one summer afternoon Mrs Oedipa Maas came home from a Tupperware party whose hostess had put per-haps too much kirsch in the fondue to find that she, Oedipa, had been named executor, or she supposed executrix, of the estate of one Pierce Inverarity, a California real estate mogul who had once lost two million collars in his spare time but still had assets numerous and tangled2 enough to make the job of sorting it all out more than honorary. Oedipa stood in the living room, stared at by the greenish dead eye of the TV tube, spoke3 the name of God, tried to feel as drunk as possible. But this did not work. She thought of a hotel room in Mazatlan whose door had just been slammed, it seemed forever, waking up two hundred birds down in the lobby; a sunrise over the library slope at Cornell University that nobody out on it had seen because the slope faces west; a dry, disconsolate4 tune5 from the fourth movement of the Bartok Concerto6 for Orchestra; a whitewashed7 bust8 of Jay Gould that Pierce kept over the bed on a shelf so narrow for it she'd always had the hovering9 fear it would someday topple on them. Was that how he'd died, she wondered, among dreams, crushed by the only ikon in the house? That only made her laugh, out loud and helpless: You're so sick, Oedipa, she told herself, or the room, which knew.
The letter was from the law firm of Warpe, Wist-full, Kubitschek and McMingus, of Los Angeles, and signed by somebody named Metzger. It said Pierce had died back in the spring, and they'd only just now found the will. Metzger was to act as co-executor and special counsel in the event of any involved litigation. Oedipa had been named also to execute the will in a codicil10 dated a year ago. She tried to think back to whether anything unusual had happened around then. Through the rest of the afternoon, through her trip to the market in downtown Kinneret-Among-The-Pines to buy ricotta and listen to the Muzak (today she came through the bead-curtained entrance around bar 4 of the Fort Wayne Settecento Ensemble's variorum re-cording of the Vivaldi Kazoo Concerto, Boyd Beaver11, soloist); then through the sunned gathering12 of her marjoram and sweet basil from the herb garden, read-ing of book reviews in the latest Scientific American, into the layering of a lasagna, garlicking of a bread, tearing up of romaine leaves, eventually, oven on, into the mixing of the twilight's whiskey sours against the arrival of her husband, Wendell ("Mucho") Maas from work, she wondered, wondered, shuffling13 back through a fat deckful of days which seemed (wouldn't she be first to admit it?) more or less identical, or all pointing the same way subtly like a conjurer's deck, any odd one readily clear to a trained eye. It took her till the mid-dle of Huntley and Brinkley to remember that last year at three or so one morning there had come this long-distance call, from where she would never know (unless now he'd left a diary) by a voice beginning in heavy Slavic tones as second secretary at the Transyl-vanian Consulate14, looking for an escaped bat; modu-lated to comic-Negro, then on into hostile Pachuco dialect, full of chingas and maricones; then a Gestapo officer asking her in shrieks15 did she have relatives in Germany and finally his Lamont Cranston voice, the one he'd talked in all the way down to Mazatlan. "Pierce, please," she'd managed to get in, "I thought we had——"
"But Margo," earnestly, "I've just come from Commissioner16 Weston, and that old man in the fun house was murdered by the same blowgun that killed Professor Quackenbush," or something.
"For God's sake," she said. Mucho had rolled over and was looking at her.
"Why don't you hang up on him," Mucho sug-gested, sensibly.
"I heard that," Pierce said. "I think it's time Wendell Maas had a little visit from The Shadow." Silence, positive and thorough, fell. So it was the last of his voices she ever heard. Lamont Cranston. That phone line could have pointed17 any direction, been any length. Its quiet ambiguity18 shifted over, in the months after the call, to what had been revived: memories of his face, body, things he'd given her, things she had now and then pretended not to've heard him say. It took him over, and to the verge19 of being forgotten. The shadow waited a year before visiting. But now there was Metzger's letter. Had Pierce called last year then to tell her about this codicil? Or had he decided20 on it later, somehow because of her annoyance21 and Mucho's in-difference? She felt exposed, finessed22, put down. She had never executed a will in her life, didn't know where to begin, didn't know how to tell the law firm in L. A. that she didn't know where to begin.
