,人类学者 | |
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294 unreasonably | |
adv. 不合理地 | |
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295 mare | |
n.母马,母驴 | |
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296 glided | |
v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 );掠过;(鸟或飞机 ) 滑翔 | |
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297 collapsed | |
adj.倒塌的 | |
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298 furrows | |
n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 );(脸上的)皱纹v.犁田,开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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299 cadaver | |
n.尸体 | |
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300 aver | |
v.极力声明;断言;确证 | |
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301 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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302 importunate | |
adj.强求的;纠缠不休的 | |
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303 rimmed | |
adj.有边缘的,有框的v.沿…边缘滚动;给…镶边 | |
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304 facade | |
n.(建筑物的)正面,临街正面;外表 | |
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305 provincial | |
adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
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306 plausible | |
adj.似真实的,似乎有理的,似乎可信的 | |
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307 spokes | |
n.(车轮的)辐条( spoke的名词复数 );轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 | |
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308 compartment | |
n.卧车包房,隔间;分隔的空间 | |
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309 uncertainty | |
n.易变,靠不住,不确知,不确定的事物 | |
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310 scowl | |
vi.(at)生气地皱眉,沉下脸,怒视;n.怒容 | |
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311 bleached | |
漂白的,晒白的,颜色变浅的 | |
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312 humanitarian | |
n.人道主义者,博爱者,基督凡人论者 | |
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313 brotherhood | |
n.兄弟般的关系,手中情谊 | |
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314 entrenched | |
adj.确立的,不容易改的(风俗习惯) | |
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315 potent | |
adj.强有力的,有权势的;有效力的 | |
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316 embarrassment | |
n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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317 ambiguity | |
n.模棱两可;意义不明确 | |
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318 snarled | |
v.(指狗)吠,嗥叫, (人)咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 );咆哮着说,厉声地说 | |
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319 collaborate | |
vi.协作,合作;协调 | |
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320 solicitously | |
adv.热心地,热切地 | |
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321 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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322 ballads | |
民歌,民谣,特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 ); 讴 | |
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323 inert | |
adj.无活动能力的,惰性的;迟钝的 | |
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324 gourmet | |
n.食物品尝家;adj.出于美食家之手的 | |
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325 unprecedented | |
adj.无前例的,新奇的 | |
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326 savory | |
adj.风味极佳的,可口的,味香的 | |
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327 prancing | |
v.(马)腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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328 posturing | |
做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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329 bastard | |
n.坏蛋,混蛋;私生子 | |
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330 curried | |
adj.加了咖喱(或咖喱粉的),用咖哩粉调理的 | |
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331 coastal | |
adj.海岸的,沿海的,沿岸的 | |
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332 trickle | |
vi.淌,滴,流出,慢慢移动,逐渐消散 | |
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333 herds | |
兽群( herd的名词复数 ); 牧群; 人群; 群众 | |
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334 impracticality | |
n.不切实际, 办不到 | |
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335 missionaries | |
n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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336 warrior | |
n.勇士,武士,斗士 | |
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337 plunder | |
vt.劫掠财物,掠夺;n.劫掠物,赃物;劫掠 | |
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338 adversaries | |
n.对手,敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
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339 maxim | |
n.格言,箴言 | |
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340 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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341 modulated | |
已调整[制]的,被调的 | |
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342 lucid | |
adj.明白易懂的,清晰的,头脑清楚的 | |
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343 scurvy | |
adj.下流的,卑鄙的,无礼的;n.坏血病 | |
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344 fretting | |
n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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345 larder | |
n.食物贮藏室,食品橱 | |
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346 raved | |
v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 );愤怒地说;咆哮;痴心地说 | |
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347 hyenas | |
n.鬣狗( hyena的名词复数 ) | |
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348 hyena | |
n.土狼,鬣狗 | |
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349 blur | |
n.模糊不清的事物;vt.使模糊,使看不清楚 | |
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350 projection | |
n.发射,计划,突出部分 | |
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351 dubious | |
adj.怀疑的,无把握的;有问题的,靠不住的 | |
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352 nostalgia | |
n.怀乡病,留恋过去,怀旧 | |
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353 coalition | |
n.结合体,同盟,结合,联合 | |
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354 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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355 craftily | |
狡猾地,狡诈地 | |
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356 burlesque | |
v.嘲弄,戏仿;n.嘲弄,取笑,滑稽模仿 | |
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357 ruffled | |
adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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358 chaotic | |
