I
Winter. The green xebec whose figurehead was Astarte, goddess of sexual love, tacked1 slowly into the Grand Harbour. Yellow bastions, Moorish-looking city, rainy sky. What more on first glance? In his youth no one of those score or so other cities had ever shown old Stencil3 much in the way of Romance. But now as if making up for lost time his mind seemed to've gone rainy as the sky.
He kept near the stern, rained on, bird-frame wrapped in oilskin, sheltering his pipe's match from the wind. Overhead for a while hung Fort St. Angelo, dirty yellow and wrapped in a quiet not of this earth. Abeam4 gradually came H.M.S. Egmont, a few seamen5 on her decks like blue-and-white dolls shivering for the Harbour wind, holy stoning to work off this morning's chill. His cheeks hollowed and flattened6 as the xebec seemed to describe a complete circle and Grandmaster La Vallette's dream whirled away for Fort St. Elmo and the Mediterranean7, which in their turn spun8 past into Ricasoli, Vittoriosa, the Dockyard. Mehemet the master swore at his helmsman, Astarte now leaned from the xebec's bowsprit toward the city as if it were male and asleep and she, inanimate figurehead, a succubus preparing to ravish. Mehemet approached him. "Mara lives in a strange house," said Stencil. Wind flapped one whitening forelock, rooted halfway9 back on his scalp. He said it for the city, not for Mehemet; but the master understood.
"Whenever we came to Malta," he said in some Levantine tongue, "I got the feeling. As if a great hush10 were on this sea and the island its heart. As if I'd come back to something my own heart needs as deeply as a heart can." He lit a cigarette from Stencil's pipe. "But it is a deception11. She's an inconstant city. Be wary12 of her."
One hulking boy stood on the quay13 to receive their lines. He and Mehemet exchanged salaam14 aleikums. A pillar of cloud stood to the north behind Marsamuscetto, looking solid and about to topple; to crush the city. Mehemet wandered about kicking the crew. One by one they drifted below decks and began hauling the cargo16 topside: a few live goats, some sacks of sugar, dried tarragon from Sicily, salted pilchards in barrels, from Greece.
Stencil had his gear collected. The rain descended17 more quickly. He opened a great umbrella and stood under it watching the Dockyard country. Well, what am I waiting for, he wondered. The crew had retired18 below decks all sullen19. Mehemet came squishing across the deck. "Fortune," he said.
"An inconstant goddess." The pier21 hand who'd taken their lines now sat on a piling, facing the water, hunched22 up like a bedraggled sea bird. "Island of sunshine?" Stencil laughed. His pipe was still lit. Among white fumes24 then he and Mehemet made farewell. He teetered across a single plank25 to shore, balancing a ditty bag on one shoulder, the umbrella looking like a tightrope-walker's parasol. Indeed, he thought. What safety, after all, on this shore. Ashore26 anywhere?
From the window of a cab, proceeding27 in the rain along Strada Reale, Stencil could detect none of the holiday one saw in other capitals of Europe. Perhaps it was only the rain. But welcome relief surely. Stencil was fed to surfeit28 on songs, bunting, parades, promiscuous29 loves, uncouth30 noisemakings; all the normal responses of noncombatants-in-the-mass to Armistice31 or peace. Even in the normally sober offices in Whitehall, it had been impossible. Armistice, ha!
"I cannot understand your attitude," from Carruthers-Pillow, then Stencil's superior. "Armistice, ha, indeed."
Stencil muttered something about things not being stabilized32. How could he tell Carruthers-Pillow of all people, who felt in the presence of the most inconsequential chit initialed by the Foreign Secretary much as Moses must have toward the Decalogue God blasted out for him on stone. Wasn't the Armistice signed by legally-constituted heads of government? How could there not be peace? It would never be worth the trouble arguing. So they'd stood that November morning, watching the lamplighter extinguish the lights in St. James's Park, as if having long ago passed through some quicksilver surface from when Viscount Grey had stood perhaps at the same window and made his famous remark about the lamps going out all over Europe. Stencil of course didn't see the difference between event and image, but saw no advantage in disturbing his chief's euphoria. Let the poor innocent sleep. Stencil had merely been dour34, which in him passed for high celebration.
Lieutenant35 Mungo Sheaves, aide to the Officer Administrating Government on Malta, had set before Whitehall an architecture of discontent: among the police force, the University students, the civil service, the Dockyard workers. Behind it all lurked36 "the Doctor"; organizer, civil engineer: E. Mizzi. A bogeyman to Major General Hunter-Blair, the OAG, Stencil guessed; but found it took him an effort to see Mizzi as anything but a busy man-of-policy, agile37, Machiavellian38, a trifle old-fashioned, who'd managed to last as far as 1919. For a survival like that Stencil could only feel a wistful pride. His good friend Porpentine - twenty years ago in Egypt - hadn't he been the same sort? Belonged to a time where which side a man was on didn't matter: only the state of opposition39 itself, the tests of virtue, the cricket game? Stencil may have come in on the tail end.
It must be shock, fine: even Stencil could feel shock. Ten million dead and twice that wounded if nothing else. "But we reach a point," he'd thought of telling Carruthers-Pillow, "we old campaigners, when the habits of the past become too strong. Where we can say, and believe, that this abattoir40, but lately bankrupt, was fundamentally no different from the Franco-Prussian conflict, the Sudanese wars, even the Crimea. It is perhaps a delusion43 - say a convenience - necessary to our line of work. But more honorable surely than this loathsome44 weakness of retreat into dreams: pastel visions of disarmament, a League, a universal law. Ten million dead. Gas. Passchendaele. Let that be now a large figure, now a chemical formula, now an historical account. But dear lord, not the Nameless Horror, the sudden prodigy45 sprung on a world unaware46. We all saw it. There was no innovation, no special breach47 of nature, or suspension of familiar principles. If it came as any surprise to the public then their own blindness is the Great Tragedy, hardly the war itself."
On route to Valletta - the steamer to Syracuse, the week of lying doggo in a waterfront tavern48 till Mehemet's xebec arrived; all the way across a Mediterranean whose teeming49 history and full depth he could not feel, nor try, nor afford to try to feel, old Stencil had had it out with himself. Mehemet had helped.
"You're old," the skipper mused50 over his nightly hashish. "I am old, the world is old; but the world changes always; we, only so far. It's no secret, what sort of change this is. Both the world and we, M. Stencil, began to die from the moment of birth. Your game is politics which I don't pretend to understand. But it seems that these -" he shrugged51 - "noisy attempts to devise political happiness: new forms of government, new ways to arrange the fields and workshops; aren't they like the sailor I saw off Bizerte in 1324." Stencil chuckled52. Mehemet's recurring53 lament54 was for a world taken from him. He belonged to the trade routes of the Middle, Ages. According to the yarn55 he had in fact sailed the xebec through a rift15 in time's fabric, pursued then among the Aegean Islands by a Tuscan corsair which mysteriously dropped from sight. But it was the same sea and not until docking at Rhodes did Mehemet learn of his displacement56. And since had forsaken57 land for a Mediterranean which thank Allah would never change. Whatever his true nostalgia58 he reckoned by the Moslem59 calendar not only in conversation but also in logs and account books; though the religion and perhaps the birthright he'd let pass years ago.
"Slung60 on a stage over the gunwale of an old felucca, the Peri. A storm had just passed, rushing away toward the land in a great slope of clouds; already turning yellowish from the desert. The sea there is the color of Damascus plums; and how quiet. Sun was going down; not a beautiful sunset, more a gradual darkening of the air and that storm's mountainside. The Peri had been damaged, we hove to alongside and hailed her master. No reply. Only the sailor - I never saw his face - one of your fellahin who abandon the land like a restless husband and then grumble61 for the rest of their term afloat. It's the strongest marriage in the world. This one wore a kind of loincloth and a rag round his head for the sun which was almost gone. After we'd shouted in every dialect we had among us, he replied in Tuareg: 'The master is gone, the crew is gone, I am here and I am painting the ship.' It was true: he was painting the ship. She'd been damaged, not a load line in sight, and a bad list. 'Come aboard,' we told him, 'night is nearly on us and you cannot swim to land.' He never answered, merely continued dipping the brush in his earthen jar and slapping it smoothly62 on the Peri's creaking sides. What color? It looked gray but the air was dark. This felucca would never again see the sun. Finally I told the helmsman to swing our ship round and continue on course. I watched the fellah until it was too dark: becoming smaller, inching closer to the sea with every swell63 but never slackening his pace. A peasant with all his uptorn roots showing, alone on the sea at nightfall, painting the side of a sinking ship."
"Am I only getting old?" Stencil wondered. "Perhaps past the time I can change with the world."
"The only change is toward death," repeated Mehemet cheerfully. "Early and late we are in decay." The helmsman began to sing a monotonous64, Levantine lanterloo. There were no stars and the sea was hushed. Stencil refused hashish and filled his pipe with a respectable English blend; lit up, puffed65, began:
"Which way does it go? As a youth I believed in social progress because I saw chances for personal progress of my own. Today, at age sixty, having gone as far as I'm about to go, I see nothing but a dead end for myself, and if you're right, for my society as well. But then: suppose Sidney Stencil has remained constant after all - suppose instead sometime between 1859 and 1919, the world contracted a disease which no one ever took the trouble to diagnose because the symptoms were too subtle - blending in with the events of history, no different one by one but altogether fatal. This is how the public, you know, see the late war. As a new and rare disease which has now been cured and conquered for ever."
"Is old age a disease?" Mehemet asked. "The body slows down, machines wear out, planets falter66 and loop, sun and stars gutter67 and smoke. Why say a disease? Only to bring it down to a size you can look at and feel comfortable?"
"Because we do paint the side of some Peri or other, don't we. We call it society. A new coat of paint; don't you see? She can't change her own color."
"No more than the pustules of smallpox68 have anything to do with death. A new complexion69, a new coat of paint."
"Of course," said Stencil, thinking of something else, "of course we would all prefer to die of old age . . ."
The Armageddon had swept past, the professionals who'd survived had received no blessing70, no gift of tongues. Despite all attempts to cut its career short the tough old earth would take its own time in dying and would die of old age.
Then Mehemet told him of Mara.
"Another of your women."
"Ha, ha. Indeed. Maltese for woman."
"Of course."
"She is - if you care for the word - a spirit, constrained71 to live in Xaghriet Mewwija. The inhabited plain; the peninsula whose tip is Valletta her domain72. She nursed the shipwrecked St. Paul - as Nausicaa and Odysseus - taught love to every invader73 from Phoenician to French. Perhaps even to the English, though the legend loses respectability after Napoleon. She was from all evidence a perfectly74 historical personage, like St. Agatha, another of the island's minor75 saints.