"Mucho, baby," she cried, in an access of helpless-ness.
Mucho Maas, home, bounded through the screen door. "Today was another defeat," he began.
"Let me tell you," she also began. But let Mucho go first.
He was a disk jockey who worked further along the Peninsula and suffered regular crises of conscience out his profession. "I don't believe in any of it, Oed," he could usually get out. "I try, I truly can't," way down there, further down perhaps than she could reach, so that such times often brought her near panic. It might have been the sight of her so about to lose control that seemed to bring him back up.
"You're too sensitive." Yeah, there was so much else she ought to be saying also, but this was what came out. It was true, anyway. For a couple years he'd been a used car salesman and so hyperaware of what that profession had come to mean that working hours were
exquisite23 torture to him. Mucho shaved his upper lip every morning three times with, three times against the grain to remove any remotest breath of a mous-tache, new blades he drew blood invariably but kept at it; bought all natural-shoulder suits, then went to a tailor to have the lapels made yet more abnormally nar-row, on his hair used only water, combing it like Jack24 Lemmon to throw them further off. The sight of saw-dust, even pencil shavings, made him wince25, his own kind being known to use it for hushing sick transmis-sions, and though he dieted he could still not as Oedipa did use honey to sweeten his coffee for like all things viscous26 it distressed27 him, recalling too poignantly28 what is often mixed with motor oil to ooze29 dishonest into gaps between piston30 and cylinder31 wall. He walked out of a party one night because somebody used the word "creampuff," it seemed maliciously32, in his hearing. The man was a refugee Hungarian pastry33 cook talking shop, but there was your Mucho: thin-skinned.
Yet at least he had believed in the cars. Maybe to excess: how could he not, seeing people poorer than him come in, Negro, Mexican, cracker34, a parade seven days a week, bringing the most godawful of trade-ins: motorized, metal extensions of themselves, of their families and what their whole lives must be like, out there so naked for anybody, a stranger like himself, to look at, frame cockeyed, rusty35 underneath36, fender repainted in a shade just off enough to depress the value, if not Mucho himself, inside smelling hopelessly of children, supermarket booze, two, sometimes three generations of cigarette smokers37, or only of dust— and when the cars were swept out you had to look at the actual residue38 of these lives, and there was no way of
telling what things had been truly refused (when so little he supposed came by that out of fear most of it had to be taken and kept) and what had simply (perhaps tragically) been lost: clipped coupons39 promis-ing savings40 of .05 or .10, trading stamps, pink flyers advertising41 specials at the markets, butts42, tooth-shy combs, help-wanted ads, Yellow Pages torn from the phone book, rags of old underwear or dresses that already were period costumes, for wiping your own breath off the inside of a windshield with so you could see whatever it was, a movie, a woman or car you coveted43, a cop who might pull you over just for drill, all the bits and pieces coated uniformly, like a salad of despair, in a gray dressing44 of ash, condensed exhaust, dust, body wastes—it made him sick to look, but he had to look. If it had been an outright45 junkyard, probably he could have stuck things out, made a career: the violence that had caused each wreck46 being infrequent enough, far enough away from him, to be miraculous47, as each death, up till the moment of our own, is miraculous. But the endless rituals of trade-in, week after week, never got as far as violence or blood, and so were too plausible48 for the impressionable Mucho to take for long. Even if enough exposure to the unvarying gray sickness had somehow managed to immunize him, he could still never accept the way each owner, each shadow, filed in only to exchange a dented49, malfunctioning50 version of himself for another, just as futureless, automotive pro-jection of somebody else's life. As if it were the most natural thing. To Mucho it was horrible. Endless, con-voluted incest.
