Fanshaw looked up from the photographs of Red Cross activities he was sorting, let his eye roam across the golden and rusty3 roofs that stretched away under the window past domes4 and more domes towards St. Peter's and Janiculum, glanced at the blue reflected light on Major Baldwin's puttees, at his elegant whipcord breeches and Sam Browne belt, red and shiny as his puttees, until at last he found himself looking into his blue watery5 eyes.
"I suppose ... I guess there's nothing to it but to go back to teaching the young idea how to appreciate art."
"Why don't ye stay in relief work? ... There'll be jobs for years." Major Baldwin kicked his heels against the desk and threw back his head and laughed and laughed.
"Colonel Hopkins is in there," said Fanshaw, jerking his head back towards the mahogany doors behind his desk.
"I don't give a hoot6 in hell about Hopkins ... Listen here, I've got some dope, see? ..." He leaned over and whispered noisily in Fanshaw's ear. "Old Hopkins is going to get his ... They're starting an investigation7 of the organization from the ground up. A congressional investigation ... Goin' to be hell to pay. Let's get out and have a lil' drink."
Fanshaw looked at his watch.
"I can't go for half an hour yet ... I'm not supposed to leave my desk till five."
"Hell, up in my office we don't keep any hours at all."
"You aren't so near to centers of operation."
"You mean to that old fool?" Major Baldwin pointed8 with a stout9 forefinger10 at the mahogany doors. "The investigation'll fix him.... How soon are you packing up for home?"
"Probably in a couple of weeks ... I'm afraid I'll have to finish up this album of Child Relief, 1918-1919, first ... I'm bored to death with this work, aren't you?"
Major Baldwin got to his feet and went to the window. He stood a long while looking out, twirling his cane11 in one hand. Fanshaw continued sorting photographs of ragged12 Italian children.
"Gosh, I don't see it," said Major Baldwin suddenly.
"See what?" Fanshaw was poring over a group of a Red Cross captain and a nurse with soup ladles in their hands surrounded by ragged Neapolitan guttersnipes.
"Going home after this."
Fanshaw pushed his chair back silently and got up from the desk. They both leaned out of the window and hung over the city that seemed to sway in the great waves of honeycolored sunlight like jetsam in a harbor swell14. They could smell gardens and scorched15 olive oil, and a drowsy16 afternoon murmur17 came up to them, punctuated18 occasionally by the screech19 of a tram round a corner or a shout or a distant church bell.
"That's true ... There have been many enjoyable ..."
"I tell you, Macdougan, it was a great war. ... Gosh, look at that girl in the garden there. ... No, just coming out from under the arbor13. Look at that throat ... Isn't she a pippin?"
Fanshaw laughed.
"You're incorrigible20, Baldwin."
"That's why I don't want to go home.... I'm afraid that if I go home they'll correct me."
"I don't know ... They say things are very gay in the States ... Flappers and all that."
"What's this about flappers?" came a cracked voice behind them. The voice broke into a wheezy laugh. "So this is how the publicity21 department does its work, is it?"
"Just about," said Fanshaw, turning round to face a small greyfaced man with shaggy eyebrows22. "Are you shutting up shop, Petrie?"
"Yes, it's four minutes after five ... Look, does either of you men want to sail home from Palermo on the Canada next week?"
"Heavens, no, I'm staying on till they drive me away," shouted the Major.
"I'd like to go," Fanshaw said quietly. "I've been away two years. It's time I went to see what the university has to say about my job."
"Beginning to think of the girl I left behind me, are you?" asked the greyfaced man creakily.
"Ha, ha! that's it." Fanshaw laughed loud and lifted his hand as if to slap his thigh23. He found himself looking with constraint24 at his lifted hand and put it stiffly into his pocket.
* * * *
Le Capitaine Eustache de la Potinière had a red scar on his left cheek that stretched from the lower rim25 of his monocle to the tip of his distended26 nostril27. As he sat beside Fanshaw in the joggling cab the medals clinked together on the breast of his tight-waisted khaki uniform.
"The people on the street are looking at us as we drive by," he was saying. "They are telling each other: There go two of the bravest of our allies . . . The Italians like that sort of thing: medals and people riding by in cabs ... Captain Macdougan, never forget that there is a brotherhood28 among the Latin peoples." Thereupon he sat up stiffly in the cab, blonde moustaches bristling29, and clicked his hand up to a salute30. An Italian officer in a long blue cloak saluted31 ferociously32 from the curb33. Fanshaw found himself also stiffening34 to salute ... Funny feeling, the victorious35 allies riding about in cabs, saluting36 one another to a clink of medals. America had done all that, won the war, and he had done his bit himself; after all, relief work ...