"Now the Great Siege was after my time, but legend - one of them - says that she once had access to the entire island and the waters as far as the fishing banks off Lampedusa. The fishing fleets would always lie to there in the shape of a carob pod, her proper symbol. Early in your 1585, at any rate, two privateers, Giou and Romegas, captured a Turkish galleon76 belonging to the chief eunuch of the Imperial Seraglio. In retaliation77 Mara was taken prisoner on one of her jaunts78 to Lampedusa by the corsair Dragut, and brought back to Constantinople. Soon as the ship had passed the invisible circle centered at Xaghriet Mewwija with Lampedusa on the rim42, she fell into a strange trance, from which neither caresses79 nor tortures could rouse her. At length, having lost their own figurehead in a collision with a Sicilian ragusy the week before, the Turks lashed80 Mara to the bowsprit and that was how she entered Constantinople: a living figurehead. On drawing near to that city, blinding yellow and dun under a clear sky, she was heard to awake and cry: "Lejl, hekk ikun." Night, so be it. The Turks thought she was raving82. Or blind.
"They brought her to the serail into the presence of the Sultan. Now she never was pictured as a raving beauty. She shows up as a number of goddesses, minor deities84. Disguise is one of her attributes. But one curious thing about those images: jar ornaments85, friezes86, sculptures, no matter: she's always tall, slim, small-breasted and bellied87. No matter what the prevalent fashion in females, she remains88 constant. In her face is always a slight bow to the nose, a wide spacing of the eyes, which are small. No one you'd turn to watch on the street. But she was a teacher of love after all. Only pupils of love need be beautiful.
"She pleased the Sultan. Perhaps she made the effort. But was installed somehow as a concubine about the time La Vallette back on her island was blocking the creek89 between Senglea and St. Angelo with an iron chain and poisoning the springs in the Marsa plain with hemp90 and arsenic91. Once in the seraglio she proceeded to raise hell. She'd always been attributed magical talents. Perhaps the carob pod - she's often depicted92 holding one - had something to do with it. Wand, scepter. Perhaps too, some kind of fertility goddess - do I embarrass your Anglo-Saxon nerves? - though it is a quaint, hermaphrodite sort of deity93.
"Soon - a matter of weeks - the Sultan noticed a certain coldness infecting each of his nightly companions; a reluctance94, a lack of talent. Also a change in attitude among the eunuchs. Almost - how to say it - smug and keeping a bad secret of it. Nothing he could establish definitely; and so like most unreasonable95 men with suspicions he had certain girls and eunuchs tortured horribly. All protested innocence96, showed honest fear to the last twist of the neck, the last upward thrust of the iron spike97. And yet it progressed. Spies reported that shy concubines who had once paced with ladylike steps - limited by a slim chain between the ankles - and downcast eyes now smiled and flirted98 promiscuously99 with the eunuchs, and the eunuchs - horror! - flirted back. Girls left to themselves would suddenly leap on one another with fierce caresses; on occasion make loud abandoned love before the scandalized eyes of the Sultan's agents.
"At length it occurred to His Ghostly Magnificence, nearly out of his mind with jealousy100, to call in the sorceress Mara. Standing101 before him in a shift fashioned of tigermoth wings she faced the Imperial dais with a wicked smile. The Imperial retainers were charmed.
"'Woman,' began the Sultan.
"She raised a hand, 'I have done it all,' she recited sweetly: 'taught your wives to love their own bodies, showed them the luxury of a woman's love; restored potency102 to your eunuchs so that they may enjoy one another as well as the three hundred perfumed, female beasts of your harem.'
"Bewildered at such ready confession103, his tender Moslem sensibilities outraged104 by the epidemic105 of perversion106 she'd unleashed107 upon his domestic repose108, the Sultan made what is a fatal mistake with any woman: he decided to argue. Jolted109 into a rare sarcasm110 he explained to her, as to an idiot, why eunuchs cannot have sexual intercourse111.
"Her smile never fading, her voice placid113 as before, Mara replied: 'I have provided them with the means."
"So confidently did she speak that the Sultan began to feel the first groundswell of an atavistic terror. Oh, at last he knew: he was in the presence of a witch.
"Back home the Turks, led by Dragut and the pashas Piali and Mustafa, had laid siege to Malta. You know generally how it went. They occupied Xaghriet Mewwija, took Fort St. Elmo, and began their assault on Notabile, Borgo - today that's Vittoriosa - and Senglea, where La Vallette and the Knights114 were making their final stand.
"Now after St. Elmo had fallen, Mustafa (possibly in sorrow for Dragut, killed in that encounter by a stone cannonball) had also launched a grisly offensive on the morale116 of the Knights. He beheaded their slaughtered brethren, tied the corpses117 to planks118 and floated them into the Grand Harbour. Imagine being on sunrise watch and seeing the dawn touch those ex-comrades-in-arms, belly119 up and crowding the water: death's flotilla.
"One of the great mysteries about the Siege is why, when the Turks outnumbered the invested Knights, when the days of the besieged120 were numbered on a single hand, when Borgo and thus Malta were almost in the same hand - Mustafa's - why should they suddenly pull up and retreat, hoist anchor and leave the island?
"History says because of a rumor121. Don Garcia de Toledo, viceroy of Sicily, was on route with forty-eight galleys122. Pompeo Colonna and twelve hundred men, sent by the Pope to relieve La Vallette, eventually reached Gozo. But somehow the Turks got hold of intelligence that twenty thousand troops had landed at Melleha Bay and were on route to Notabile. General retreat was ordered; church bells all over Xaghriet Mewwija began to ring; the people thronged124 the streets, cheering. The Turks fled, embarked125 and sailed away to the southeast forever. History attributes it all to bad reconnaissance.
"But the truth is this: the words were spoken directly to Mustafa by the head of the Sultan himself. The witch Mara had sent him into a kind of mesmeric trance; detached his head and put it into the Dardanelles, where some miraculous127 set and drift - who knows all the currents, all the things which happen in this sea? - sent it on a collision course with Malta. There is a song written by a latter-day jongleur named Falconiere. No Renaissance had ever touched him; he resided at the Auberge of Aragon, Catalonia and Navarre at the time of the Siege. You know the sort of poet who can fall into belief in any fashionable cult128, current philosophy, new-found foreign superstition129. This one fell into belief and possibly love for Mara. Even distinguished130 himself on the ramparts of Borgo, braining four Janissaries with his lute131 before someone handed him a sword. She was, you see, his Lady."
Mehemet recited:
Fleeing the mistral, fleeing the sun's hot lash81,
Serene132 in scalloped waves, and sculptured sky
The head feels no rain, fears no pitchy night,
As o'er this ancient sea it races stars,
Empty but for a dozen fatal words,
Charmed by Mara, Mara my only love . . .
There follows an apostrophe to Mara."
Stencil nodded sagely133, trying to fill in with Spanish cognates.
"Apparently," Mehemet concluded, "the head returned to Constantinople and its owner, the sly Mara meanwhile having slipped aboard a friendly galiot, disguised as a cabin boy. Back in Valletta at last she appeared in a vision to La Vallette, greeting him with the words "Shalom aleikum."
The joke being that shalom is Hebrew for peace and also the root for the Greek Salome, who beheaded St. John.
"Beware of Mara," the old sailor said then. "Guardian135 spirit of Xaghriet Mewwija. Whoever or whatever sees to such things condemned136 her to haunt the inhabited plain, as punishment for her show at Constantinople. About as useful as clapping any faithless wife in a chastity belt.
"She's restless. She will find ways to reach out from Valletta, a city named after a man, but of feminine gender137, a peninsula shaped like the mons Veneris - you see? It is a chastity belt. But there are more ways than one to consummation, as she proved to the Sultan."
Now sprinting138 from the taxi through the rain to his hotel, Stencil did indeed feel a tug139. Not so much at his loins - there had been company enough in Syracuse to anaesthetize that for a while - as at the wizened140 adolescent he was always apt to turn into: A little later, scrunched141. up in an undersize tub, Stencil sang. It was a tune20, in fact, from his "music-hall" days before the war, and primarily a way to relax:
Every night to the Dog and Bell
Young Stencil loved to go
To dance on the tables and shout and sing
And give 'is pals142 a show.
His little wife would stay to home
'Er 'eart all filled wiv pain
But the next night sharp at a quarter to six
'E'd be down to the pub again. Until
That one fine evening in the monf of May
He announced to all as came wivin 'is sight
You must get along wivout me boys
I'm through wiv rowdiness and noise.
Cause Stencil's going 'ome tonight;
[In palmier days a chorus of junior F.O. operatives would enter here singing]:
'Ere, wot's this? Wot's the matter wiv Stencil?
Wot's the reason for such a change of 'eart?
[To which Stencil would answer]:
Gather round me closely lads
And I the most forlorn of cads
Will tell you all ere I depart:
[Refrain]
I've just become the father to a bouncing baby boy
And Herbert blithering Stencil is 'is name.
'E's a card And treats me wiv regard
Though I 'awe143 to change 'is nappies all the same.
I don't know where we got the time to make 'im,
Cause I've been coming 'ome drunk most every night,
But 'e's cute and fat as a kidney pie
And looks like 'is ma and that is why
Stencil's going 'ome tonight
(Just ask the milkman)
Stencil's going 'ome tonight.
Out of the tub, dry, back in tweeds, Stencil stood at the window, looking out idly at the night.
At length came a knock at the door. It would be Maijstral. A quick twitch144 of eyeballs about the room to check for loose papers, anything compromising. Then to the door to admit the shipfitter who'd been described to him as looking like a stunted145 oak. Maijstral stood there neither aggressive nor humble146, merely existing: whitening hair, unkempt mustaches. A nervous tic in the man's upper lip made the food particles trapped there vibrate disturbingly.
"He comes of noble family," Mehemet had revealed sadly. Stencil fell into the trap, asking which family. "Della Torre," Mehemet replied. Delatore, informer.
"What of the Dockyard people," Stencil asked.
"They will attack the Chronicle." (A grievance147 stemming from the strike of 1917; the newspaper had published a letter condemning148 the strike, but had given no equal time for a reply.) "There was a meeting a few minutes ago." Maijstral gave him a brief digest. Stencil knew all the objections. Workers from England got a colonial allowance: local yardbirds received only normal wages. Most would like to emigrate, after hearing glowing reports from the Maltese Labour Carps and other crews from abroad of higher pay outside Malta. But the rumor had started, somehow, that the government was refusing passports to keep workers on the island, against any future requirement. "What else can they do but emigrate?" Maijstral digressed: "With the war the number of Dockyard workers swelled150 to three times what it was before. Now, with Armistice, they're already laying off. There are only so many jobs here outside the Dockyard. Not enough to keep everyone eating."
Stencil wanted to ask: if you sympathize, why inform? He had used informers as a journeyman his tools and had never tried to understand their motives151. Usually he supposed it was no more than a personal grudge152, a desire for revenge. But he'd seen them before, torn: committed to some program or other, and still helping153 along its defeat. Would Maijstral be there in the van of the mob storming the Daily Malta Chronicle? Stencil did want to ask why, but could hardly. It being none of his affair.
Maijstral told him all he knew and left, expressionless as before. Stencil lit a pipe, consulted a map of Valletta, and five minutes later was strolling sprightly154 down Strada Reale, trailing Maijstral.
This was normal precaution. Of course, a certain double standard was at work; the feeling being "If he will inform for me he will also inform against me."