Oedipa couldn't understand how he could still get so upset even now. By the time he married her he'd al-ready been two years at the station, KCUF, and the lot on the pallid51, roaring arterial was far behind him, like the Second World or Korean Wars were for older husbands. Maybe, God help her, he should have been in a war, Japs in trees, Krauts in Tiger tanks, gooks with trumpets52 in the night he might have forgotten sooner than whatever it was about the lot that had stayed so alarmingly with him for going on five years. Five years. You comfort them when they wake pour-ing sweat or crying out in the language of bad dreams, yes, you hold them, they calm down, one day they lose it: she knew that. But when was Mucho going to for-get? She suspected the disk jockey spot (which he'd got through his good buddy53 the KCUF advertising manager, who'd visited the lot once a week, the lot being a sponsor) was a way of letting the Top 200, and even the news copy that came jabbering54 out of the machine—all the fraudulent dream of teenage ap-petites—be a buffer55 between him and that lot.
He had believed too much in the lot, he believed not at all in the station. Yet to look at him now, in the twilit living room, gliding56 like a large bird in an updraft toward the sweating shakerful of booze, smiling out of his fat vortex ring's centre, you'd think all was flat calm, gold, serene57.
Until he opened his mouth. "Today Funch," he told her, pouring, "had me in, wanted to talk about my image, which he doesn't like." Funch being the program director, and Mucho's great foe58. "I'm too horny, now. What I should be is a young father, a big brother. These little chicks call in with requests, naked lust59, to Punch's ear, throbs60 in every word I say. So now I'm suppose to tape all the phone talk, Funch personally will edit out anything he considers offensive, meaning all of my end of the conversation. Censorship, I told
him, 'fink,' I muttered, and fled." He and Funch went through some such routine maybe once a week.
She showed him the letter from Metzger. Mucho knew all about her and Pierce: it had ended a year before Mucho married her. He read the letter and withdrew along a shy string of eyeblinks.
"What am I going to do?" she said.
"Oh, no," said Mucho, "you got the wrong fella. Not me. I can't even make out our income tax right. Execute a will, there's nothing I can tell you, see Roseman." Their lawyer.
"Mucho. Wendell. It was over. Before he put my name on it."
"Yeah, yeah. I meant only that, Oed. I'm not capable."
So next morning that's what she did, went and saw Roseman. After a half hour in front of her vanity mirror drawing and having to redraw dark lines along her eyelids61 that each time went ragged62 or wavered violently before she could take the brush away. She'd been up most of the night, after another three-in-the-morning phone call, its announcing bell clear cardiac terror, so out of nothing did it come, the instrument one second inert63, the next screaming. It brought both of them instantly awake and they lay, joints64 unlocking, not even wanting to look at each other for the first few rings. She finally, having nothing she knew of to lose, had taken it. It was Dr Hilarius, her shrink or psychotherapist. But he sounded like Pierce doing a Gestapo officer.
"I didn't wake you up, did I," he began, dry. "You sound so frightened. How are the pills, not working?"
"I'm not taking them," she said.
"You feel threatened by them?"
"I don't know what's inside them."
"You don't believe that they're only tranquiliz-ers."
"Do I trust you?" She didn't, and what he said next explained why not.
"We still need a hundred-and-fourth for the bridge." Chuckled65 aridly66. The bridge, die Brucke, being his pet name for the experiment he was helping67 the community hospital run on effects of LSD-25, mesca-line, psilocybin, and related drugs on a large sample of surburban housewives. The bridge inward. "When can you let us fit you into our schedule."
"No," she said, "you have half a million others to choose from. It's three in the morning."
"We want you." Hanging in the air over her bed she now beheld68 the well-known portrait of Uncle that appears in front of all our post offices, his eyes gleaming unhealthily, his sunken yellow cheeks most violently rouged69, his finger pointing between her eyes. I want you. She had never asked Dr Hilarius why, being afraid of all he might answer.
"I am having a hallucination now, I don't need drugs for that."
"Don't describe it," he said quickly. "Well. Was there anything else you wanted to talk about." "Did I call you?"
