§ 1
In an uncomfortable armchair of slippery black horsehair, in a mean apartment at Sundering-on-Sea, sat a sick man staring dully out of the window. It was an oppressive day, hot under a leaden sky; there was scarcely a movement in the air save for the dull thudding of the gun practice at Shorehamstow. A multitude of flies crawled and buzzed fitfully about the room, and ever and again some chained-up cur in the neighbourhood gave tongue to its discontent. The window looked out upon a vacant building lot, a waste of scorched2 grass and rusty3 rubbish surrounded by a fence of barrel staves and barbed wire. Between the ruinous notice-board of some pre-war building enterprise and the gaunt verandah of a convalescent home, on which the motionless blue forms of two despondent4 wounded men in deck chairs were visible, 18came the sea view which justified5 the name of the house; beyond a wide waste of mud, over which quivered the heat-tormented air, the still anger of the heavens lowered down to meet in a line of hard conspiracy6, the steely criminality of the remote deserted7 sea.
The man in the chair flapped his hand and spoke8. “You accursed creature,” he said. “Why did God make flies?”
After a long interval9 he sighed deeply and repeated: “Why?”
He made a fitful effort to assume a more comfortable position, and relapsed at last into his former attitude of brooding despondency.
When presently his landlady10 came in to lay the table for lunch, an almost imperceptible wincing11 alone betrayed his sense of the threatening swish and emphasis of her movements. She was manifestly heated by cooking, and a smell of burnt potatoes had drifted in with her appearance. She was a meagre little woman with a resentful manner, glasses pinched her sharp red nose, and as she spread out the grey-white diaper and rapped down the knives and forks in their places she glanced at him darkly as if his inattention aggrieved12 her. Twice she was moved to speak and did not do so, but at length she could endure his indifference13 no 19longer. “Still feeling ill I suppose, Mr. ’Uss?” she said, in the manner of one who knows only too well what the answer will be.
He started at the sound of her voice, and gave her his attention as if with an effort. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Croome?”
The landlady repeated with acerbity14, “I arst if you was still feeling ill, Mr. ’Uss.”
He did not look at her when he replied, but glanced towards her out of the corner of his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I am. I am afraid I am ill.” She made a noise of unfriendly confirmation15 that brought his face round to her. “But mind you, Mrs. Croome, I don’t want Mrs. Huss worried about it. She has enough to trouble her just now. Quite enough.”
“Misfortunes don’t ever come singly,” said Mrs. Croome with quiet satisfaction, leaning across the table to brush some spilt salt from off the cloth to the floor. She was not going to make any rash promises about Mrs. Huss.
“We ’ave to bear up with what is put upon us,” said Mrs. Croome. “We ’ave to find strength where strength is to be found.”
She stood up and regarded him with pensive16 malignity17. “Very likely all you want is a tonic18 of some sort. Very likely you’ve just let yourself go. I shouldn’t be surprised.”
20The sick man gave no welcome to this suggestion.
“If you was to go round to the young doctor at the corner—Barrack isnameis—very likely he’d put you right. Everybody says he’s very clever. Not that me and Croome put much faith in doctors. Nor need to. But you’re in a different position.”
The man in the chair had been to see the young doctor at the corner twice already, but he did not want to discuss that interview with Mrs. Croome just then. “I must think about it,” he said evasively.
“After all it isn’t fair to yourself, it isn’t fair to others, to sicken for—it might be anythink—without proper advice. Sitting there and doing nothing. Especially in lodgings21 at this time of year. It isn’t, well—not what I call considerate.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Huss weakly.
“There’s homes and hospitals properly equipped.”
The sick man nodded his head appreciatively.
“If things are nipped in the bud they’re nipped in the bud, otherwise they grow and make trouble.”
It was exactly what her hearer was thinking.