Ahead Maijstral now turned left, away from the lights of the main thoroughfare; down the hill toward Strada Stretta. Here were the borders of this city's Disreputable Quarter; Stencil looked around without much curiosity. It was all the same. What a warped155 idea of cities one got in this occupation! If no record of this century should survive except the personal logs of F.O. operatives, the historians of the future must reconstruct a curious landscape indeed.
Massive public buildings with characterless facades156; networks of streets from which the civilian157 populace seems mysteriously absent. An aseptic administrative158 world, surrounded by an outlying vandal-country of twisting lanes, houses of prostitution, taverns159; ill-lit except for rendezvous160 points, which stand out like sequins on an old and misused161 ball-gown.
"If there is any political moral to be found in this world," Stencil once wrote in his journal, "it is that we carry on the business of this century with an intolerable double vision. Right and Left; the hothouse and the street. The Right can only live and work hermetically, in the hothouse of the past, while outside the Left prosecute162 their affairs in the streets by manipulated mob violence. And cannot live but in the dreamscape of the future.
"What of the real present the men-of-no-politics, the once-respectable Golden Mean? Obsolete163; in any case, lost sight of. In a West of such extremes we can expect, at the very least, a highly 'alienated164' populace within not many more years."
Strada Stretta; Strait Street. A passage meant, one felt, to be choked with mobs. Such was nearly the case: early evening had brought to it sailors ashore from H.M.S. Egmont and smaller men-o-war; seamen from Greek, Italian and North African merchantmen; and a supporting cast of shoeshine boys, pimps, hawkers of trinkets, confections, dirty pictures. Such were the topological deformities of this street that one seemed to walk through a succession of musichall stages, each demarcated by a curve or slope, each with a different set and acting166 company but all for the same low entertainment. Stencil, old soft-shoe artist, felt quite at home.
But he increased his pace through the thickening crowds; noticing with some anxiety that Maijstral had begun to disappear more and more frequently is the surgings of white and blue ahead.
To his right he became aware of a persistent167 image, flickering168 in and out of his field of vision. Tall, black, somehow conical. He risked a sidewise glance. What seemed to be a Greek pope or parish priest had been keeping abreast169 of him for some time. What was a man of God doing in this territory? Seeking perhaps to reclaim170 souls; but their glances touched and Stencil saw no merciful intention there.
"Chaire," muttered the priest.
"Chaire, Papa," said Stencil out of the side of his mouth, and tried to push ahead. He was restrained by the pope's ringed hand.
"One moment, Sidney," said the voice. "Come over here, out of this mob."
That voice was damned familiar. "Maijstral is going to the John Bull," said the pope. "We can catch up with him later." They proceeded down an alley123 to a small courtyard. In the center was a cistern171, its rim adorned172 with a dark sunburst of sewage.
"Presto173 change-ho," and off came the holy man's black beard and calotte.
"Demivolt, you've grown crude in your old age. What sort of low comedy is this? What's the matter with Whitehall?"
"They're all right," sang Demivolt, hopping174 clumsily about the courtyard. "You're as much a surprise to me, you know."
"What about Moffit," Stencil said. "As long as they're staging a reunion of the Florence crew."
"Moffit caught it in Belgrade. I thought you'd heard." Demivolt removed the soutane and rolled his paraphernalia175 in it. Underneath176 he wore a suit of English tweed. After quickly recombing his hair and twirling his mustache, he looked no different from the Demivolt Stencil had last seen in '99. Except for more gray in the hair, a few more lines in the face.
"God knows who all they've sent to Valletta," said Demivolt cheerfully, as they returned to the street. "I suspect it's only another fad112 - F.O. gets these fits, you know. Like a spa or watering place. The Fashionable Place To Go seems to be different every season."
"Don't look at me. I have only a hint what's up. The natives here are as we say, restless. This chap Fairing - R.C. priest, Jesuit I suspect - thinks there will be a blood bath before very long."
"Yes, I've seen Fairing. If his paycheck is coming out of the same pocket as ours, he shows it not."
"Oh I doubt, I doubt," Stencil said vaguely177, wanting to talk about old times.
"Maijstral always sits out in front; we'll go across the street." They took seats at the Cafe Phoenicia, Stencil with his back to the street. Briefly, over Barcelona beer each filled the other in on the two decades between the Vheissu affair and here, voices monotone against the measured frenzy178 of the street.
"Odd how paths cross."
Stencil nodded.
"Are we meant to keep tabs on one another? Or were we meant to meet."
"Meant?" too quickly. "By Whitehall, of course."
"Of course."
As we get older we skew more toward the past. Stencil had thus become partially179 lost to the street and the yardbird across it. The ill-starred year in Florence - Demivolt having popped up again - now came back to him, each unpleasant detail quivering brightly in the dark room of his spy's memory. He hoped devoutly180 that Demivolt's appearance was merely chance; and not a signal for the reactivation of the same chaotic181 and Situational forces at work in Florence twenty years ago.
For Fairing's prediction of massacre182, and its attendant politics, had all the earmarks of a Situation-in-the-process-of-becoming. He had changed none of his ideas on The Situation. Had even written an article, pseudonymous, and sent it to Punch: "The Situation as an N-Dimensional Mishmash." It was rejected.
"Short of examining the entire history of each individual participating;" Stencil wrote, "short of anatomizing each soul, what hope has anyone of understanding a Situation? It may be that the civil servants of the future will not be accredited183 unless they first receive a degree in brain surgery."
He indeed was visited by dreams in which he had shrunk to submicroscopic size and entered a brain, strolling in through some forehead's pore and into the cul-de-sac of a sweat gland149. Struggling out of a jungle of capillaries there he would finally reach bone; down then through the skull184, dura mater, arachnoid, pia mater to the fissure-floored sea of cerebrospinal fluid. And there he would float before final assault on the gray hemispheres: the soul.
Nodes of Ranvier, sheath of Schwann, vein185 of Galen; tiny Stencil wandered all night long among the silent, immense lightning bursts of nerve-impulses crossing a synapse187; the waving dendrites, the nerve-autobahns chaining away to God knew where in receding188 clusters of end-bulbs. A stranger in this landscape, it never occurred to him to ask whose brain he was in. Perhaps his own. They were fever dreams: the kind where one is given an impossibly complex problem to solve, and keeps chasing dead ends, following random189 promises, frustrated190 at every turn, until the fever breaks.
Assume, then, a prospect191 of chaos192 in the streets, joined by every group on the island with a grudge. This would include nearly everyone but the OAG and his staff. Doubtless each would think only of his own immediate193 desires. But mob violence, like tourism, is a kind of communion. By its special magic a large number of lonely souls, however heterogeneous194, can share the common property of opposition to what is. And like an epidemic or earthquake the politics of the street can overtake even the most stable-appearing of governments; like death it cuts through and gathers in all ranks of society.
-> The poor would seek revenge against the millers195, who allegedly profiteered in bread during the war.
-> The civil servants would be out looking for a fairer shake: advance notice of open competition, higher salaries, no more racial discrimination.
-> The tradesmen would want repeal196 of the Succession and Donation Duties Ordinance197. This tax was meant to bring in 5000 pounds yearly; but the actual assessments198 amounted to 30,000 pounds.
-> Bolshevists among the yardbirds could only be satisfied with the abolition199 of all private property, sacred or profane200.
-> The anti-colonial extremists would seek of course to sweep England from the Palace forever. Damn the consequences. Though probably Italy would enter on the next crest201 and be even harder to dislodge. There would be blood ties, then.
-> The Abstentionists wanted a new constitution.
-> The Mizzists - comprising three clubs: Giovine Malta, Dante Alighieri, Il Comitato Patriottico - sought (a) Italian hegemony in Malta, (b) aggrandizement202 for the leader, Dr. Enrico Mizzi.
-> The Church - here perhaps Stencil's C. of E. stuffiness203 colored an otherwise objective view - wanted only what the Church always desires during times of political crisis. She awaited a Third Kingdom. Violent overthrow204 is a Christian205 phenomenon.
The matter of a Paraclete's coming, the comforter, the dove; the tongues of flame, the gift of tongues: Pentecost. Third Person of the Trinity. None of it was implausible to Stencil. The Father had come and gone. In political terms, the Father was the Prince; the single leader, the dynamic figure whose virtu used to be a determinant of history. This had degenerated206 to the Son, genius of the liberal love-feast which had produced 1848 and lately the overthrow of the Czars. What next? What Apocalypse?
Especially on Malta, a matriarchal island. Would the Paraclete be also a mother? Comforter, true. But what gift of communication could ever come from a woman . . .
Enough, lad, he told himself. You're in dangerous waters. Come out, come out.
"Don't turn around now," Demivolt broke in conversationally208, "but it's she. At Maijstral's table."
When Stencil did turn around he saw only a vague figure in an evening cape, her face shadowed by an elaborate, probably Parisian bonnet209.
"That is Veronica Manganese."
"Gustavus V is ruler of Sweden. You are brimful of intelligence, aren't you."
Demivolt gave Stencil a thumbnail dossier on Veronica Manganese. Origins uncertain. She'd popped up in Malta at the beginning of the war, in the company of one Sgherraccio, a Mizzist. She was now intimate with various renegade Italians, among them D'Annunzio the poet-militant, and one Mussolini, an active and troublesome anti-socialist. Her political sympathies weren't known; whatever they might be, Whitehall was less than amused. The woman was clearly a troublemaker210. She was reputed to be wealthy; lived alone in a villa211 long abandoned by the baronage of Sant' Ugo di Tagliapiombo di Sammut, a nearly defunct212 branch of the Maltese nobility. The source of her income was not apparent.
"He's a double agent, then."
"It would seem so."
"Why don't I go back to London. You seem to be doing quite well -"
"Negative, negative, Sidney. You do remember Florence."
A waiter materialized with more Barcelona beer. Stencil fumbled213 for his pipe. "This must be the worst brew134 in the Mediterranean. You deserve another, for that. Can't Vheissu ever be a dead file?"
"Call Vheissu a symptom. Symptoms like that are always alive, somewhere in the world."
"Sweet Christ, we've only now concluded one. Are they quite ready, do you think, to begin this foolishness again?"
"I don't think," Demivolt smiled grimly. "I try not to. Seriously, I believe all elaborate games of this sort arise from someone in the Office - high up, of course - getting a hunch23. Saying to himself, 'Look here: something is wrong, you know.' He's usually right. In Florence he was right, again only as far as we're talking about symptoms and not about any acute case of whatever the disease is.
"Now you and I are only private-soldiers. For myself, I wouldn't presume. That manner of guesswork draws from a really first-rate intuitiveness. Oh we have our own minor hunches214, of course: your following Maijstral tonight. But it's a matter of level. Level of pay-grade, level of elevation215 above the jumble216, where one can see the long-term movements. We're in it, in the thick, after all."
"And so they want us together," Stencil murmured.
"As of now. Who knows what they'll want tomorrow?"
"And I wonder who else is here."
"Look sharp. There they go." They let the two across the street move off before they arose. "Like to see the island? They're probably on their way out to the Villa. Not that the rendezvous is apt to prove very exciting."
So they made their way down Strada Streeta, Demivolt looking like a jaunty anarchist217 with the black bundle under one arm.
"The roads are terrible," Demivolt admitted, "but we have an automobile218."