"I thought so," he said, "I had this feeling. Not telepathy. But rapport70 with a patient is a curious thing sometimes."
"Not this time." She hung up. And then couldn't get to sleep. But would be damned if she'd take the capsules he'd given her. Literally71 damned. She didn't want to get hooked in any way, she'd told him that. "So," he shrugged72, "on me you are not hooked? Leave then. You're cured."
She didn't leave. Not that the shrink held any dark power over her. But it was easier to stay. Who'd know the day she was cured? Not him, he'd admitted that himself. "Pills are different," she pleaded. Hilarius only made a face at her, one he'd made before. He was full of these delightful73 lapses74 from orthodoxy. His theory being that a face is symmetrical like a Rorschach blot75, tells a story like a TAT picture, excites a response like a suggested word, so why not. He claimed to have once cured a case of hysterical76 blindness with his number 37, the "Fu-Manchu" (many of the faces having like Ger-man symphonies both a number and nickname), which involved slanting77 the eyes up with the index fingers, enlarging the nostrils78 with the middle fingers, pulling the mouth wide with the pinkies and protruding79 the tongue. On Hilarius it was truly alarming. And in fact, as Oedipa's Uncle Sam hallucination faded, it was this Fu-Manchu face that came dissolving in to replace it and stay with her for what was left of the hours before dawn. It put her in hardly any shape to see Roseman.
But Roseman had also spent a sleepless80 night, brooding over the Perry Mason television program the evening before, which his wife was fond of but toward which Roseman cherished a fierce ambivalence81, want-ing at once to be a successful trial lawyer like Perry Mason and, since this was impossible, to destroy Perry Mason by undermining him. Oedipa walked in more or less by surprise to catch her trusted family lawyer stuffing with guilty haste a wad of different-sized and colored papers into a desk drawer. She knew it was the
rough draft of The Profession v. Perry Mason, A Not-so-hypothetical Indictment82, and had been in progress for as long as the TV show had been on the air.
"You didn't use to look guilty, as I remember," Oedipa said. They often went to the same group ther-apy sessions, in a car pool with a photographer from Palo Alto who thought he was a volleyball. "That's a good sign, isn't it?"
"You might have been one of Perry Mason's spies," said Roseman. After thinking a moment he added, "Ha, ha."
"Ha, ha," said Oedipa. They looked at each other. "I have to execute a will," she said.
"Oh, go ahead then," said Roseman, "don't let me keep you."
"No," said Oedipa, and told him all.
"Why would he do a thing like that," Roseman puzzled, after reading the letter.
"You mean die?"
"No," said Roseman, "name you to help execute it."
"He was unpredictable." They went to lunch. Roseman tried to play footsie with her under the table. She was wearing boots, and couldn't feel much of anything. So, insulated, she decided not to make any fuss.
"Run away with me," said Roseman when the
coffee came.
"Where?" she asked. That shut him up.
Back in the office, he outlined what she was in for: learn intimately the books and the business, go through probate, collect all debts, inventory83 the assets, get an appraisal84 of the estate, decide what to liquidate85 and
what to hold on to, pay off claims, square away taxes, distribute legacies86 . . .
"Hey," said Oedipa, "can't I get somebody to do it forme?"
"Me," said Roseman, "some of it, sure. But aren't you even interested?"
"In what?"
"In what you might find out."