Mrs. Croome ducked to the cellarette of a 21gaunt sideboard and rapped out a whisky bottle, a bottle of lime-juice, and a soda-water syphon upon the table. She surveyed her handiwork with a critical eye. “Cruet,” she whispered, and vanished from the room, leaving the door, after a tormenting22 phase of creaking, to slam by its own weight behind her....
The invalid23 raised his hand to his forehead and found it wet with perspiration24. His hand was trembling violently. “My God!” he whispered.
22
§ 2
This man’s name was Job Huss. His father had been called Job before him, and so far as the family tradition extended the eldest25 son had always been called Job. Four weeks ago he would have been esteemed26 by most people a conspicuously27 successful and enviable man, and then had come a swift rush of disaster.
He had been the headmaster of the great modern public school at Woldingstanton in Norfolk, a revived school under the Papermakers’ Guild28 of the City of London; he had given himself without stint29 to its establishment and he had made a great name in the world for it and for himself. He had been the first English schoolmaster to liberate30 the modern side from the entanglement31 of its lower forms with the classical masters; it was the only school in England where Spanish and Russian were honestly taught; his science laboratories were the best school laboratories in Great Britain and perhaps in the world, and his new methods in the teaching of history and politics brought a steady 23stream of foreign inquirers to Woldingstanton. The hand of the adversary32 had touched him first just at the end of the summer term. There had been an epidemic33 of measles34 in which, through the inexplicable35 negligence36 of a trusted nurse, two boys had died. On the afternoon of the second of these deaths an assistant master was killed by an explosion in the chemical laboratory. Then on the very last night of the term came the School House fire, in which two of the younger boys were burnt to death.
Against any single one of these misfortunes Mr. Huss and his school might have maintained an unbroken front, but their quick succession had a very shattering effect. Every circumstance conspired37 to make these events vividly38 dreadful to Mr. Huss. He had been the first to come to the help of his chemistry master, who had fallen among some carboys of acid, and though still alive and struggling, was blinded, nearly faceless, and hopelessly mangled39. The poor fellow died before he could be extricated40. On the night of the fire Mr. Huss strained himself internally and bruised41 his foot very painfully, and he himself found and carried out the charred42 body of one of the two little victims from the room in which they had been trapped by the locking of a door during some “last 24day” ragging. It added an element of exasperating43 inconvenience to his greater distresses44 that all his papers and nearly all his personal possessions were burnt.
On the morning after the fire Mr. Huss’s solicitor45 committed suicide. He was an old friend to whom Mr. Huss had entrusted46 the complete control of the savings47 that were to secure him and Mrs. Huss a dignified48 old age. The lawyer was a man of strong political feelings and liberal views, and he had bought roubles to his utmost for Mr. Huss as for himself, in order to demonstrate his confidence in the Russian revolution.
All these things had a quite sufficiently49 disorganizing effect upon Mr. Huss; upon his wife the impression they made was altogether disastrous50. She was a worthy51 but emotional lady, effusive52 rather than steadfast53. Like the wives of most schoolmasters, she had been habitually54 preoccupied55 with matters of domestic management for many years, and her first reaction was in the direction of a bitter economy, mingled56 with a display of contempt she had never manifested hitherto for her husband’s practical ability. Far better would it have been for Mr. Huss if she had broken down altogether; she insisted upon directing everything, and doing 25so with a sort of pitiful vehemence57 that brooked58 no contradiction. It was impossible to stay at Woldingstanton through the vacation, in sight of the tragic59 and blackened ruins of School House, and so she decided60 upon Sundering-on-Sea because of its nearness and its pre-war reputation for cheapness. There, she announced, her husband must “pull himself together and pick up,” and then return to the rebuilding of School House and the rehabilitation61 of the school. Many formalities had to be gone through before the building could be put in hand, for in those days Britain was at the extremity62 of her war effort, and labour and material were unobtainable without special permits and great exertion63. Sundering-on-Sea was as convenient a place as anywhere from which to write letters, but his idea of going to London to see influential64 people was resisted by Mrs. Huss on the score of the expense, and overcome when he persisted in it by a storm of tears.
