'Q. has had to go and see his friends in Paris,' it began. 'Traverse Handle S. "Once around the grass, and twice around the lass, and thrice around the maple21 tree."'
Salisbury took up the paper and crumpled it as the angry woman had done, and aimed it at the fire. He[264] did not throw it there, however, but tossed it carelessly into the well of the desk, and laughed again. The sheer folly22 of the thing offended him, and he was ashamed of his own eager speculation, as one who pores over the high-sounding announcements in the agony column of the daily paper, and finds nothing but advertisement and triviality. He walked to the window, and stared out at the languid morning life of his quarter; the maids in slatternly print dresses washing door-steps, the fish-monger and the butcher on their rounds, and the tradesmen standing23 at the doors of their small shops, drooping24 for lack of trade and excitement. In the distance a blue haze25 gave some grandeur26 to the prospect27, but the view as a whole was depressing, and would only have interested a student of the life of London, who finds something rare and choice in its very aspect. Salisbury turned away in disgust, and settled himself in the easy-chair, upholstered in a bright shade of green, and decked with yellow gimp, which was the pride and attraction of the apartments. Here he composed himself to his morning's occupation—the perusal28 of a novel that dealt with sport and love in a manner that suggested the collaboration29 of a stud-groom and a ladies' college. In an ordinary way, however, Salisbury would have been carried on by the interest of the story up to lunch-time, but this morning he fidgeted in and out of his chair, took the book up and laid it down again, and swore at last to himself and at himself in mere irritation30. In point of fact the jingle31 of the paper found in the archway had 'got into his head,' and do what he would he could not help muttering over and over, 'Once around the grass, and twice around the lass, and thrice around[265] the maple tree.' It became a positive pain, like the foolish burden of a music-hall song, everlastingly32 quoted, and sung at all hours of the day and night, and treasured by the street-boys as an unfailing resource for six months together. He went out into the streets, and tried to forget his enemy in the jostling of the crowds and the roar and clatter33 of the traffic, but presently he would find himself stealing quietly aside, and pacing some deserted34 byway, vainly puzzling his brains, and trying to fix some meaning to phrases that were meaningless. It was a positive relief when Thursday came, and he remembered that he had made an appointment to go and see Dyson; the flimsy reveries of the self-styled man of letters appeared entertaining when compared with this ceaseless iteration, this maze35 of thought from which there seemed no possibility of escape. Dyson's abode36 was in one of the quietest of the quiet streets that led down from the Strand37 to the river, and when Salisbury passed from the narrow stairway into his friend's room, he saw that the uncle had been beneficent indeed. The floor glowed and flamed with all the colours of the East; it was, as Dyson pompously38 remarked, 'a sunset in a dream,' and the lamplight, the twilight39 of London streets, was shut out with strangely worked curtains, glittering here and there with threads of gold. In the shelves of an oak armoire stood jars and plates of old French china, and the black and white of etchings not to be found in the Haymarket or in Bond Street, stood out against the splendour of a Japanese paper. Salisbury sat down on the settle by the hearth40, and sniffed41 the mingled42 fumes43 of incense44 and tobacco, wondering and dumb before all this splendour after the green rep and the oleographs,[266] the gilt-framed mirror, and the lustres of his own apartment.
'I am glad you have come,' said Dyson. 'Comfortable little room, isn't it? But you don't look very well, Salisbury. Nothing disagreed with you, has it?'
'No; but I have been a good deal bothered for the last few days. The fact is I had an odd kind of—of—adventure, I suppose I may call it, that night I saw you, and it has worried me a good deal. And the provoking part of it is that it's the merest nonsense—but, however, I will tell you all about it, by and by. You were going to let me have the rest of that odd story you began at the restaurant.'
'Yes. But I am afraid, Salisbury, you are incorrigible45. You are a slave to what you call matter of fact. You know perfectly46 well that in your heart you think the oddness in that case is of my making, and that it is all really as plain as the police reports. However, as I have begun, I will go on. But first we will have something to drink, and you may as well light your pipe.'
Dyson went up to the oak cupboard, and drew from its depths a rotund bottle and two little glasses, quaintly47 gilded48.
'It's Benedictine,' he said. 'You'll have some, won't you?'
Salisbury assented49, and the two men sat sipping50 and smoking reflectively for some minutes before Dyson began.
'Let me see,' he said at last, 'we were at the inquest, weren't we? No, we had done with that. Ah, I remember. I was telling you that on the whole I had been successful in my inquiries51, investigation52, or whatever[267] you like to call it, into the matter. Wasn't that where I left off?'
'Yes, that was it. To be precise, I think "though" was the last word you said on the matter.'