"Excuse me if I stop at this chemist's a moment," said the French captain. "There is something I must get before they close." And he poked37 the driver in the back with his cane, crying out: "Arretez ici, cré nom d'un chien!"
While le Capitaine Eustache de la Potinière was in the shop, Fanshaw lolled in the cab and stared down the grey Palermo street where the dust gave a shimmering38 outline to the patches of sun and shadow. Now and then he straightened up and answered the salute of some Italian soldier. His puttees were too tight and cut into his legs above the ankle. Never mind, this was the last day. Tomorrow, sailing for home a civilian39, no more uniform, no more inspecting colonels to talk to. Strange and different it will be coming back from the war. The thought was elating. And Nan Taylor, what will have become of her? A year since he'd heard of her. Poor Nan must be getting quite an old maid by this time, and, as for me, if it hadn't been for the war, this curious life in Italy, relief work ...
Le Capitaine Eustache de la Potinière was coming out of the shop, red and spluttering.
"Did you get what you wanted?" asked Fanshaw.
"These dirty Sicilians don't seem to understand. We'll try another place. Alley40 oop! Continuez! ... We'll dine in the grand manner, won't we? ... Imagine, this is my first day of Europe after a year of Africa. If I had not chanced to meet you, Captain Macdougan, I should have bored myself to death."
"Then you weren't on the front for the victory?"
"I was in the battle that made the victory. The war was won in the first battle of the Marne ... That's where I almost lost my leg and picked up a medaille militaire ... Ah, there's another chemist ... Arretez donc. Bon ... Perhaps you could help me explain."
They got out of the cab and went into the shop.
"What I want is tincture of yohimbine ... a very useful product ... a slight aid, that's what it is."
The clerk was a small yellow man with a bald head who wore a stained pongee jacket. He looked up through slanting41 eyeglasses at the French captain who stood over him twirling the end of his moustache.
"Avez-vous de la teinture de yohimbine, monsieur?"
"Non comprendo, signore."
"Won't you explain to him what I want? ... It's a little help, a slight aid." Le Capitaine Eustache de la Potinière waved a tightly gloved hand under the druggist's nose.
Is this man crazy? Fanshaw was thinking. Why am I riding round in a cab with this man?
"Cré nom d'un chien, por l'amore!" shouted the French captain. "Teinture de yohimbine."
Fanshaw felt himself turn red.
"I don't imagine they have it," he said hastily and walked out of the shop. He had barely got into the cab when the French captain followed.
"Ce sale pays," he was muttering. As he climbed into the cab his usual bland42 smile crept back over his face. "Now we can dine," he said. "It takes more than a slight contrariety to ruffle43 old campaigners, eh, Captain Macdougan?"
"All right, let's have dinner," Fanshaw assented44 weakly.
How on earth did I get in with this ridiculous Frenchman, he was bitterly asking himself. Last day in Italy, too, that I had intended to be so pleasant. Intended to go up to Monreale to see the mosaics45 and the view.
"I cannot tell you, Captain Macdougan," his companion was saying, "how pleasant it is to spend an evening, after all those weary years of the war, frontier posts and that sort of thing, with a man of your culture and refinement46, may I even say sophistication ... I said to myself when I met you this morning in the Red Cross office: There is a man of parts, an unusual person.... With me there are no half measures, I am a man of action.... So I immediately invited you to dinner. I am sure neither of us will regret it."
"Indeed, not for my part ..." stammered47 Fanshaw. They had driven up in front of a small empty restaurant. The hollow-eyed waiter at the door agitated48 his napkin in welcome.
Fanshaw and le Capitaine Eustache de la Potinière sat in a cavernous stage box at the opera, Fanshaw with his chin on his hand leaning across the plush rail and the Frenchman sitting straight upright in his chair with his bemedalled chest expanded, nodding his head solemnly in time to the music. On one side was a mottled horeshoe of faces, on the other the dustily lighted stage across which moved processions of monks49, tenors50 in knee-breeches, baritones with false beards; below them out of the glint of brasses51 and the shiny curves of violins and the gleaming bald heads of musicians the orchestra boomed and crashed. Verdi's long, emphatic52 tunes54 throatily sung brought up to Fanshaw's mind his boyish dreams out of Walter Scott and Bulwer of hazardous55 enterprises and maidens56' love hardily57 won. He felt as if he wanted to cry. How silly and dusty this all is, he kept saying to himself. And here I am after the war a Red Cross captain, and everything has happened that can happen, and Wenny's dead years ago, dead as this old opera, and Nan's an old maid, and here I am sitting next to this crazy Frenchman with his medals and his stories of native women ... Right after the opera I'll leave him and go back to the hotel, get a good night's rest, and run up to Monreale before the boat goes; twelve that is; plenty of time. A long lyric58 duet had reached its inevitable59 finale. The horseshoe was full of clapping hands, nodding heads. The French captain got to his feet and clapped, leaning out from the box. Wants to have them see his medals, said a voice savagely60 in Fanshaw's head.