On her arrival at Sundering Mrs. Huss put up at the Railway Hotel for the night, and spent the next morning in a stern visitation of possible lodgings. Something in the unassuming outlook of Sea View attracted her, and after a long dispute she was able to beat down Mrs. Croome’s demand from five to four and a half 26guineas a week. That afternoon some importunate65 applicant66 in an extremity of homelessness—for there had been a sudden rush of visitors to Sundering—offered six guineas. Mrs. Croome tried to call off her first bargain, but Mrs. Huss was obdurate67, and thereafter all the intercourse68 of landlady and her lodgers69 went to the unspoken refrain of “I get four and a half guineas and I ought to get six.” To recoup herself Mrs. Croome attempted to make extra charges for the use of the bathroom, for cooking after five o’clock, for cleaning Mr. Huss’s brown boots with specially19 bought brown cream instead of blacking, and for the ink used by him in his very voluminous correspondence; upon all of which points there was much argument and bitterness.
But a heavier blow than any they had hitherto experienced was now to fall upon Mr. and Mrs. Huss. Job in the ancient story had seven sons and three daughters, and they were all swept away. This Job was to suffer a sharper thrust; he had but one dear only son, a boy of great promise, who had gone into the Royal Flying Corps70. News came that he had been shot down over the German lines.
Unhappily there had been a conflict between Mr. and Mrs. Huss about this boy. Huss had 27been proud that the youngster should choose the heroic service; Mrs. Huss had done her utmost to prevent his joining it. The poor lady was now ruthless in her anguish71. She railed upon him as the murderer of their child. She hoped he was pleased with his handiwork. He could count one more name on his list; he could add it to the roll of honour in the chapel72 “with the others.” Her baby boy! This said, she went wailing73 from the room.
The wretched man sat confounded. That “with the others” cut him to the heart. For the school chapel had a list of V.C.’s, D.C.M.’s and the like, second to none, and it had indeed been a pride to him.
For some days his soul was stunned74. He was utterly75 exhausted76 and lethargic77. He could hardly attend to the most necessary letters. From dignity, hope, and a great sheaf of activities, his life had shrunken abruptly78 to the compass of this dingy79 lodging20, pervaded80 by the squabbling of two irrational81 women; his work in the world was in ruins; he had no strength left in him to struggle against fate. And a vague internal pain crept slowly into his consciousness.
His wife, insane now and cruel with sorrow, tried to put a great quarrel upon him about 28wearing mourning for their son. He had always disliked and spoken against these pomps of death, but she insisted that whatever callousness82 he might display she at least must wear black. He might, she said, rest assured that she would spend no more money than the barest decency83 required; she would buy the cheapest material, and make it up in her bedroom. But black she must have. This resolution led straight to a conflict with Mrs. Croome, who objected to her best bedroom being littered with bits of black stuff, and cancelled the loan of her sewing machine. The mourning should be made, Mrs. Huss insisted, though she had to sew every stitch of it by hand. And the poor distraught lady in her silly parsimony84 made still deeper trouble for herself by cutting her material in every direction half an inch or more short of the paper pattern. She came almost to a physical tussle85 with Mrs. Croome because of the state of the carpet and counterpane, and Mrs. Croome did her utmost to drag Mr. Huss into an altercation86 upon the matter with her husband.
“Croome don’t interfere87 much, but some things he or nobody ain’t going to stand, Mr. ’Uss.”
For some days in this battlefield of insatiable 29grief and petty cruelty, and with a dull pain steadily88 boring its way to recognition, Mr. Huss forced himself to carry on in a fashion the complex of business necessitated89 by the school disaster. Then in the night came a dream, as dreams sometimes will, to enlighten him upon his bodily condition. Projecting from his side he saw a hard, white body that sent round, wormlike tentacles90 into every corner of his being. A number of doctors were struggling to tear this thing away from him. At every effort the pain increased.