'Exactly. I have been thinking it all over since the other night, and I have come to the conclusion that that "though" is a very big "though" indeed. Not to put too fine a point on it, I have had to confess that what I found out, or thought I found out, amounts in reality to nothing. I am as far away from the heart of the case as ever. However, I may as well tell you what I do know. You may remember my saying that I was impressed a good deal by some remarks of one of the doctors who gave evidence at the inquest. Well, I determined53 that my first step must be to try if I could get something more definite and intelligible54 out of that doctor. Somehow or other I managed to get an introduction to the man, and he gave me an appointment to come and see him. He turned out to be a pleasant, genial55 fellow; rather young and not in the least like the typical medical man, and he began the conference by offering me whisky and cigars. I didn't think it worth while to beat about the bush, so I began by saying that part of his evidence at the Harlesden Inquest struck me as very peculiar56, and I gave him the printed report, with the sentences in question underlined. He just glanced at the slip, and gave me a queer look. "It struck you as peculiar, did it?" said he. "Well, you must remember that the Harlesden case was very peculiar. In fact, I think I may safely say that in some features it was unique—quite unique." "Quite so," I replied, "and that's exactly why it interests me, and why I want to know more about it. And I thought[268] that if anybody could give me any information it would be you. What is your opinion of the matter?"
'It was a pretty downright sort of question, and my doctor looked rather taken aback.
'"Well," he said, "as I fancy your motive57 in inquiring into the question must be mere curiosity, I think I may tell you my opinion with tolerable freedom. So, Mr., Mr. Dyson? if you want to know my theory, it is this: I believe that Dr. Black killed his wife."
'"But the verdict," I answered, "the verdict was given from your own evidence."
'"Quite so; the verdict was given in accordance with the evidence of my colleague and myself, and, under the circumstances, I think the jury acted very sensibly. In fact, I don't see what else they could have done. But I stick to my opinion, mind you, and I say this also. I don't wonder at Black's doing what I firmly believe he did. I think he was justified58."
'"Justified! How could that be?" I asked. I was astonished, as you may imagine, at the answer I had got. The doctor wheeled round his chair and looked steadily59 at me for a moment before he answered.
'"I suppose you are not a man of science yourself? No; then it would be of no use my going into detail. I have always been firmly opposed myself to any partnership60 between physiology61 and psychology62. I believe that both are bound to suffer. No one recognizes more decidedly than I do the impassable gulf63, the fathomless64 abyss that separates the world of consciousness from the sphere of matter. We know that every change of consciousness is accompanied by a rearrangement of the molecules65 in the grey matter; and that is[269] all. What the link between them is, or why they occur together, we do not know, and most authorities believe that we never can know. Yet, I will tell you that as I did my work, the knife in my hand, I felt convinced, in spite of all theories, that what lay before me was not the brain of a dead woman—not the brain of a human being at all. Of course I saw the face; but it was quite placid66, devoid67 of all expression. It must have been a beautiful face, no doubt, but I can honestly say that I would not have looked in that face when there was life behind it for a thousand guineas, no, nor for twice that sum."
'"My dear sir," I said, "you surprise me extremely. You say that it was not the brain of a human being. What was it then?"
'"The brain of a devil." He spoke68 quite coolly, and never moved a muscle. "The brain of a devil," he repeated, "and I have no doubt that Black found some way of putting an end to it. I don't blame him if he did. Whatever Mrs. Black was, she was not fit to stay in this world. Will you have anything more? No? Good-night, good-night."