adj.混沌的,一片混乱的,一团糟的 | |
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359 madrigal | |
n.牧歌;(流行于16和17世纪无乐器伴奏的)合唱歌曲 | |
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360 streaks | |
n.(与周围有所不同的)条纹( streak的名词复数 );(通常指不好的)特征(倾向);(不断经历成功或失败的)一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 );使布满条纹 | |
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361 imprint | |
n.印痕,痕迹;深刻的印象;vt.压印,牢记 | |
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362 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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363 extermination | |
n.消灭,根绝 | |
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364 outfit | |
n.(为特殊用途的)全套装备,全套服装 | |
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365 consignments | |
n.托付货物( consignment的名词复数 );托卖货物;寄售;托运 | |
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366 echelons | |
n.(机构中的)等级,阶层( echelon的名词复数 );(军舰、士兵、飞机等的)梯形编队 | |
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367 bastards | |
私生子( bastard的名词复数 ); 坏蛋; 讨厌的事物; 麻烦事 (认为别人走运或不幸时说)家伙 | |
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368 sinuous | |
adj.蜿蜒的,迂回的 | |
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369 scythe | |
n. 长柄的大镰刀,战车镰; v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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370 forfeit | |
vt.丧失;n.罚金,罚款,没收物 | |
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371 treks | |
n.远距离行走 ( trek的名词复数 );长途跋涉,艰难的旅程(尤指在山区)v.艰苦跋涉,徒步旅行( trek的第三人称单数 );(尤指在山中)远足,徒步旅行,游山玩水 | |
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372 wail | |
vt./vi.大声哀号,恸哭;呼啸,尖啸 | |
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373 wailing | |
v.哭叫,哀号( wail的现在分词 );沱 | |
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374 malcontent | |
n.不满者,不平者;adj.抱不平的,不满的 | |
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375 infantry | |
n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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376 strut | |
v.肿胀,鼓起;大摇大摆地走;炫耀;支撑;撑开;n.高视阔步;支柱,撑杆 | |
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377 rhinoceros | |
n.犀牛 | |
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378 obligatory | |
adj.强制性的,义务的,必须的 | |
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379 butts | |
笑柄( butt的名词复数 ); (武器或工具的)粗大的一端; 屁股; 烟蒂 | |
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380 obliterate | |
v.擦去,涂抹,去掉...痕迹,消失,除去 | |
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381 futility | |
n.无用 | |
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382 savagery | |
n.野性 | |
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383 boredom | |
n.厌烦,厌倦,乏味,无聊 | |
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384 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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385 spine | |
n.脊柱,脊椎;(动植物的)刺;书脊 | |
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386 molecule | |
n.分子,克分子 | |
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387 mole | |
n.胎块;痣;克分子 | |
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388 alignment | |
n.队列;结盟,联合 | |
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389 poise | |
vt./vi. 平衡,保持平衡;n.泰然自若,自信 | |
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390 exterminated | |
v.消灭,根绝( exterminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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391 languor | |
n.无精力,倦怠 | |
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392 countless | |
adj.无数的,多得不计其数的 | |
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393 muzzle | |
n.鼻口部;口套;枪(炮)口;vt.使缄默 | |
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394 hips | |
abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯,耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 );[建筑学]屋脊;臀围(尺寸);臀部…的 | |
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395 levitation | |
n.升空,漂浮;浮起 | |
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396 decadent | |
adj.颓废的,衰落的,堕落的 | |
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397 cocoon | |
n.茧 | |
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398 frustrated | |
adj.挫败的,失意的,泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 );挫败;使受挫折;令人沮丧 | |
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399 unnaturally | |
adv.违反习俗地;不自然地;勉强地;不近人情地 | |
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400 recuperate | |
v.恢复 | |
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401 pajamas | |
n.睡衣裤 | |
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402 rhinestone | |
n.水晶石,莱茵石 | |
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403 sprightly | |
adj.愉快的,活泼的 | |
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404 deviations | |
背离,偏离( deviation的名词复数 ); 离经叛道的行为 | |
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405 amulets | |
n.护身符( amulet的名词复数 ) | |
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406 purgatory | |
n.炼狱;苦难;adj.净化的,清洗的 | |
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407 mustered | |
v.集合,召集,集结(尤指部队)( muster的过去式和过去分词 );(自他人处)搜集某事物;聚集;激发 | |
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408 arid | |
adj.干旱的;(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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409 blight | |
n.枯萎病;造成破坏的因素;vt.破坏,摧残 | |
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410 marrow | |
n.骨髓;精华;活力 | |
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411 luminous | |
adj.发光的,发亮的;光明的;明白易懂的;有启发的 | |
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412 tinted | |
adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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413 affront | |
n./v.侮辱,触怒 | |
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414 tenacious | |
adj.顽强的,固执的,记忆力强的,粘的 | |
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415 ooze | |
n.软泥,渗出物;vi.渗出,泄漏;vt.慢慢渗出,流露 | |
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416 brute | |
n.野兽,兽性 | |
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417 seaports | |
n.海港( seaport的名词复数 ) | |
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418 colonists | |
n.殖民地开拓者,移民,殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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419 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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420 custody | |
n.监护,照看,羁押,拘留 | |
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421 killer | |
n.杀人者,杀人犯,杀手,屠杀者 | |
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422 impunity | |