"I'm frightened to death of automobiles219."
Indeed he was. On route to the villa Stencil clutched the Peugeot's seat, refusing to look at anything but the floorboards. Autos, balloons, aeroplanes; he'd have nothing to do with them.
"Isn't this rather crude," he gritted220, huddled221 behind the windscreen as if expecting it to vanish at any moment. "There's no one else on the road."
"At the speed she's going she'll lose us soon enough," Demivolt chirruped, all breezy. "Relax, Sidney."
They moved southwest into Floriana. Ahead Veronica Manganese's Benz had vanished in a gale186 of cinders222 and exhaust. "Ambush," Stencil suggested.
"They're not that sort." After awhile Demivolt turned right. They worked their way thus round Marsamuscetto in near-darkness. Reeds whistled in the fens115. Behind them the illuminated223 city seemed tilted224 toward them, like some display case in a poor souvenir shop. And how quiet was Malta's night. Approaching or leaving other capitals one always caught the sense of a great pulse or plexus whose energy reached one by induction226; broadcasting its presence over whatever arete or sea's curve might be hiding it. But Valletta seemed serene in her own past, in the Mediterranean womb, in something so insulating that Zeus himself might once have quarantined her and her island for an old sin or an older pestilence227. So at peace was Valletta that with the least distance she would deteriorate228 to' mere33 spectacle. She ceased to exist as anything quick or pulsed, and was assumed again into the textual stillness of her own history.
The Villa di Sammut lay past Sliema near the sea, elevated on a small prominence229, facing out toward an invisible Continent. What Stencil could see of the building was conventional enough, as villas230 go: white walls, balconies, few windows on the landward side, stone satyrs chasing stone nymphs about dilapidated grounds; one great ceramic231 dolphin vomiting232 clear water into a pool. But the low wall surrounding the place drew his attention. Normally insensitive to the artistic233 or Baedeker aspect of any city he visited, Stencil was now ready to succumb234 to the feathery tentacles of a nostalgia which urged him gently back toward childhood; a childhood of gingerbread witches, enchanted235 parks, fantasy country. It was a dream-wall, swirling236 and curlicuing now in the light of a quarter moon, seeming no more solid than the decorative237 voids - some almost like leaves or petals238, some almost like bodily organs not quite human - which pierced its streaked239 and cobbled substance.
"Where have we seen this before," he whispered.
One light in an upper story went out. "Come," said Demivolt. They vaulted the wall and crept round the villa peering in windows, listening at doors.
"Are we looking for anything particular," Stencil asked.
A lantern came on behind them and a voice said, "Turn round slowly. Hands away from your sides."
Stencil had a strong stomach and all the cynicism of a non-political career and an approaching second childhood. But the face above the lantern did give him a mild shock. It is too grotesque240, too deliberately241, preciously Gothic to be real, he protested to himself. The upper part of the nose seemed to have slid down, giving an exaggerated saddle-and-hump; the chin cut off at midpoint to slope concave back up the other side, pulling part of the lip up in a scarred half-smile. Just under the eye socket242 on the same side winked243 a roughly circular expanse of silver. The shadows thrown by the lantern made it worse. The other hand held a revolver.
"You are spies?" the voice inquired, an English voice twisted somehow by a mouth cavity one could only infer. "Let me see your faces." He moved the lantern closer and Stencil saw a change begin to grow in the eyes, all that had been human in the face to begin with.
"Both of you," the mouth said. "Both of you then." And tears began to squeeze from the eyes. "Then you know it is she, and why I am here." He repocketed the revolver, turned, slumped244 off toward the villa. Stencil started after him, but Demivolt put out an arm. At a door the man turned. "Can't you let us alone? Let her make her own peace? Let me be a simple caretaker? I want nothing more from England." The last words were spoken so weakly the sea wind nearly carried them off. The lantern and its holder vanished behind the door.
"Old running mate," Demivolt said, "there is a tremendous nostalgia about this show. Do you feel it? The pain of a return home."
"Was that in Florence?"
"The rest of us were. Why not?"
"I don't like duplication of effort."
"This occupation sees nothing else." The tone was grim.
"Another one?"
"Oh hardly so soon. But give it twenty years."
Although Stencil had been face to face with her caretaker, this was the fast meeting: he must have reckoned it even then as a "first meeting." Suspecting anyway that Veronica Manganese and he had met before, why surely they would meet again.
II
But the second meeting had to wait on the coming of a kind of false spring, where smells of the Harbour drifted to the highest reaches of Valletta and flocks of sea birds consulted dispiritedly down in the Dockyard country, aping the actions of their human co-tenants.
There had been no attack on the Chronicle. On 3 February political censorship of the Maltese press was abolished. La Voce del Popolo, the Mizzist paper, promptly245 began agitating246. Articles praising Italy and attacking Britain; excerpts247 copied from the foreign press, comparing Malta to certain Italian provinces under a tyrannical Austrian rule. The vernacular248 press followed suit. None of it worried Stencil particularly. When the freedom to criticize a government had been suspended four years by the same government, a great deal of pent-up resentment249 would obviously be released in a voluminous - though not necessarily effective - torrent250.
But three weeks later, a "National Assembly" met in Valletta to draft a request for a liberal constitution. All shades of political opinion - Abstentionists, Moderates, the Comitato Patriottico - were represented. The gathering251 met at the club Giovine Malta, which was Mizzist-controlled.
"Trouble," Demivolt said darkly.
"Not necessarily." Though Stencil knew the difference between "political gathering" and "mob" is fine indeed. Anything might touch it off.
The night before the meeting a play at the Manoel Theatre, dealing252 with Austrian oppression in Italy, worked the crowd into a gloriously foul253 humor. The actors tossed in several topical ad libs which did little to improve the general mood. Rollickers in the street sang La Bella Gigogin. Maijstral reported that a few Mizzists and Bolshevists were doing their best to drum up enthusiasm for a riot among the Dockyard workers. The extent of their success was doubtful. Maijstral shrugged. It might only be the weather. An unofficial notice had also gone out, advising merchants to close up their establishments.
"Considerate of them," Demivolt remarked next day as they strolled down Strada Reale. A few shops and cafes had been closed. A quick check revealed that the owners had Mizzist sympathies.
As the day progressed small bands of agitators254, most of them with a holiday air (as if rioting were a healthy avocation255 like handicrafts or outdoor sports), roamed the streets, breaking windows, wrecking256 furniture, yelling at the merchants still open to close up their shops. But for some reason a spark was missing. Rain swept by in squalls at intervals257 throughout the day.
"Grasp this moment," Demivolt said, "hold it close, examine it, treasure it. It is one of those rare occasions on which advance intelligence has proved to be correct."
True: no one had been particularly excited. But Stencil wondered about that missing catalyst258. Any minor accident: a break in the clouds, a catastrophic shivering at the first tentative blow to a shop window, the topology of an object of destruction (up a hill or down - it makes a difference) - anything might swell a merely mischievous259 humor to suddenly apocalyptic260 rage.
But all that came from the meeting was adoption261 of Mizzi's resolution calling for complete independence from Great Britain. La Voce del Popolo gibbered triumphantly262. A new meeting of the Assembly was called for 7 June.
"Three and a half months," Stencil said. "It will be warmer then," Demivolt shrugged. Whereas Mizzi, an Extremist, had been secretary of the February meeting, one Dr. Mifsud, a Moderate, would be secretary next time. The Moderates wanted to sit down and discuss the constitutional question with Hunter-Blair and the Secretary of State for the Colonies, rather than make any total break with England. And the Moderates, come June, would be in the majority.
"It seems rather a good lookout," Demivolt protested. "If anything was going to happen, it would have happened while Mizzi was ascendant."
"It rained," said Stencil. "It was cold."
La Voce del Popolo and the Maltese-language papers continued their attacks on the government. Maijstral reported twice a week, giving a general picture of deepening discontent among the yardbirds, but they were afflicted263 by a soggy lethargy which must wait for the heat of summer to dry it, the spark of a leader, a Mizzi or equivalent, to touch it into anything more explosive. As the weeks passed Stencil came to know more about his double agent. It came out that Maijstral lived near the Dockyard with his young wife Carla. Carla was pregnant, the child was due in June.
"How does she feel," Stencil asked once with unaccustomed indiscretion, "about your being in this occupation."
"She will be a mother soon," Maijstral answered, gloomy. "That's all she thinks about or feels. You know what it is to be a mother on this island."
Stencil's boy-romanticism seized on this: perhaps there was more than a professional element to the nighttime meetings out at the Sammut villa. He was almost tempted264 to ask Maijstral to spy on Veronica Manganese; but Demivolt, the voice of reason, was reluctant.
"Tip our hand that way. We have an ear already in the villa. Dupiro, the ragman, who is quite genuinely in love with a kitchen maid there."
If the Dockyard were the only trouble spot to watch Stencil might have fallen into the same torpor265 that afflicted the yardbirds. But his other contact - Father Linus Fairing, S.J., the voice whose call for help had been heard among the mass mirth of November and set a-clattering the emotional and intuitive levers, pawls or ratchets to propel Stencil across a continent and sea for solid reasons as yet unclear to him - this Jesuit saw and heard (possibly did) enough to keep Stencil moderately hagridden.
"Being a Jesuit," said the priest, "of course there are certain attitudes . . . we do not control the world in secret, Stencil. We have no spy net, no political nerve-center at the Vatican." Oh, Stencil was unbiased enough. Though with his upbringing he could hardly have sidestepped exposure to a certain C. of E. leeriness toward the Society of Jesus. But he objected to Fairing's digressions; the fog of political opinion that crept in to warp what should have been cleareyed reporting. At their initial meeting - shortly after the first trip out to Veronica Manganese's villa - Fairing had made a poor first impression. He'd tried to be chummy, even - good God - to talk shop. Stencil was reminded of certain otherwise competent Anglo-Indians in the civil service. "We are discriminated266 against," seemed to be the complaint: "we are despised by white and Asian alike. Very well, we shall play to the hilt this false role popular prejudice believes us to play." How many deliberate heightenings of dialect, breaches267 of conversational207 taste, gaucheries at table had Stencil seen dedicated268 to that intention?
So with Fairing. "We are all spies in this together," that was the tack2 he took. Stencil had been interested only in information. He wasn't about to let personality enter the Situation; this would be courting chaos. Fairing realizing soon enough that Stencil was not, after all, a No Popery man, did give up this arrogant269 form of honesty far more exasperating270 behavior. Here, seemed to be his assumption, here is a spy who has risen above the political turmoil271 of his time. Here is Machiavelli on the rack, less concerned with immediacy than idea. Accordingly the subjective272 fog crept in to obscure his weekly reports.
"Any tug in the direction of anarchy273 is anti-Christian," he protested once, having sucked Stencil into confessing his theory of Paracletian politics. "The Church has matured, after all. Like a young person she has passed from promiscuity274 to authority. You are nearly two millennia275 out-of-date."
An old dame41 trying to cover up a flaming youth? Ha!