'It was a queer sort of opinion to get from a man of science, wasn't it? When he was saying that he would not have looked on that face when alive for a thousand guineas, or two thousand guineas, I was thinking of the face I had seen, but I said nothing. I went again to Harlesden, and passed from one shop to another, making small purchases, and trying to find out whether there was anything about the Blacks which was not already common property, but there was very little to hear. One of the tradesmen to whom I spoke said he had known the dead woman well; she used to buy of[270] him such quantities of grocery as were required for their small household, for they never kept a servant, but had a charwoman in occasionally, and she had not seen Mrs. Black for months before she died. According to this man Mrs. Black was "a nice lady," always kind and considerate, and so fond of her husband and he of her, as every one thought. And yet, to put the doctor's opinion on one side, I knew what I had seen. And then after thinking it all over, and putting one thing with another, it seemed to me that the only person likely to give me much assistance would be Black himself, and I made up my mind to find him. Of course he wasn't to be found in Harlesden; he had left, I was told, directly after the funeral. Everything in the house had been sold, and one fine day Black got into the train with a small portmanteau, and went, nobody knew where. It was a chance if he were ever heard of again, and it was by a mere chance that I came across him at last. I was walking one day along Gray's Inn Road, not bound for anywhere in particular, but looking about me, as usual, and holding on to my hat, for it was a gusty69 day in early March, and the wind was making the treetops in the Inn rock and quiver. I had come up from the Holborn end, and I had almost got to Theobald's Road when I noticed a man walking in front of me, leaning on a stick, and to all appearance very feeble. There was something about his look that made me curious, I don't know why, and I began to walk briskly with the idea of overtaking him, when of a sudden his hat blew off and came bounding along the pavement to my feet. Of course I rescued the hat, and gave it a glance as I[271] went towards its owner. It was a biography in itself; a Piccadilly maker's name in the inside, but I don't think a beggar would have picked it out of the gutter70. Then I looked up and saw Dr. Black of Harlesden waiting for me. A queer thing, wasn't it? But, Salisbury, what a change! When I saw Dr. Black come down the steps of his house at Harlesden he was an upright man, walking firmly with well-built limbs; a man, I should say, in the prime of his life. And now before me there crouched71 this wretched creature, bent and feeble, with shrunken cheeks, and hair that was whitening fast, and limbs that trembled and shook together, and misery73 in his eyes. He thanked me for bringing him his hat, saying, "I don't think I should ever have got it, I can't run much now. A gusty day, sir, isn't it?" and with this he was turning away, but by little and little I contrived74 to draw him into the current of conversation, and we walked together eastward75. I think the man would have been glad to get rid of me; but I didn't intend to let him go, and he stopped at last in front of a miserable76 house in a miserable street. It was, I verily believe, one of the most wretched quarters I have ever seen: houses that must have been sordid77 and hideous enough when new, that had gathered foulness78 with every year, and now seemed to lean and totter80 to their fall. "I live up there," said Black, pointing to the tiles, "not in the front—in the back. I am very quiet there. I won't ask you to come in now, but perhaps some other day——" I caught him up at that, and told him I should be only too glad to come and see him. He gave me an odd sort of glance, as if he were wondering what on earth I or anybody else could care about him,[272] and I left him fumbling with his latch-key. I think you will say I did pretty well when I tell you that within a few weeks I had made myself an intimate friend of Black's. I shall never forget the first time I went to his room; I hope I shall never see such abject81, squalid misery again. The foul79 paper, from which all pattern or trace of a pattern had long vanished, subdued82 and penetrated83 with the grime of the evil street, was hanging in mouldering84 pennons from the wall. Only at the end of the room was it possible to stand upright, and the sight of the wretched bed and the odour of corruption85 that pervaded86 the place made me turn faint and sick. Here I found him munching87 a piece of bread; he seemed surprised to find that I had kept my promise, but he gave me his chair and sat on the bed while we talked. I used to go to see him often, and we had long conversations together, but he never mentioned Harlesden or his wife. I fancy that he supposed me ignorant of the matter, or thought that if I had heard of it, I should never connect the respectable Dr. Black of Harlesden with a poor garreteer in the backwoods of London. He was a strange man, and as we sat together smoking, I often wondered whether he were mad or sane88, for I think the wildest dreams of Paracelsus and the Rosicrucians would appear plain and sober fact compared with the theories I have heard him earnestly advance in that grimy den17 of his. I once ventured to hint something of the sort to him. I suggested that something he had said was in flat contradiction to all science and all experience. "No," he answered, "not all experience, for mine counts for something. I am no dealer89 in unproved theories; what I say I have proved for myself,[273] and at a terrible cost. There is a region of knowledge which you will never know, which wise men seeing from afar off shun90 like the plague, as well they may, but into that region I have gone. If you knew, if you could even dream of what may be done, of what one or two men have done in this quiet world of ours, your very soul would shudder91 and faint within you. What you have heard from me has been but the merest husk and outer covering of true science—that science which means death, and that which is more awful than death, to those who gain it. No, when men say that there are strange things in the world, they little know the awe92 and the terror that dwell always with them and about them." There was a sort of fascination93 about the man that drew me to him, and I was quite sorry to have to leave London for a month or two; I missed his odd talk. A few days after I came back to town I thought I would look him up, but when I gave the two rings at the bell that used to summon him, there was no answer. I rang and rang again, and was just turning to go away, when the door opened and a dirty woman asked me what I wanted. From her look I fancy she took me for a plain-clothes officer after one of her lodgers94, but when I inquired if Mr. Black were in, she gave me a stare of another kind. "There's no Mr. Black lives here," she said. "He's gone. He's dead this six weeks. I always thought he was a bit queer in his head, or else had been and got into some trouble or other. He used to go out every morning from ten till one, and one Monday morning we heard him come in, and go into his room and shut the door, and a few minutes after, just as we was a-sitting down to our dinner, there was such a scream that I thought[274] I should have gone right off. And then we heard a stamping, and down he came, raging and cursing most dreadful, swearing he had been robbed of something that was worth millions. And then he just dropped down in the passage, and we thought he was dead. We got him up to his room, and put him on his bed, and I just sat there and waited, while my 'usband he went for the doctor. And there was the winder wide open, and a little tin box he had lying on the floor open and empty, but of course nobody could possible have got in at the winder, and as for him having anything that was worth anything, it's nonsense, for he was often weeks and weeks behind with his rent, and my 'usband he threatened often and often to turn him into the street, for, as he said, we've got a living to myke like other people—and, of course, that's true; but, somehow, I didn't like to do it, though he was an odd kind of a man, and I fancy had been better off. And then the doctor came and looked at him, and said as he couldn't do nothing, and that night he died as I was a-sitting by his bed; and I can tell you that, with one thing and another, we lost money by him, for the few bits of clothes as he had were worth next to nothing when they came to be sold." I gave the woman half a sovereign for her trouble, and went home thinking of Dr. Black and the epitaph she had made him, and wondering at his strange fancy that he had been robbed. I take it that he had very little to fear on that score, poor fellow; but I suppose that he was really mad, and died in a sudden access of his mania95. His landlady said that once or twice when she had had occasion to go into his room (to dun the[275] poor wretch72 for his rent, most likely), he would keep her at the door for about a minute, and that when she came in she would find him putting away his tin box in the corner by the window; I suppose he had become possessed96 with the idea of some great treasure, and fancied himself a wealthy man in the midst of all his misery. Explicit97, my tale is ended, and you see that though I knew Black, I know nothing of his wife or of the history of her death.—That's the Harlesden case, Salisbury, and I think it interests me all the more deeply because there does not seem the shadow of a possibility that I or any one else will ever know more about it. What do you think of it?'