In the intermission they sat drinking Marsala in the bar.
"I didn't tell you," le Capitaine Eustache de la Potinière was saying, "how I happened to be present at the battle of the Marne. It is a very funny story."
I'll say I have a headache and go home; I can't stand any more of this wretched man, Fanshaw was thinking.
"How did that happen?" he asked.
"It's very funny ... You know the little Moroccan ladies are charming. I had one at that time as a ... governess, to keep me out of mischief61. I was sent from Casablanca to Marseilles on a little mission, so I got the idea of taking my little lady along and got a week's leave to go up to show her Paris. My wife was safely in Aix-les-Bains with her parents, and there we were, my Moorish62 governess and I, enjoying la ville lumière, when suddenly, boom, the war breaks out!" He took a sip63 of his glass and swept the faces of the people round the bar for a moment with his superior stare.
Too repulsive64, the mentality65 of a man like that. It's not the immorality66, it's the ugliness of that sort of thing that disgusts. When he finishes this story I'll go home. Fanshaw cleared his throat nervously67.
"Of course I knew war was coming, but, as usual, I hadn't counted on its being so soon ... The first thing that happened was my wife wired to Paris that she'd meet me in Marseilles. All officers on leave were ordered back to their posts immediately. I was fond of my wife and I wanted to see her, but I knew I could never smuggle68 the little Moorish lady through Marseilles without her smelling a rat. What was I to do? I hung on in Paris a day trying to decide, and the next day packed off my little governess all alone. Poor little thing, she didn't know a word of French. Then I went to the Minister of War and got myself transferred to the French front and had my wife come up to Paris to see me off, and before I knew it I was right in the middle of the battle of the Marne. Comical, isn't it?"
Fanshaw laughed stiffly. The bell was ringing for the last act.
The two tenors and the two baritones had gone into a monastery69. The soprano had become a hermit70 and lived in a cave. The contralto was disguised in a domino. The chorus promenaded71 with imitation torches through an arcade72 in the back of the bluelighted stage. Everything was monkish73 and ominous74 in the music. The two tenors threw their hoods75 off their heads and drew swords from under their cloaks and brandished76 them over the footlights and sang a duet. The baritones stepped stealthily out from behind the wings, and the duet was a quartet. The soprano threw herself shrieking78 between the swords of the tenors. The contralto, dressed as an abbess in purple robes, came out through a door in the back. It was a sextette. The tune53, shrieked79 on tight vocal80 chords, filled to the roof the horseshoe-shaped theatre. Fanshaw half turned his head. The French captain was whispering with a stocky, sallowfaced young man who held his hat in his hand and leaned forward respectfully out of the back of the box. But things had happened on the stage. The tenors lay dying, the soprano had thrown herself to the ground, the contralto elevated a large cross with her portly arms, and the back of the stage was filling with the chorus of monks and their torches.
"Très bien, très bien!" cried le Capitaine Eustache de la Potinière as the curtain came down, and clapped with gloved hands. "No, after you!" Then, as he followed Fanshaw down the steps into the lobby of the theatre, he said: "It would be a good thing if more French and American officers were seen together at these affairs. It would improve our relations with Italy ... They are impressionable people. In Italy one must be seen."
The sallowfaced young man was waiting for them outside the theatre. "Vous suivez moi," he said in nasal French.
"But where are you going? I'm afraid I must go back to my hotel."
"But surely you'll cast just a glance at them ... It won't take long. They are said to be very handsome."
"Why, who?" Fanshaw was suddenly very agitated. Think, if after all these years ... Of course, an interesting thing to see for once; sociological study. "What do you mean? I don't understand," he said.
His companion burst out laughing.
"The little ladies of Palermo, of course ... Come along, everything's arranged."
"All right." Of course, just a glimpse, to see what a place like that was like. Nobody could know, he'd never see this Frenchman again.