Actually Fairing, as a source, was ideal. Malta being, after all, a Roman Catholic island, the Father was in a position to come by enough information outside the confessional to clarify (at least) their picture of every disaffected276 group on the island. Though Stencil was less than happy over the quality of these reports, quantity was no problem. But what had provoked his complaint to Mungo Sheaves in the first place? What was the man afraid of?
For it was not mere love of politicking278 and intrigue279. If he did believe in the authority of the Church, of institutions, then perhaps four years of sitting sequestered280, outside the suspension of peace, which had lately convulsed the rest of the Old World, this quarantine might have brought him to some belief in Malta as a charmed circle, some stable domain of peace.
And then with Armistice to be exposed abruptly281 at every level to a daftness for overthrow among his parishioners . . . of course.
It was the Paraclete he feared. He was quite content with a Son grown to manhood.
Fairing, Maijstral, puzzlement over the identity of the hideous282 face above the lantern; these occupied Stencil well into March. Until one afternoon, arriving at the church early for a meeting, he saw Veronica Manganese emerge from the confessional, head bowed, face shadowed as he had seen her in Strada Stretta. She knelt at the altar rail and began to pray penance283. Stencil half-knelt in the rear of the church, elbows hung over the back of the pew in front of him. Appearing to be a good Catholic, appearing to be carrying on an affair with Maijstral; nothing suspicious in either. But both at once and with (he imagined) scores of father-confessors in Valletta alone for her to choose from; it was as close to superstition as Stencil ever got. Now and again events would fall into ominous284 patterns.
Was Fairing too a double agent? If so then it was actually the woman who'd brought F.O. into this. What twisted Italian casuistry advised revealing any plot-in-mounting to one's enemies?
She arose and left the church, passing Stencil on route. Their eyes met. Demivolt's remark came back to him: "A tremendous nostalgia about this show."
Nostalgia and melancholy285 . . . Hadn't he bridged two worlds? The changes couldn't have been all in him. It must be an alien passion in Malta where all history seemed simultaneously286 present, where all streets were strait with ghosts, where in a sea whose uneasy floor made and unmade islands every year this stone fish and Ghaudex and the rocks called Cumin-seed and Peppercorn had remained fixed287 realities since time out of mind. In London were too many distractions288. History there was the record of an evolution. One-way and ongoing289. Monuments, buildings, plaques290 were remembrances only; but in Valletta remembrances seemed almost to live.
Stencil, at home everywhere in Europe, had thus come out of his element. Recognizing it was his first step down. A spy has no element to be out of, and not feeling "at home" is a sign of weakness.
F.O. continued to be uncommunicative and unhelpful. Stencil raised the question to Demivolt: had they been turned out to pasture here?
"I've been afraid of that. We are old."
"It was different once," Stencil asked, "wasn't it?"
They went out that night and got maudlin-drunk. But nostalgic melancholy is a fine emotion, becoming blunted on alcohol. Stencil regretted the binge. He remembered rollicking down the hill to Strait Street, well past midnight, singing old vaudeville291 songs. What was happening?
There came, in time's fullness, One of Those Days. After a spring morning made horrible by another night of heavy drinking Stencil arrived at Fairing's church to learn the priest was being transferred.
"To America. There is nothing I can do." Again the old. fellow-professional smile.
Could Stencil have sneered292 "God's will"; not likely. His case wasn't yet that far advanced. The Church's will, certainly, and Fairing was the type to bow to Authority. Here was after all another Englishman. So they were, in a sense, brothers in exile.
"Hardly," the priest smiled. "In the matter of Caesar and God, a Jesuit need not be as flexible as you might think. There's no conflict of interests."
"As there is between Caesar and Fairing? Or Caesar and Stencil?"
"Something like that."
"Sahha, then. I suppose your relief . . ."
"Father Avalanche293 is younger. Don't lead him into bad habits."
"I see."
Demivolt was out at Hamrun, conferring with agents among the millers. They were frightened. Had Fairing been too frightened to stay? Stencil had supper in his room. He'd drawn294 no more than a few times on his pipe when there was a timid knock.
"Oh, come. Come."
A girl, obviously pregnant, who stood, only watching him.
"Do you speak English, then."
"I do. I am Carla Maijstral." She remained erect295, shoulderblades and buttocks touching296 the door.
"He will be killed, or hurt," she said. "In wartime a woman must expect to lose her husband. But now there is peace."
She wanted him sacked. Sack him? Why not. Double agents were dangerous. But now, having lost the priest . . . She couldn't know about La Manganese.
"Could you help, signor. Speak to him."
"How did you know? He didn't tell you."
"The workers know there is a spy among them. It has become a favorite topic among all the wives. Which one of us? Of course, it is one of the bachelors, they say. A man with a wife, with children, could not take the chance." She was dry-eyed, her voice was steady.
"For God's sake," Stencil said irritably297, "sit down."
Seated: "A wife knows things, especially one who will be a mother soon." She paused to smile down at her belly, which upset Stencil. Dislike for her grew as the moments passed. "I know only that something is wrong with Maijstral. In England I have heard that ladies are 'confined' months before the child is born. Here a woman works, and goes out in the street, as long as she can move about."
"And you came out looking for me."
"The priest told me."
Fairing. Who was working for whom? Caesar wasn't getting a fair shake. He tried sympathy. "Was it worrying you that much? That you had to bring it all into the confessional?"
"He used to stay home at night. It will be our first child, and a first child is the most important. It is his child, too. But we hardly speak any more. He comes in late and I pretend to be asleep."
"But a child also must be fed, sheltered, protected more than a man or woman. And this requires money."
She grew angry. "Maratt the welder298 has seven children. He earns less than Fausto. None of them has ever gone without food, or clothing, or a home. We do not need your money."
God, she could blow the works. Could he tell her that even if he sacked her husband, there'd still be Veronica Manganese to keep him away nights? Only one answer: talk to the priest. "I promise you," he said, "I will do all I can. But the Situation is more complicated than you may realize."
"My father -" curious he'd not caught that flickering edge of hysteria in her voice till now - "when I was only five also began to stay away from home. I never found out why. But it killed my mother. I will not wait for it to kill me."
Threatening suicide? "Have you talked to your husband at all?"
"It isn't a wife's place."
Smiling: "Only to talk to his employer. Very well, Signora, I shall try. But I can guarantee nothing. My employer is England: the King." Which quieted her.
When she left, he began a bitter dialogue with himself. What had happened to diplomatic initiative? They - whoever "they" were - seemed to be calling the tune.
The Situation is always bigger than you, Sidney. It has like God its own logic165 and its own justification299 for being, and the best you can do is cope.
I'm not a marriage counselor300, or a priest.
Don't act as if it were a conscious plot against you. Who knows how many thousand accidents - a variation in the weather, the availability of a ship, the failure of a crop - brought all these people, with their separate dreams and worries, here to this island and arranged them into this alignment301? Any Situation takes shape from events much lower than the merely human.
Oh, of course: look at Florence. A random pattern of cold-air currents, some shifting of the pack ice, the deaths of a few ponies302, these helped produce one Hugh Godolphin, as we saw him. Only by the merest happenstance did he escape the private logic of that ice-world.
The inert303 universe may have a quality we can call logic. But logic is a human attribute after all; so even at that it's a misnomer304. What are real are the cross-purposes. We've dignified305 them with the words "profession" and "occupation." There is a certain cold comfort in remembering that Manganese, Mizzi, Maijstral, Dupiro the ragman, that blasted face who caught us at the villa - also work at cross-purposes.
But what then does one do? Is there a way out?
There is always the way out that Carla Maijstral threatens to take.
His musings were interrupted by Demivolt, who came stumbling in the door. "There's trouble."
"Oh indeed. That's unusual."
"Dupiro the ragman."
Good things come in threes. "How."
"Drowned, in Marsamuscetto. Washed ashore downhill from Manderaggio. He had been mutilated." Stencil thought of the Great Siege and the Turkish atrocities306: death's flotilla.
"It must have been I Banditti," Demivolt continued: "a gang of terrorists or professional assassins. They vie with one another in finding new and ingenious ways to murder. Poor Dupiro's genitals were found sewn in his mouth. Silk suturing worthy307 of a fine surgeon."
Stencil felt ill.
"We think they are connected somehow with the fasci di combattimento who've organized last month in Italy, around Milan. The Manganese has been in intermittent308 contact with their leader Mussolini. "
"The tide could have carried him across."
"They wouldn't want it out to sea, you know. Craftsmanship309 of that order must have an audience or it's worthless."
What's happened, he asked his other half. The Situation used to be a civilized310 affair.
No time in Valletta. No history, all history at once . . .
"Sit down, Sidney. Here." A glass of brandy, a few slaps to the face.
"All right, all right. Ease off. It's been the weather." Demivolt waggled his eyebrows311 and retreated to the dead fireplace. "Now we have lost Fairing, as you know, and we may lose Maijstral." He summarized Carla's visit.
"The priest."
"What I thought. But we've had an ear lopped off out at the villa."
"Short of starting an affair, one of us, with La Manganese, I can't see any way to replace it."
"Perhaps she's not attracted to the mature sort."
"I didn't mean it seriously."
"She did give me a curious look. That day at the church."
"You old dog. You didn't say you'd been slipping out to secret trysts312 in a church." Attempting the light touch. But failing.
"It has deteriorated313 to the point where any move on our part would have to be bold."
"Perhaps foolish. But confronting her directly . . . I'm an optimist314, as you know."
"I'm a pessimist315. It keeps a certain balance. Perhaps I'm only tired. But I do think it is that desperate. Employing I Banditti indicates a larger move - by them - soon."
"Wait, in any event. Till we see what Fairing does."
Spring had descended with its own tongue of flame. Valletta seemed soul-kissed into drowsy316 complaisance317 as Stencil mounted the hill southeast of Strada Reale toward Fairing's church. The place was empty and its silence broken only by snores from the confessional. Stencil slipped into the other side on his knees and woke the priest rudely.
"She may violate the secrecy318 of this little box," Fairing replied, "but I cannot."
"You know what Maijstral is," Stencil said, angry, "and how many Caesars he serves. Can't you calm her? Don't they teach mesmerism at the Jesuit seminary?" He regretted the words immediately.
"Remember I am leaving," coldly: "speak to my successor, Father Avalanche. Perhaps you can teach him to betray God and the Church and this flock. You've failed with me. I must follow my conscience."
"What a damned enigma319 you are," Stencil burst out. "Your conscience is made of India rubber."
After a pause: "I can, of course, tell her that any drastic step she takes - threatening the welfare of the child, perhaps - is a mortal sin."
Anger had drained away. Remembering his "damned": "Forgive me, Father."
The priest chuckled. "I can't. You're an Anglican."
The woman had approached so quietly that both Stencil and Fairing jumped when she spoke126.
"My opposite number."
The voice, the voice - of course he knew it. As the priest - flexible enough to betray no surprise-performed introductions, Stencil watched her face closely, as if waiting for it to reveal itself. But she wore an elaborate hat and veil; and the face was as generalized as that of any graceful320 woman seen in the street. One arm, sleeveless to the elbow, was gloved and nearly solid with bracelets321.
So she had come to them. Stencil had kept his promise to Demivolt - had waited to see what Fairing would do.
"We have met, Signorina Manganese."