'Well, Dyson, I must say that I think you have contrived to surround the whole thing with a mystery of your own making. I go for the doctor's solution: Black murdered his wife, being himself in all probability an undeveloped lunatic.'
'What? Do you believe, then, that this woman was something too awful, too terrible to be allowed to remain on the earth? You will remember that the doctor said it was the brain of a devil?'
'Yes, yes, but he was speaking, of course, metaphorically98. It's really quite a simple matter if you only look at it like that.'
'Ah, well, you may be right; but yet I am sure you are not. Well, well, it's no good discussing it any more. A little more Benedictine? That's right; try some of this tobacco. Didn't you say that you had been bothered by something—something which happened that night we dined together?'
'Yes, I have been worried, Dyson, worried a great[276] deal. I——But it's such a trivial matter—indeed, such an absurdity—that I feel ashamed to trouble you with it.'
'Never mind, let's have it, absurd or not.'
With many hesitations99, and with much inward resentment100 of the folly of the thing, Salisbury told his tale, and repeated reluctantly the absurd intelligence and the absurder doggerel101 of the scrap102 of paper, expecting to hear Dyson burst out into a roar of laughter.
'Isn't it too bad that I should let myself be bothered by such stuff as that?' he asked, when he had stuttered out the jingle of once, and twice, and thrice.
'Yes,' he said at length, 'it was a curious chance, your taking shelter in that archway just as those two went by. But I don't know that I should call what was written on the paper nonsense; it is bizarre certainly, but I expect it has a meaning for somebody. Just repeat it again, will you, and I will write it down. Perhaps we might find a cipher104 of some sort, though I hardly think we shall.'
Again had the reluctant lips of Salisbury slowly to stammer105 out the rubbish that he abhorred106, while Dyson jotted107 it down on a slip of paper.
'Look over it, will you?' he said, when it was done; 'it may be important that I should have every word in its place. Is that all right?'
'Yes; that is an accurate copy. But I don't think you will get much out of it. Depend upon it, it is mere nonsense, a wanton scribble108. I must be going now, Dyson. No, no more; that stuff of yours is pretty strong. Good-night.'[277]
'I suppose you would like to hear from me, if I did find out anything?'
'No, not I; I don't want to hear about the thing again. You may regard the discovery, if it is one, as your own.'
'Very well. Good-night.'
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收听单词发音
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1
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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sudorific
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| n.发汗剂；adj.发汗的 | |
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mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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collaboration
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| n.合作，协作；勾结 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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everlastingly
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| 永久地，持久地 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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pompously
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| adv.傲慢地，盛大壮观地；大模大样 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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41
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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43
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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44
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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45
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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46
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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47
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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48
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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51
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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52
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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53
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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54
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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57
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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58
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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60
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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61
physiology
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| n.生理学，生理机能 | |
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62
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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63
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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molecules
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| 分子( molecule的名词复数 ) | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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68
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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foulness
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| n. 纠缠, 卑鄙 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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80
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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84
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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89
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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90
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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91
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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92
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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93
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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94
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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95
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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96
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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98
metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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99
hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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100
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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101
doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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102
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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103
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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104
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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105
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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106
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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107
jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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108
scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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