n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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423 gulls | |
n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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424 carrion | |
n.腐肉 | |
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425 jaws | |
n.口部;嘴 | |
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426 mellowing | |
软化,醇化 | |
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427 huddled | |
挤在一起(huddle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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428 chastisement | |
n.惩罚 | |
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429 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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430 hissed | |
发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 ); 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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431 cramp | |
n.痉挛;[pl.](腹)绞痛;vt.限制,束缚 | |
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432 viscous | |
adj.粘滞的,粘性的 | |
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433 reverberating | |
回响,回荡( reverberate的现在分词 ); 使反响,使回荡,使反射 | |
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434 secretions | |
n.分泌(物)( secretion的名词复数 ) | |
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435 twitch | |
v.急拉,抽动,痉挛,抽搐;n.扯,阵痛,痉挛 | |
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436 fiber | |
n.纤维,纤维质 | |
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437 prospective | |
adj.预期的,未来的,前瞻性的 | |
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438 winnowing | |
v.扬( winnow的现在分词 );辨别;选择;除去 | |
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439 civilian | |
adj.平民的,民用的,民众的 | |
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440 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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441 enlisted | |
adj.应募入伍的v.(使)入伍, (使)参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 );获得(帮助或支持) | |
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442 silt | |
n.淤泥,淤沙,粉砂层,泥沙层;vt.使淤塞;vi.被淤塞 | |
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443 daydream | |
v.做白日梦,幻想 | |
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444 corpses | |
n.死尸,尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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445 frail | |
adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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446 joints | |
接头( joint的名词复数 ); 关节; 公共场所(尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所) (非正式); 一块烤肉 (英式英语) | |
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447 inflamed | |
adj.发炎的,红肿的v.(使)变红,发怒,过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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448 ascertained | |
v.弄清,确定,查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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449 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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450 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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451 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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452 regain | |
vt.重新获得,收复,恢复 | |
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453 sleek | |
adj.光滑的,井然有序的;v.使光滑,梳拢 | |
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454 tacked | |
用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 ); 附加,增补; 帆船抢风行驶,用粗线脚缝 | |
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455 tentacle | |
n.触角,触须,触手 | |
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456 turbulence | |
n.喧嚣,狂暴,骚乱,湍流 | |
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457 scribble | |
v.潦草地书写,乱写,滥写;n.潦草的写法,潦草写成的东西,杂文 | |
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458 supervisor | |
n.监督人,管理人,检查员,督学,主管,导师 | |
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459 implant | |
vt.注入,植入,灌输 | |
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460 drenched | |
adj.湿透的;充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 );在某人(某物)上大量使用(某液体) | |
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461 pretense | |
n.矫饰,做作,借口 | |
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462 rigor | |
n.严酷,严格,严厉 | |
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463 sterile | |
adj.不毛的,不孕的,无菌的,枯燥的,贫瘠的 | |
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464 reprieve | |
n.暂缓执行(死刑);v.缓期执行;给…带来缓解 | |
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465 additive | |
adj.附加的;n.添加剂 | |
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466 convivial | |
adj.狂欢的,欢乐的 | |
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467 expended | |
v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 );使用(钱等)做某事;用光;耗尽 | |
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468 parable | |
n.寓言,比喻 | |
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469 illustrate | |
v.举例说明,阐明;图解,加插图 | |
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470 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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471 capability | |
n.能力;才能;(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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472 taut | |
adj.拉紧的,绷紧的,紧张的 | |
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473 impaled | |
钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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474 parables | |
n.(圣经中的)寓言故事( parable的名词复数 ) | |
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475 fumbling | |
n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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476 sketches | |
n.草图( sketch的名词复数 );素描;速写;梗概 | |
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477 cemetery | |
n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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478 agglomeration | |
n.结聚,一堆 | |
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479 migration | |
n.迁移,移居,(鸟类等的)迁徙 | |
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480 integration | |
n.一体化,联合,结合 | |
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481 confrontation | |
n.对抗,对峙,冲突 | |
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482 disquieted | |
v.使不安,使忧虑,使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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483 inadequate | |