They followed the sallowfaced man up a steep dark street. Fanshaw looked up at the sky that was bubbling with stars. The bright streak81 overhead narrowed as the cornices of the houses drew together. The street was empty. Once a cat brushed past his legs. At last they stood panting on the broad stepping-stone in front of a door. The guide's three knocks resounded82 hollowly.
"Such calm," whispered le Capitaine Eustache de la Potinière in Fanshaw's ear, slipping a hand under his arm. "At such moments I admit that I am rather agitated always. I congratulate you on your calm."
The guide knocked again. Somewhere up the street a rooster crowed.
"It must be midnight," said the French captain.
The door opened softly. A fatfaced woman stood in the hallway holding a taper83 above her head, and stared at them searchingly through narrowed eyes. She and the guide talked in low hurried Sicilian.
"Vous suivez moi," said the sallowfaced man.
They walked after him up a winding84 stone stair, the woman following with the taper. They came out on a landing, went through a passageway and found themselves in a brightly lighted room with pink wallpaper and gold-framed mirrors.
"Ah!" said the French captain, pulling off his gloves. They sat down at a marble-topped table with carved ebony legs. The fatfaced woman who had opened the door hung over them, grinning. "Let's drink a little something ... Une bouteille de Marsala," he said and rubbed his hands. "I like the quiet, gentlemanly way you Americans do these things. Very distinguished85."
The woman opened a cupboard and produced a bottle and glasses on a silver tray. She poured out four glasses.
"A desso," she said, and her grin reached nearly to her ears.
Two girls in evening dress swished in operatically through the door. One wore pink and the other blue. The girl who sat down beside Fanshaw had a small mouth and large tired brown eyes.
"Lei," she said with enthusiasm, "parla Italiano?"
"Si, un poco," stammered Fanshaw blushing.
"Ah, if you speak Italian, mon capitaine," said the French captain, "would you mind explaining to this little lady of mine what I told you about the Yohimbé tree? ... It's very important."
"I don't remember," said Fanshaw in a crisp, angry voice, and turned again to the girl in pink beside him.
A bar of light burned his eyes. Through musty darkness from beyond the foot of the bed a bar of light came whitely at him. Gradually other streaks86 arranged themselves at right angles to the light. It was the sun through a shutter87 beyond the foot of the bed. He had no pajamas88 on. His chest suddenly contracted with sickening agitation89. There was a sound of breathing beside him. Very cautiously he slipped from between the sheets and groped about the room. His clothes were on a chair. He pulled them on anyhow and put his hand on the knob of the door. The gentle breathing from the bed was regular like a child's. Softly he turned the knob and opened the door. The shriek77 of the hinges was a knife in his ribs90. He hurried through the parlor91 with its pink wallpaper and gold-framed mirrors that smelt92 of stale cigarette smoke and lipsticks93. The door on to the stairs was open. He slunk down the winding staircase, straightening his necktie as he went. Then he found himself in an enclosed court. In the upper wall that glowed with dazzling sunlight were windows with balconies full of potted geraniums, red and pink, stirring like flame in the sun. The pavings of the court had just been washed and a cool wet stone smell came from them. Which way now? Two geese waddled94 past him, letting a little querulous quacking95 noise dribble96 from their bloodorange bills. Under an archway an old woman sat shelling peas into a saucepan. She looked up at him and said something he did not catch as he darted97 past her and out the street door. He walked slowly down the sloping street. In the doorways98 were brightly dressed children with dirty mouths and stringy, uncombed hair. The street was full of dust and flies; shouts and shrieked talk, and sounds of braying99 donkeys and rattling100 carts swarmed101 about his ears. In front of the theatre he hailed a cab that carried him with a quick jingle102 of harness through sunny, humming streets to his hotel. There he went to his room and ordered a bath.
It was ten o'clock. He dressed again carefully in clean clothes, breakfasted off coffee and rolls and honey, paid his bill, and had himself driven to the boat.
Once on board in his ample white stateroom with his baggage about him, a terrible lassitude came over him. He sat in his bunk103 staring up at the blue round of the porthole through which came a sound of derricks and a smell of pitch and a sunseared wind off the harbor.
The day he and Nan had sat together on the beach at Marblehead and listened to the waves hiss104 and rattle105 among the pebbles106 and thought how all the strength of Wenny, now that he was dead, might perhaps ... Poor Nan, if I'd had the nerve ...