"In Florence," came the voice behind the veil. "Do you remember?" turning her head. In the hair visible below the hat was a carved ivory comb, and five crucified faces, long-suffering beneath their helmets.
"So."
"I wore the comb today. Knowing you would be here."
Whether or not he must now betray Demivolt, Stencil suspected he'd be little use henceforth in either preventing or manipulating for Whitehall's inscrutable purposes whatever would happen in June. What he had thought was an end had proved to be only a twenty-year stay. No use, he realized, asking if she'd followed him or if some third force had manipulated them toward meeting.
Riding out to the villa in her Benz, he showed none of the usual automobile-anxieties. What use? They'd come in, hadn't they, from their thousand separate streets. To enter, hand in hand, the hothouse of a Florentine spring once again; to be fayed and filleted hermetically into a square (interior? exterior322?) where all art objects hover323 between inertia324 and waking, all shadows lengthen325 imperceptibly though night never falls, a total nostalgic hush rests on the heart's landscape. And all faces are blank masks; and spring is any drawn-out sense of exhaustion326 or a summer which like evening never comes.
"We are on the same side, aren't we." She smiled. They'd been sitting idly in one darkened drawing room, watching nothing - night on the sea - from a seaward window. "Our ends are the same: to keep Italy out of Malta. It is a second front, which certain elements in Italy cannot afford to have opened, now."
This woman caused Dupiro the ragman, her servant's love, to be murdered terribly.
I am aware of that.
You are aware of nothing. Poor old man.
"But our means are different."
"Let the patient reach a crisis," she said: "push him through the fever. End the malady327 as quickly as possible."
A hollow laugh: "One way or another."
"Your way would leave them strength to prolong it. My employers must move in a straight line. No sidetrackings. Annexationists are a minority in Italy, but bothersome."
"Absolute upheaval," a nostalgic smile: "that is your way, Victoria, of course." For in Florence, during the bloody328 demonstration329 before the Venezuelan Consulate330, he had dragged her away from an unarmed policeman, whose face she was flaying331 with pointed332 fingernails. Hysterical333 girl, tattered334 velvet335. Riot was her element, as surely as this dark room, almost creeping with amassed336 objects. The street and the hothouse; in V. were resolved, by some magic, the two extremes. She frightened him.
"Shall I tell you where I have been since our last closed room?"
"No. What need to tell me? No doubt I have passed and repassed you, or your work, in every city Whitehall has called me to." He chuckled fondly.
"How pleasant to watch Nothing." Her face (so rarely had he seen it that way!) was at peace, the live eye dead as the other, with the clock-iris. He'd not been surprised at the eye; no more than at the star sapphire337 sewn into her navel. There is surgery; and surgery. Even in Florence - the comb, which she would never let him touch or remove - he had noted338 an obsession with bodily incorporating little bits of inert matter.
"See my lovely shoes," as half an hour before he'd knelt to remove them. "I would so like to have an entire foot that way, a foot of amber339 and gold, with the veins340, perhaps, in intaglio341 instead of bas-relief. How tiresome342 to have the same feet: one can only change one's shoes. But if a girl could have, oh, a lovely rainbow or wardrobe of different-hued, different-sized and -shaped feet . . ."
Girl? She was nearly forty. But then - aside from a body less alive, how much in fact had she changed? Wasn't she the same balloon-girl who'd seduced him on a leather couch in the Florence consulate twenty years ago?
"I must go," he told her.
"My caretaker will drive you back." As if conjured343, the mutilated face appeared at the door. Whatever it felt at seeing them together didn't show in any change of expression. Perhaps it was too painful to change expression. The lantern that night had given an illusion of change: but Stencil saw now the face was fixed as any death-mask.
In the automobile, racketing back toward Valletta, neither spoke till they'd reached the city's verge344.
"You must not hurt her, you know."
Stencil turned, struck by a thought. "You are young Gadrulfi - Godolphin - aren't you?"
"We both have an interest in her," Godolphin said. "I am her servant."
"I too, in a way. She will not be hurt. She cannot be."
III
Events began to shape themselves for June and the coming Assembly. If Demivolt detected any change in Stencil he gave no sign. Maijstral continued to report, and his wife kept silent; the child presumably growing inside her, also shaping itself for June.
Stencil and Veronica Manganese met often. It was hardly a matter of any mysterious "control"; she held no unspeakable secrets over his balding head, nor did she exert any particular sexual fascination345. It could only be age's worst side-effect: nostalgia. A tilt225 toward the past so violent he found it increasingly more difficult to live in the real present he believed to be so politically crucial. The villa in Sliema became more and more a retreat into late-afternoon melancholy. His yarning346 with Mehemet, his sentimental347 drunks with Demivolt; these plus Fairing's protean348 finaglings and Carla Maijstral's inference to a humanitarian349 instinct he'd abandoned before entering the service, combined to undermine what virtu he'd brought through sixty years on the go, making him really no further use in Malta. Treacherous350 pasture, this island.
Veronica was kind. Her time with Stencil was entirely351 for him. No appointments, whispered conferences, hurried paper work: only resumption of their hothouse-time - as if it were marked by any old and overprecious clock which could be wound and set at will. For it came to that, finally: an alienation352 from time, much as Malta itself was alienated from any history in which cause precedes effect.
Carla did come to him again with unfaked tears this time; and pleading, not defiant353.
"The priest is gone," she wept. "Whom else do I have? My husband and I are strangers. Is it another woman?"
He was tempted to tell her. But was restrained by the fine irony354. He found himself hoping that there was indeed adultery between his old "love" and the shipfitter; if only to complete a circle begun in England eighteen years ago, a beginning kept forcibly from his thoughts for the same period of time.
Herbert would be eighteen. And probably helling it all about the dear old isles355. What would he think of his father . . .
His father, ha.
"Signora," hastily, "I have been selfish. Everything I can do. My promise."
"We - my child and I: why should we continue to live?"
Why should any of us. He would send her husband back. With or without him the June Assembly would become what it would: blood bath or calm negotiation356, who could tell or shape events that closely? There were no more princes. Henceforth politics would become progressively more democratized, more thrown into the hands of amateurs. The disease would progress. Stencil was nearly past caring.
Demivolt and he had it out the next evening.
"You're not helping, you know. I can't keep this thing, off by myself."
"We've lost our contacts. We've lost more than that . . ."
"What the hell is wrong, Sidney."
"Health, I suppose," Stencil lied.
"O God."
"The students are upset, I've heard. Rumor that the University will be abolished. Conferment of Degrees law, 1915 - so that the graduating class this year is first to be affected277."
Demivolt took it as Stencil had hoped: a sick man's attempt to be helpful. "Have a look into that," he muttered. They'd both known of the University unrest.
On 4 June the acting Police Commissioner357 requested a 25-man detachment from the Malta Composite Battalion358 to be quartered in the city. University students went on strike the same day, parading Strada Reale, throwing eggs at anti-Mizzists, breaking furniture, turning the street festive359 with a progress of decorated automobiles.
"We are for it," Demivolt announced that evening. "I'm off for the Palace." Soon after Godolphin called for Stencil in the Benz.
Out at the villa, the drawing room was lit with an unaccustomed brilliance, though occupied only by two people. Her companion was Maijstral. Others had obviously been there: cigarette stubs and teacups were scattered360 among the statues and old furniture.
Stencil smiled at Maijstral's confusion. "We are old friends," he said gently. From somewhere - bottom of the tank - came a last burst of duplicity and virtu. He forced himself into the real present, perhaps aware it would be his last time there. Placing a hand on the yardbird's shoulder: "Come. I have private instructions." He winked at the woman. "We're still nominally opponents, you see. There are the Rules."
Outside his smile faded. "Now quickly, Maijstral, don't interrupt. You are released. We have no further use for you. Your wife's time is close: go back to her."
"The signora -" jerking his head back toward the foyer - "still needs me. My wife has her child."
"It is an order: from both of us. I can add this: if you do not return to your wife she will destroy herself and the child."
"It is a sin."
"Which she will risk." But Maijstral still shuffled361.
"Very well: if I see you again, here or in my woman's company -" that had hit: a sly smile touched Maijstral's lips - "I turn your name over to your fellow workers. Do you know what they'll do to you, Maijstral? Of course you do. I can even call in the Banditti, if you prefer to die more picturesquely . . ." Maijstral stood for a moment, eyes going numb83. Stencil let the magic spell "Banditti" work for an instant more, then flashed his best - and last - diplomatic smile: "Go. You and your woman and the young Maijstral. Stay out of the blood bath. Stay inside." Maijstral shrugged, turned and left. He did not look back; his trundling step was less sure.
Stencil made a short prayer: let him be less and less sure as he gathers years . . .
She smiled as he returned to the drawing room. "All done?"
He collapsed362 into a Louis Quinze chair whose two seraphim363 keened above a dark lawn of green velvet. "All done."
Tension grew through 6 June. Units of the civil police and military were alerted. Another unofficial notice went out, advising merchants to close up their shops.
At 3:30 P.M. on 7 June mobs began to collect in Strada Reale. For the next day and a half they owned Valletta's exterior spaces. They attacked not only the Chronicle (as promised) but also the union Club, the Lyceum, the Palace, the houses of anti-Mizzist Members, the cafes and shops which had stayed open. Landing parties from H.M.S. Egmont, and detachments of Army and police joined the effort to keep order. Several times they formed ranks; once or twice they fired. Three civilians364 were killed by gunfire; seven wounded. Scores more were injured in the general rioting. Several buildings were set on fire. Two RAF lorries with machine guns dispersed365 an attack on the millers at Hamrun.
A minor eddy366 in the peaceful course of Maltese government, preserved today only in one Board of Inquiry367 report. Suddenly as they had begun, the June Disturbances368 (as they came to be called) ended. Nothing was settled. The primary question, that of self-rule, was as of 1956 still unresolved. Malta by then had only advanced as far as dyarchy, and if anything moved even closer to England in February, when the electorate369 voted three to one to put Maltese members in the British House of Commons.
Early on the morning of 10 June 1919, Mehemet's xebec set sail from Lascaris Wharf370. Seated on its counter, like some obsolete nautical371 fixture372, was Sidney Stencil. No one had come to see him off. Veronica Manganese had kept him only as long as she had to. His eyes kept dead astern.
But as the xebec was passing Fort St. Elmo or thereabouts, a shining Benz was observed to pull, up near the wharf and a black-liveried driver with a mutilated face to come to the harbor's edge and gaze out at the ship. After a moment he raised his hand; waved with a curiously373 sentimental, feminine motion of the wrist. He called something in English, which none of the observers understood. He was crying.
Draw a line from Malta to Lampedusa. Call it a radius374. Somewhere in that circle, on the evening of the tenth, a waterspout appeared and lasted for fifteen minutes. Long enough to lift the xebec fifty feet, whirling, and creaking, Astarte's throat naked to the cloudless weather, and slam it down again into a piece of the Mediterranean whose subsequent surface phenomena375 - whitecaps, kelp islands, any of a million flatnesses which should catch thereafter part of the brute376 sun's spectrum-showed nothing at all of what came to lie beneath, that quiet June day.