As things developed, she was to have all manner of revelations. Hardly about Pierce Inverarity, or her-self; but about what remained yet had somehow, before this, stayed away. There had hung the sense of buffer-ing, insulation87, she had noticed the absence of an intensity88, as if watching a movie, just perceptibly out of focus, that the projectionist89 refused to fix. And had also gently conned90 herself into the curious, Rapunzel-like role of a pensive91 girl somehow, magically, prisoner among the pines and salt fogs of Kinneret, looking for somebody to say hey, let down your hair. When it turned out to be Pierce she'd happily pulled out the pins and curlers and down it tumbled in its whispering, dainty avalanche92, only when Pierce had got maybe halfway93 up, her lovely hair turned, through some sin-ister sorcery, into a great unanchored wig94, and down he fell, on his ass1. But dauntless, perhaps using one of his many credit cards for a shim, he'd slipped the lock on her tower door and come up the conchlike stairs, which, had true guile95 come more naturally to him, he'd have done to begin with. But all that had then gone on between them had really never escaped the confine-ment of that tower. In Mexico City they somehow wandered into an exhibition of paintings by the beautiful Spanish exile Remedies Varo: in the central paint-ing of a triptych, titled "Bordando el Manto Terrestre," were a number of frail96 girls with heart-shaped faces, huge eyes, spun-gold hair, prisoners in the top room of a circular tower, embroidering97 a kind of tapestry98 which spilled out the slit99 windows and into a void, seeking hopelessly to fill the void: for all the other buildings and creatures, all the waves, ships and for-ests of the earth were contained in this tapestry, and the tapestry was the world. Oedipa, perverse100, had stood in front of the painting and cried. No one had noticed; she wore dark green bubble shades. For a moment she'd wondered if the seal around her sockets101 were tight enough to allow the tears simply to go on and fill up the entire lens space and never dry. She could carry the sadness of the moment with her that way forever, see the world refracted through those tears, those specific tears, as if indices as yet unfound varied102 in important ways from cry to cry. She had looked down at her feet and known, then, because of a painting, that what she stood on had only been woven together a couple thousand miles away in her own tower, was only by accident known as Mexico, and so Pierce had taken her away from nothing, there'd been no escape. What did she so desire escape from? Such a captive maiden103, having plenty of time to think, soon realizes that her tower, its height and architecture, are like her ego104 only incidental: that what really keeps her where she is is magic, anonymous105 and malignant106, visited on her from outside and for no reason at all. Having no apparatus107 except gut108 fear and female cunning to examine this formless magic, to understand how it works, how to measure its field strength, count its lines of force, she may fall back on superstition109, or take up a useful hobby like embroidery110, or go mad, or marry a disk jockey. If the tower is everywhere and the knight111 of deliverance no proof against its magic, what else?
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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concerto
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| n.协奏曲 | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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codicil
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| n.遗嘱的附录 | |
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beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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finessed
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| v.手腕，手段，技巧( finesse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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viscous
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| adj.粘滞的，粘性的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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poignantly
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ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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piston
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| n.活塞 | |
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cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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cracker
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| n.（无甜味的）薄脆饼干 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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smokers
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| 吸烟者( smoker的名词复数 ) | |
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residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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coupons
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| n.礼券( coupon的名词复数 )；优惠券；订货单；参赛表 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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48
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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dented
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| v.使产生凹痕( dent的过去式和过去分词 )；损害；伤害；挫伤（信心、名誉等） | |
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50
malfunctioning
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| 出故障 | |
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51
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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52
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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53
buddy
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| n.（美口）密友，伙伴 | |
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54
jabbering
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的现在分词 )；急促兴奋地说话；结结巴巴 | |
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55
buffer
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| n.起缓冲作用的人(或物)，缓冲器；vt.缓冲 | |
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56
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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57
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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58
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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59
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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60
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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61
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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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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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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65
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aridly
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| adv.arid（干燥的，干旱的）的变形 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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rouged
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| 胭脂，口红( rouge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rapport
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| n.和睦，意见一致 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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ambivalence
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| n.矛盾心理 | |
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82
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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appraisal
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| n.对…作出的评价；评价，鉴定，评估 | |
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liquidate
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| v.偿付，清算，扫除；整理，破产 | |
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legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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insulation
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| n.隔离；绝缘；隔热 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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projectionist
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| n.电影放映员，幻灯放映员 | |
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90
conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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halfway
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| 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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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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95
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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96
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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embroidering
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| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
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98
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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99
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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100
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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101
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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102
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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103
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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104
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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105
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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106
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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107
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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108
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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109
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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110
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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111
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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