He awoke, but the pain throbbed91 on.
He lay quite still. Upon the heavy darkness he saw the word “Cancer,” bright red and glowing—as pain glows....
He argued in the face of invincible92 conviction. He kept the mood conditional93. “If it be so,” he said, though he knew that the thing was so. What should he do? There would have to be operations, great expenses, enfeeblement....
Whom could he ask for advice? Who would help him?...
Suppose in the morning he were to take a bathing ticket as if he meant to bathe, and struggle out beyond the mud-flats. He could behave as though cramp94 had taken him suddenly....
30Five minutes of suffocation95 he would have to force himself through, and then peace—endless peace!
“No,” he said, with a sudden gust96 of courage. “I will fight it out to the end.”
But his mind was too dull to form plans and physically97 he was afraid. He would have to find a doctor somehow, and even that little task appalled98 him.
Then he would have to tell Mrs. Huss....
For a time he lay quite still as if he listened to the alternative swell99 and diminuendo of his pain.
“Oh! if I had someone to help me!” he whispered, and was overcome by the lonely misery100 of his position. “If I had someone!”
For years he had never wept, but now tears were wrung101 from him. He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow and tried to wriggle102 his body away from that steady gnawing103; he fretted104 as a child might do.
The night about him was as it were a great watching presence that would not help nor answer.
31
§ 3
Behind the brass105 plate at the corner which said “Dr. Elihu Barrack” Mr. Huss found a hard, competent young man, who had returned from the war to his practice at Sundering after losing a leg. The mechanical substitute seemed to have taken to him very kindly106. He appeared to be both modest and resourceful; his unfavourable diagnosis107 was all the more convincing because it was tentative and conditional. He knew the very specialist for the case; no less a surgeon than Sir Alpheus Mengo came, it happened, quite frequently to play golf on the Sundering links. It would be easy to arrange for him to examine Mr. Huss in Dr. Barrack’s little consulting room, and if an operation had to be performed it could be managed with a minimum of expense in Mr. Huss’s own lodgings without any extra charge for mileage108 and the like.
“Of course,” said Mr. Huss, “of course,” with a clear vision of Mrs. Croome confronted with the proposal.
32Sir Alpheus Mengo came down the next Saturday, and made a clandestine109 examination. He decided to operate the following week-end. Mr. Huss was left at his own request to break the news to his wife and to make the necessary arrangements for this use of Mrs. Croome’s rooms. But it was two days before he could bring himself to broach110 the matter.
He sat now listening to the sounds of his wife moving about in the bedroom overhead, and to the muffled111 crashes that intimated the climax112 of Mrs. Croome’s preparation of the midday meal. He heard her calling upstairs to know whether Mrs. Huss was ready for her to serve up. He was seized with panic as a schoolboy might be who had not prepared his lesson. He tried hastily to frame some introductory phrases, but nothing would come into his mind save terms of disgust and lamentation113. The sullen114 heat of the day mingled in one impression with his pain. He was nauseated115 by the smell of cooking. He felt it would be impossible to sit up at table and pretend to eat the meal of burnt bacon and potatoes that was all too evidently coming.
It came. Its progress along the passage was announced by a clatter116 of dishes. The door was opened by a kick. Mrs. Croome put the feast upon the table with something between defence 33and defiance117 in her manner. “What else,” she seemed to intimate, “could one expect for four and a half guineas a week in the very height of the season? From a woman who could have got six!”
“Your dinner’s there,” Mrs. Croome called upstairs to Mrs. Huss in tones of studied negligence, and then retired118 to her own affairs in the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.
The room quivered down to silence, and then Mr. Huss could hear the footsteps of his wife crossing the bedroom and descending119 the staircase.