The End
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1 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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2 tack | |
n.大头钉;假缝,粗缝 | |
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3 stencil | |
v.用模版印刷;n.模版;复写纸,蜡纸 | |
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4 abeam | |
adj.正横着(的) | |
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5 seamen | |
n.海员 | |
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6 flattened | |
[医](水)平扁的,弄平的 | |
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7 Mediterranean | |
adj.地中海的;地中海沿岸的 | |
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8 spun | |
v.纺,杜撰,急转身 | |
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9 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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10 hush | |
int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
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11 deception | |
n.欺骗,欺诈;骗局,诡计 | |
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12 wary | |
adj.谨慎的,机警的,小心的 | |
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13 quay | |
n.码头,靠岸处 | |
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14 salaam | |
n.额手之礼,问安,敬礼;v.行额手礼 | |
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15 rift | |
n.裂口,隙缝,切口;v.裂开,割开,渗入 | |
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16 cargo | |
n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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17 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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18 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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19 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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20 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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21 pier | |
n.码头;桥墩,桥柱;[建]窗间壁,支柱 | |
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22 hunched | |
(常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦)耸肩弓身的,伏首前倾的 | |
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23 hunch | |
n.预感,直觉 | |
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24 fumes | |
n.(强烈而刺激的)气味,气体 | |
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25 plank | |
n.板条,木板,政策要点,政纲条目 | |
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26 ashore | |
adv.在(向)岸上,上岸 | |
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27 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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28 surfeit | |
v.使饮食过度;n.(食物)过量,过度 | |
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29 promiscuous | |
adj.杂乱的,随便的 | |
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30 uncouth | |
adj.无教养的,粗鲁的 | |
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31 armistice | |
n.休战,停战协定 | |
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32 stabilized | |
v.(使)稳定, (使)稳固( stabilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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34 dour | |
adj.冷酷的,严厉的;(岩石)嶙峋的;顽强不屈 | |
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35 lieutenant | |
n.陆军中尉,海军上尉;代理官员,副职官员 | |
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36 lurked | |
vi.潜伏,埋伏(lurk的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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37 agile | |
adj.敏捷的,灵活的 | |
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38 machiavellian | |
adj.权谋的,狡诈的 | |
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39 opposition | |
n.反对,敌对 | |
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40 abattoir | |
n.屠宰场,角斗场 | |
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41 dame | |
n.女士 | |
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42 rim | |
n.(圆物的)边,轮缘;边界 | |
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43 delusion | |
n.谬见,欺骗,幻觉,迷惑 | |
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44 loathsome | |
adj.讨厌的,令人厌恶的 | |
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45 prodigy | |
n.惊人的事物,奇迹,神童,天才,预兆 | |
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46 unaware | |
a.不知道的,未意识到的 | |
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47 breach | |
n.违反,不履行;破裂;vt.冲破,攻破 | |
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48 tavern | |
n.小旅馆,客栈;小酒店 | |
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49 teeming | |
adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 );到处都是;(指水、雨等)暴降;倾注 | |
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50 mused | |
v.沉思,冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 );沉思自语说(某事) | |
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51 shrugged | |
vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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52 chuckled | |
轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53 recurring | |
adj.往复的,再次发生的 | |
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54 lament | |
n.悲叹,悔恨,恸哭;v.哀悼,悔恨,悲叹 | |
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55 yarn | |
n.纱,纱线,纺线;奇闻漫谈,旅行轶事 | |
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56 displacement | |
n.移置,取代,位移,排水量 | |
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57 Forsaken | |
adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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58 nostalgia | |
n.怀乡病,留恋过去,怀旧 | |
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59 Moslem | |
n.回教徒,穆罕默德信徒;adj.回教徒的,回教的 | |
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60 slung | |
抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 ); 吊挂; 遣送; 押往 | |
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61 grumble | |
vi.抱怨;咕哝;n.抱怨,牢骚;咕哝,隆隆声 | |
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62 smoothly | |
adv.平滑地,顺利地,流利地,流畅地 | |
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63 swell | |
vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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64 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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65 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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66 falter | |
vi.(嗓音)颤抖,结巴地说;犹豫;蹒跚 | |
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67 gutter | |
n.沟,街沟,水槽,檐槽,贫民窟 | |
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68 smallpox | |
n.天花 | |
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69 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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70 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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71 constrained | |
adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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72 domain | |
n.(活动等)领域,范围;领地,势力范围 | |
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73 invader | |
n.侵略者,侵犯者,入侵者 | |
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74 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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75 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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76 galleon | |
n.大帆船 | |
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77 retaliation | |
n.报复,反击 | |
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78 jaunts | |
n.游览( jaunt的名词复数 ) | |
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79 caresses | |
爱抚,抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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80 lashed | |
adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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81 lash | |
v.系牢;鞭打;猛烈抨击;n.鞭打;眼睫毛 | |
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82 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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83 numb | |
adj.麻木的,失去感觉的;v.使麻木 | |
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84 deities | |
n.神,女神( deity的名词复数 );神祗;神灵;神明 | |
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85 ornaments | |
n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 );点缀;装饰品;首饰v.装饰,点缀,美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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86 friezes | |
n.(柱顶过梁和挑檐间的)雕带,(墙顶的)饰带( frieze的名词复数 ) | |
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87 bellied | |
adj.有腹的,大肚子的 | |
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88 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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89 creek | |
n.小溪,小河,小湾 | |
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90 hemp | |
n.大麻;纤维 | |
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91 arsenic | |
n.砒霜,砷;adj.砷的 | |
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92 depicted | |
描绘,描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 ); 描述 | |
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93 deity | |
n.神,神性;被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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94 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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95 unreasonable | |
adj.不讲道理的,不合情理的,过度的 | |
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96 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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97 spike | |
n.长钉,钉鞋;v.以大钉钉牢,使...失效 | |
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98 flirted | |
v.调情,打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99 promiscuously | |
adv.杂乱地,混杂地 | |
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100 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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101 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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102 potency | |
n. 效力,潜能 | |
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103 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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104 outraged | |
a.震惊的,义愤填膺的 | |
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105 epidemic | |
n.流行病;盛行;adj.流行性的,流传极广的 | |
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106 perversion | |
n.曲解;堕落;反常 | |
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107 unleashed | |
v.把(感情、力量等)释放出来,发泄( unleash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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109 jolted | |
(使)摇动, (使)震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110 sarcasm | |
n.讥讽,讽刺,嘲弄,反话 (adj.sarcastic) | |
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111 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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112 fad | |
n.时尚;一时流行的狂热;一时的爱好 | |
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113 placid | |
adj.安静的,平和的 | |
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114 knights | |
骑士; (中古时代的)武士( knight的名词复数 ); 骑士; 爵士; (国际象棋中)马 | |
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115 fens | |
n.(尤指英格兰东部的)沼泽地带( fen的名词复数 ) | |
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116 morale | |
n.道德准则,士气,斗志 | |
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117 corpses | |
n.死尸,尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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118 planks | |
(厚)木板( plank的名词复数 ); 政纲条目,政策要点 | |
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119 belly | |
n.肚子,腹部;(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分,膛 | |
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120 besieged | |
包围,围困,围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121 rumor | |
n.谣言,谣传,传说 | |
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122 galleys | |
n.平底大船,战舰( galley的名词复数 );(船上或航空器上的)厨房 | |
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123 alley | |
n.小巷,胡同;小径,小路 | |
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124 thronged | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125 embarked | |
乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 ); 装载; 从事 | |
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126 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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127 miraculous | |
adj.像奇迹一样的,不可思议的 | |
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128 cult | |
n.异教,邪教;时尚,狂热的崇拜 | |
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129 superstition | |
n.迷信,迷信行为 | |
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130 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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131 lute | |
n.琵琶,鲁特琴 | |
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132 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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133 sagely | |
adv. 贤能地,贤明地 | |
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134 brew | |
v.酿造,调制 | |
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135 guardian | |
n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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136 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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137 gender | |
n.(生理上的)性,(名词、代词等的)性 | |
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138 sprinting | |
v.短距离疾跑( sprint的现在分词 ) | |
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139 tug | |
v.用力拖(或拉);苦干;n.拖;苦干;拖船 | |
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140 wizened | |
adj.凋谢的;枯槁的 | |
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141 scrunched | |
v.发出喀嚓声( scrunch的过去式和过去分词 );蜷缩;压;挤压 | |
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142 pals | |
n.朋友( pal的名词复数 );老兄;小子;(对男子的不友好的称呼)家伙 | |
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143 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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144 twitch | |
v.急拉,抽动,痉挛,抽搐;n.扯,阵痛,痉挛 | |
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145 stunted | |
adj.矮小的;发育迟缓的 | |
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146 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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147 grievance | |
n.怨愤,气恼,委屈 | |
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148 condemning | |
v.(通常因道义上的原因而)谴责( condemn的现在分词 );宣判;宣布…不能使用;迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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149 gland | |
n.腺体,(机)密封压盖,填料盖 | |
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150 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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151 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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152 grudge | |
n.不满,怨恨,妒嫉;vt.勉强给,不情愿做 | |
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153 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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154 sprightly | |
adj.愉快的,活泼的 | |
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155 warped | |
adj.反常的;乖戾的;(变)弯曲的;变形的v.弄弯,变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 );使(行为等)不合情理,使乖戾, | |
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156 facades | |
n.(房屋的)正面( facade的名词复数 );假象,外观 | |
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157 civilian | |
adj.平民的,民用的,民众的 | |
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158 administrative | |
adj.行政的,管理的 | |
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159 taverns | |
n.小旅馆,客栈,酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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160 rendezvous | |
n.约会,约会地点,汇合点;vi.汇合,集合;vt.使汇合,使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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161 misused | |
v.使用…不当( misuse的过去式和过去分词 );把…派作不正当的用途;虐待;滥用 | |
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162 prosecute | |
vt.告发;进行;vi.告发,起诉,作检察官 | |
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163 obsolete | |
adj.已废弃的,过时的 | |
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164 alienated | |
adj.感到孤独的,不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 );使不友好;转让;让渡(财产等) | |
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165 logic | |
n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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166 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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167 persistent | |
adj.坚持不懈的,执意的;持续的 | |
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168 flickering | |
adj.闪烁的,摇曳的,一闪一闪的 | |
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169 abreast | |
adv.并排地;跟上(时代)的步伐,与…并进地 | |
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170 reclaim | |
v.要求归还,收回;开垦 | |
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171 cistern | |
n.贮水池 | |
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172 adorned | |
[计]被修饰的 | |
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173 presto | |
adv.急速地;n.急板乐段;adj.急板的 | |
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174 hopping | |
n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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175 paraphernalia | |
n.装备;随身用品 | |
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176 underneath | |
adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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177 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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178 frenzy | |
n.疯狂,狂热,极度的激动 | |
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179 partially | |
adv.部分地,从某些方面讲 | |
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180 devoutly | |
adv.虔诚地,虔敬地,衷心地 | |
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181 chaotic | |
adj.混沌的,一片混乱的,一团糟的 | |
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182 massacre | |
n.残杀,大屠杀;v.残杀,集体屠杀 | |
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183 accredited | |
adj.可接受的;可信任的;公认的;质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 );委托;委任;把…归结于 | |
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184 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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185 vein | |
n.血管,静脉;叶脉,纹理;情绪;vt.使成脉络 | |
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186 gale | |
n.大风,强风,一阵闹声(尤指笑声等) | |
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187 synapse | |
n.突触 | |
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188 receding | |
v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 );向后倾斜;自原处后退或避开别人的注视;尤指问题 | |
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189 random | |