He looked at his watch. Half past. At the same moment the ship's whistle started booming loud and throbbing107. The noise tailed off into a harsh wail108.
Tarred and feathered and drawn109 in a cart
By the women of Marblehead.
Wenny used to sing that. Poor kid, he'd had nerve enough. The time he and Wenny had walked at night down a street in Somerville where the rare arclights were pinkish blobs among the shuddering110 green fringes of elms and Wenny had wanted to pick up a girl. Stumpy girls with heavy jowls strolling in couples, swaying from the hips111. It was mostly the ugliness ... Yohimbine.
Tina had been pretty in her pink dress.
And now I'm going back. Venetian Art and Culture in the Eighteenth Century. The afterglow of the Renaissance112. In a vermilion barge113, lost ... in the Charles, Wenny had said.
And Nan had understood; she had never been surprised at Wenny's killing114 himself. Perhaps they'd had secrets, things in common, the two of them, that he had never known.
Exit to Massachusetts Avenue and the College Yard, and the museum and tea with professors' wives. Think of going back to that after this life overseas. If he could love Nan, if he could take her, it would be different. That was hopeless, dead as Wenny, dead as grand opera.
"Gosh, I don't see it ... Going home after this," Baldwin had said, and they had leaned out together over the gold and rusty roofs and the domes and obelisks115 swaying in the great waves of honeycolored sunlight, and smelt gardens and scorched olive oil, and seen a girl with a brown throat come out of an arbor beneath them.
Suppose he didn't go ... There was time to get off the boat. One crazy thing in a lifetime.
He got to his feet, his heart dancing. I won't go.
A bell started ringing far away on another deck. That means there's five minutes. There's time. I can get another Red Cross job.
He picked up a suitcase and opened the varnished116 door. The companionway was full of people, officers, Red Cross men, buzz and chatter117 of farewells. Fanshaw slammed the door of his stateroom and pushed his suitcase back under his bunk.
Don't be a fool.
He threw himself on his back on his bunk and put his hand over his eyes. Once they got out of sight of land he'd get a good nap. Now he must go up on deck and take a last look at Palermo. A fine sight: the town piling up to Monreale, and the gardens, and behind them the cloudy dark hills of Sicily.
I've been thinking too much. I won't think of anything any more.
And I'll go back and go to and fro to lectures with a notebook under my arm, and now and then in the evening, when I haven't any engagement, walk into Boston through terrible throbbing streets and think for a moment I have Nan and Wenny with me, and that we are young, leansouled people out of the Renaissance, ready to divide life like a cake with our strong hands.
The whistle soared from a loose rattle of steam into a drumming reverberation118. The engines began to move slowly, thump119 after thump, and Fanshaw felt his bunk shake as the steamer drew away from the wharf120.
THE END
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1
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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cocktails
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| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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37
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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38
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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39
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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40
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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41
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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42
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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43
ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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44
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
mosaics
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| n.马赛克( mosaic的名词复数 )；镶嵌；镶嵌工艺；镶嵌图案 | |
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46
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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47
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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49
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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50
tenors
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| n.男高音( tenor的名词复数 )；大意；男高音歌唱家；（文件的）抄本 | |
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51
brasses
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| n.黄铜( brass的名词复数 )；铜管乐器；钱；黄铜饰品（尤指马挽具上的黄铜圆片） | |
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52
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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53
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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54
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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55
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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56
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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57
hardily
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| 耐劳地，大胆地，蛮勇地 | |
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58
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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59
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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60
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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61
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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62
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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63
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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64
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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65
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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66
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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67
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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68
smuggle
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| vt.私运；vi.走私 | |
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69
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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70
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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71
promenaded
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| v.兜风( promenade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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73
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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74
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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75
hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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76
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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77
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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78
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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79
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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81
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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82
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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83
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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84
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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85
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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86
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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87
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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88
pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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89
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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90
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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91
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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92
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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93
lipsticks
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| n.口红，唇膏( lipstick的名词复数 ) | |
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94
waddled
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
quacking
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| v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的现在分词 ) | |
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96
dribble
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| v.点滴留下，流口水；n.口水 | |
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97
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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98
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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99
braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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100
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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101
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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102
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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103
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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104
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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105
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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106
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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107
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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108
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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109
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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110
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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111
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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112
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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113
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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114
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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115
obelisks
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| n.方尖石塔，短剑号，疑问记号( obelisk的名词复数 ) | |
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116
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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117
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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118
reverberation
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| 反响； 回响； 反射； 反射物 | |
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119
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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120
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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