adj.(for,to)不充足的,不适当的 | |
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484 inertia | |
adj.惰性,惯性,懒惰,迟钝 | |
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485 frailty | |
n.脆弱;意志薄弱 | |
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486 structural | |
adj.构造的,组织的,建筑(用)的 | |
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487 tottering | |
adj.蹒跚的,动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 );踉跄;蹒跚;摇摇欲坠 | |
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488 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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489 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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490 crookedly | |
adv. 弯曲地,不诚实地 | |
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491 tinkled | |
(使)发出丁当声,(使)发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 ); 叮当响着发出,铃铃响着报出 | |
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492 tattoo | |
n.纹身,(皮肤上的)刺花纹;vt.刺花纹于 | |
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493 awakened | |
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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494 elevation | |
n.高度;海拔;高地;上升;提高 | |
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495 panorama | |
n.全景,全景画,全景摄影,全景照片[装置] | |
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496 diaphanous | |
adj.(布)精致的,半透明的 | |
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497 besieged | |
包围,围困,围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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498 singed | |
v.浅表烧焦( singe的过去式和过去分词 );(毛发)燎,烧焦尖端[边儿] | |
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499 streaked | |
adj.有条斑纹的,不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 );使布满条纹 | |
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500 pulverized | |
adj.[医]雾化的,粉末状的v.将…弄碎( pulverize的过去式和过去分词 );将…弄成粉末或尘埃;摧毁;粉碎 | |
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501 accordionist | |
n.手风琴师 | |
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502 talons | |
n.(尤指猛禽的)爪( talon的名词复数 );(如爪般的)手指;爪状物;锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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503 goblets | |
n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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504 nicotine | |
n.(化)尼古丁,烟碱 | |
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505 hue | |
n.色度;色调;样子 | |
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506 makeup | |
n.组织;性格;化装品 | |
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507 blotches | |
n.(皮肤上的)红斑,疹块( blotch的名词复数 );大滴 [大片](墨水或颜色的)污渍 | |
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508 cordon | |
n.警戒线,哨兵线 | |
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509 corks | |
n.脐梅衣;软木( cork的名词复数 );软木塞 | |
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510 snarling | |
v.(指狗)吠,嗥叫, (人)咆哮( snarl的现在分词 );咆哮着说,厉声地说 | |
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511 intermittent | |
adj.间歇的,断断续续的 | |
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512 cascading | |
流注( cascade的现在分词 ); 大量落下; 大量垂悬; 梯流 | |
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513 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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514 overlapping | |
adj./n.交迭(的) | |
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515 pall | |
v.覆盖,使平淡无味;n.柩衣,棺罩;棺材;帷幕 | |
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516 crescendo | |
n.(音乐)渐强,高潮 | |
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517 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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518 glandular | |
adj.腺体的 | |
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519 outrage | |
n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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520 voyeurism | |
n.窥阴癖者 | |
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521 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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522 psychic | |
n.对超自然力敏感的人;adj.有超自然力的 | |
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523 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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524 invalid | |
n.病人,伤残人;adj.有病的,伤残的;无效的 | |
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525 diligently | |
ad.industriously;carefully | |
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526 decadence | |
n.衰落,颓废 | |
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527 infest | |
v.大批出没于;侵扰;寄生于 | |
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528 infested | |
adj.为患的,大批滋生的(常与with搭配)v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 );遍布于 | |
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529 dangling | |
悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 ); 摆动不定; 用某事物诱惑…; 吊胃口 | |
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530 hops | |
跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 ); 单足蹦跳; 齐足(或双足)跳行; 摘葎草花 | |
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531 mildew | |
n.发霉;v.(使)发霉 | |
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532 flicking | |
(尤指用手指或手快速地)轻击( flick的现在分词 ); (用…)轻挥; (快速地)按开关; 向…笑了一下(或瞥了一眼等) | |
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533 sneaked | |
v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 );偷偷溜走;(儿童向成人)打小报告;告状 | |
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534 veranda | |
n.走廊;阳台 | |
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535 grunt | |
v.嘟哝;作呼噜声;n.呼噜声,嘟哝 | |
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536 ashore | |
adv.在(向)岸上,上岸 | |
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537 valediction | |
n.告别演说,告别词 | |
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538 trudge | |
v.步履艰难地走;n.跋涉,费力艰难的步行 | |
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539 clump | |
n.树丛,草丛;vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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540 hush | |
int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
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541 aloof | |
adj.远离的;冷淡的,漠不关心的 | |
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542 dozed | |
v.打盹儿,打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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543 trotted | |
小跑,急走( trot的过去分词 ); 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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