adj.随机的;任意的;n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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190 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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191 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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192 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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193 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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194 heterogeneous | |
adj.庞杂的;异类的 | |
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195 millers | |
n.(尤指面粉厂的)厂主( miller的名词复数 );磨房主;碾磨工;铣工 | |
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196 repeal | |
n.废止,撤消;v.废止,撤消 | |
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197 ordinance | |
n.法令;条令;条例 | |
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198 assessments | |
n.评估( assessment的名词复数 );评价;(应偿付金额的)估定;(为征税对财产所作的)估价 | |
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199 abolition | |
n.废除,取消 | |
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200 profane | |
adj.亵神的,亵渎的;vt.亵渎,玷污 | |
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201 crest | |
n.顶点;饰章;羽冠;vt.达到顶点;vi.形成浪尖 | |
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202 aggrandizement | |
n.增大,强化,扩大 | |
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203 stuffiness | |
n.不通风,闷热;不通气 | |
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204 overthrow | |
v.推翻,打倒,颠覆;n.推翻,瓦解,颠覆 | |
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205 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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206 degenerated | |
衰退,堕落,退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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207 conversational | |
adj.对话的,会话的 | |
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208 conversationally | |
adv.会话地 | |
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209 bonnet | |
n.无边女帽;童帽 | |
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210 troublemaker | |
n.惹是生非者,闹事者,捣乱者 | |
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211 villa | |
n.别墅,城郊小屋 | |
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212 defunct | |
adj.死亡的;已倒闭的 | |
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213 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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214 hunches | |
预感,直觉( hunch的名词复数 ) | |
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215 elevation | |
n.高度;海拔;高地;上升;提高 | |
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216 jumble | |
vt.使混乱,混杂;n.混乱;杂乱的一堆 | |
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217 anarchist | |
n.无政府主义者 | |
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218 automobile | |
n.汽车,机动车 | |
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219 automobiles | |
n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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220 gritted | |
v.以沙砾覆盖(某物),撒沙砾于( grit的过去式和过去分词 );咬紧牙关 | |
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221 huddled | |
挤在一起(huddle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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222 cinders | |
n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 );炭渣;煤渣路;煤渣跑道 | |
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223 illuminated | |
adj.被照明的;受启迪的 | |
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224 tilted | |
v. 倾斜的 | |
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225 tilt | |
v.(使)倾侧;(使)倾斜;n.倾侧;倾斜 | |
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226 induction | |
n.感应,感应现象 | |
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227 pestilence | |
n.瘟疫 | |
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228 deteriorate | |
v.变坏;恶化;退化 | |
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229 prominence | |
n.突出;显著;杰出;重要 | |
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230 villas | |
别墅,公馆( villa的名词复数 ); (城郊)住宅 | |
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231 ceramic | |
n.制陶业,陶器,陶瓷工艺 | |
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232 vomiting | |
吐 | |
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233 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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234 succumb | |
v.屈服,屈从;死 | |
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235 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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236 swirling | |
v.旋转,打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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237 decorative | |
adj.装饰的,可作装饰的 | |
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238 petals | |
n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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239 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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240 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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241 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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242 socket | |
n.窝,穴,孔,插座,插口 | |
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243 winked | |
v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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244 slumped | |
大幅度下降,暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 ); 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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245 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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246 agitating | |
搅动( agitate的现在分词 ); 激怒; 使焦虑不安; (尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而)激烈争论 | |
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247 excerpts | |
n.摘录,摘要( excerpt的名词复数 );节选(音乐,电影)片段 | |
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248 vernacular | |
adj.地方的,用地方语写成的;n.白话;行话;本国语;动植物的俗名 | |
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249 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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250 torrent | |
n.激流,洪流;爆发,(话语等的)连发 | |
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251 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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252 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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253 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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254 agitators | |
n.(尤指政治变革的)鼓动者( agitator的名词复数 );煽动者;搅拌器;搅拌机 | |
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255 avocation | |
n.副业,业余爱好 | |
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256 wrecking | |
破坏 | |
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257 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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258 catalyst | |
n.催化剂,造成变化的人或事 | |
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259 mischievous | |
adj.调皮的,恶作剧的,有害的,伤人的 | |
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260 apocalyptic | |
adj.预示灾祸的,启示的 | |
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261 adoption | |
n.采用,采纳,通过;收养 | |
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262 triumphantly | |
ad.得意洋洋地;得胜地;成功地 | |
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263 afflicted | |
使受痛苦,折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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264 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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265 torpor | |
n.迟钝;麻木;(动物的)冬眠 | |
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266 discriminated | |
分别,辨别,区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 ); 歧视,有差别地对待 | |
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267 breaches | |
破坏( breach的名词复数 ); 破裂; 缺口; 违背 | |
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268 dedicated | |
adj.一心一意的;献身的;热诚的 | |
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269 arrogant | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的 | |
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270 exasperating | |
adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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271 turmoil | |
n.骚乱,混乱,动乱 | |
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272 subjective | |
a.主观(上)的,个人的 | |
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273 anarchy | |
n.无政府状态;社会秩序混乱,无秩序 | |
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274 promiscuity | |
n.混杂,混乱;(男女的)乱交 | |
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275 millennia | |
n.一千年,千禧年 | |
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276 disaffected | |
adj.(政治上)不满的,叛离的 | |
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277 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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278 politicking | |
n.政治活动,竞选活动v.从政( politic的现在分词 ) | |
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279 intrigue | |
vt.激起兴趣,迷住;vi.耍阴谋;n.阴谋,密谋 | |
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280 sequestered | |
adj.扣押的;隐退的;幽静的;偏僻的v.使隔绝,使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 );扣押 | |
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281 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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282 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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283 penance | |
n.(赎罪的)惩罪 | |
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284 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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285 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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286 simultaneously | |
adv.同时发生地,同时进行地 | |
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287 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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288 distractions | |
n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 );娱乐,消遣;心烦意乱;精神错乱 | |
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289 ongoing | |
adj.进行中的,前进的 | |
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290 plaques | |
(纪念性的)匾牌( plaque的名词复数 ); 纪念匾; 牙斑; 空斑 | |
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291 vaudeville | |
n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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292 sneered | |
讥笑,冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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293 avalanche | |
n.雪崩,大量涌来 | |
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294 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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295 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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296 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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297 irritably | |
ad.易生气地 | |
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298 welder | |
n电焊工 | |
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299 justification | |
n.正当的理由;辩解的理由 | |
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300 counselor | |
n.顾问,法律顾问 | |
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301 alignment | |
n.队列;结盟,联合 | |
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302 ponies | |
矮种马,小型马( pony的名词复数 ); £25 25 英镑 | |
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303 inert | |
adj.无活动能力的,惰性的;迟钝的 | |
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304 misnomer | |
n.误称 | |
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305 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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306 atrocities | |
n.邪恶,暴行( atrocity的名词复数 );滔天大罪 | |
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307 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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308 intermittent | |
adj.间歇的,断断续续的 | |
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309 craftsmanship | |
n.手艺 | |
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310 civilized | |
a.有教养的,文雅的 | |
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311 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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312 trysts | |
n.约会,幽会( tryst的名词复数 );幽会地点 | |
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313 deteriorated | |
恶化,变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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314 optimist | |
n.乐观的人,乐观主义者 | |
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315 pessimist | |
n.悲观者;悲观主义者;厌世 | |
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316 drowsy | |
adj.昏昏欲睡的,令人发困的 | |
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317 complaisance | |
n.彬彬有礼,殷勤,柔顺 | |
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318 secrecy | |
n.秘密,保密,隐蔽 | |
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319 enigma | |
n.谜,谜一样的人或事 | |
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320 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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321 bracelets | |
n.手镯,臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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322 exterior | |
adj.外部的,外在的;表面的 | |
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323 hover | |
vi.翱翔,盘旋;徘徊;彷徨,犹豫 | |
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324 inertia | |
adj.惰性,惯性,懒惰,迟钝 | |
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325 lengthen | |
vt.使伸长,延长 | |
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326 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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327 malady | |
n.病,疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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328 bloody | |
adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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329 demonstration | |
n.表明,示范,论证,示威 | |
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330 consulate | |
n.领事馆 | |
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331 flaying | |
v.痛打( flay的现在分词 );把…打得皮开肉绽;剥(通常指动物)的皮;严厉批评 | |
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332 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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333 hysterical | |
adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
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334 tattered | |
adj.破旧的,衣衫破的 | |
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335 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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336 amassed | |
v.积累,积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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337 sapphire | |
n.青玉,蓝宝石;adj.天蓝色的 | |
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338 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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339 amber | |
n.琥珀;琥珀色;adj.琥珀制的 | |
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340 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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341 intaglio | |
n.凹版雕刻;v.凹雕 | |
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342 tiresome | |
adj.令人疲劳的,令人厌倦的 | |
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343 conjured | |
用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 ); 祈求,恳求; 变戏法; (变魔术般地) 使…出现 | |
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344 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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345 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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346 yarning | |
vi.讲故事(yarn的现在分词形式) | |
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347 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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348 protean | |
adj.反复无常的;变化自如的 | |
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349 humanitarian | |
n.人道主义者,博爱者,基督凡人论者 | |
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350 treacherous | |
adj.不可靠的,有暗藏的危险的;adj.背叛的,背信弃义的 | |
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351 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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352 alienation | |
n.疏远;离间;异化 | |
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353 defiant | |
adj.无礼的,挑战的 | |
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354 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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355 isles | |
岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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356 negotiation | |
n.谈判,协商 | |
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357 commissioner | |
n.(政府厅、局、处等部门)专员,长官,委员 | |
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358 battalion | |
n.营;部队;大队(的人) | |
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359 festive | |
adj.欢宴的,节日的 | |
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360 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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361 shuffled | |
v.洗(纸牌)( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 );拖着脚步走;粗心地做;摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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362 collapsed | |
adj.倒塌的 | |
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363 seraphim | |
n.六翼天使(seraph的复数);六翼天使( seraph的名词复数 ) | |
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364 civilians | |
平民,百姓( civilian的名词复数 ); 老百姓 | |
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365 dispersed | |
adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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366 eddy | |
n.漩涡,涡流 | |
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367 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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368 disturbances | |
n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 );打扰;困扰;障碍 | |
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369 electorate | |
n.全体选民;选区 | |
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370 wharf | |
n.码头,停泊处 | |
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371 nautical | |
adj.海上的,航海的,船员的 | |
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372 fixture | |
n.固定设备;预定日期;比赛时间;定期存款 | |
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373 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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374 radius | |
n.半径,半径范围;有效航程,范围,界限 | |
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375 phenomena | |
n.现象 | |
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376 brute | |
n.野兽,兽性 | |
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