Mrs. Huss was a dark, graceful120, and rather untidy lady of seven and forty, with the bridling121 bearing of one who habitually repels123 implicit124 accusations125. She lifted the lid of the vegetable dish. “I thought I smelt126 burning,” she said. “The woman is impossible.”
She stood by her chair, regarding her husband and waiting.
He rose reluctantly, and transferred himself to a seat at table.
It had always been her custom to carve. She now prepared to serve him. “No,” he said, full of loathing127. “I can’t eat. I can’t.”
She put down the tablespoon and fork she had just raised, and regarded him with eyes of dark disapproval128.
34“It’s all we can get,” she said.
He shook his head. “It isn’t that.”
“I don’t know what you expect me to get for you here,” she complained. “The tradesmen don’t know us—and don’t care.”
“It isn’t that. I’m ill.”
“It’s the heat. We are all ill. Everyone. In such weather as this. It’s no excuse for not making an effort, situated129 as we are.”
“I mean I am really ill. I am in pain.”
She looked at him as one might look at an unreasonable130 child. He was constrained131 to more definite statement.
“I suppose I must tell you sooner or later. I’ve had to see a doctor.”
“Without consulting me!”
“I thought if it turned out to be fancy I needn’t bother you.”
“But how did you find a doctor?”
“There’s a fellow at the corner. Oh! it’s no good making a long story of it. I have cancer.... Nothing will do but an operation.” Self-pity wrung him. He controlled a violent desire to cry. “I am too ill to eat. I ought to be lying down.”
She flopped132 back in her chair and stared at him as one stares at some hideous133 monstrosity. “Oh!” she said. “To have cancer now! In these lodgings!”
35“I can’t help it,” he said in accents that were almost a whine134. “I didn’t choose the time.”
“Cancer!” she cried reproachfully. “The horror of it!”
He looked at her for a moment with hate in his heart. He saw under her knitted brows dark and hostile eyes that had once sparkled with affection, he saw a loose mouth with downturned corners that had been proud and pretty, and this mask of dislike was projecting forward upon a neck he had used to call her head-stalk, so like had it seemed to the stem of some pretty flower. She had had lovely shoulders and an impudent135 humour; and now the skin upon her neck and shoulders had a little loosened, and she was no longer impudent but harsh. Her brows were moist with heat, and her hair more than usually astray. But these things did not increase, they mitigated136 his antagonism137. They did not repel122 him as defects; they hurt him as wounds received in a common misfortune. Always he had petted and spared and rejoiced in her vanity and weakness, and now as he realized the full extent of her selfish abandonment a protective pity arose in his heart that overcame his physical pain. It was terrible to see how completely her delicacy138 and tenderness of mind had been broken down. She had neither 36the strength nor the courage left even for an unselfish thought. And he could not help her; whatever power he had possessed139 over her mind had gone long ago. His magic had departed.
Latterly he had been thinking very much of her prospects140 if he were to die. In some ways his death might be a good thing for her. He had an endowment assurance running that would bring in about seven thousand pounds immediately at his death, but which would otherwise involve heavy annual payments for some years. So far, to die would be clear gain. But who would invest this money for her and look after her interests? She was, he knew, very silly about property; suspicious of people she knew intimately, and greedy and credulous142 with strangers. He had helped to make her incompetent143, and he owed it to her to live and protect her if he could. And behind that intimate and immediate141 reason for living he had a strong sense of work in the world yet to be done by him, and a task in education still incomplete.
He spoke with his chin in his hand and his eyes staring at the dark and distant sea. “An operation,” he said, “might cure me.”
Her thoughts, it became apparent, had been travelling through some broken and unbeautiful 37country roughly parallel with the course of his own. “But need there be an operation?” she thought aloud. “Are they ever any good?”
“I could die,” he admitted bitterly, and repented144 as he spoke.
There had been times, he remembered, when she had said and done sweet and gallant145 things, poor soul! poor broken companion! And now she had fallen into a darkness far greater than his. He had feared that he had hurt her, and then when he saw that she was not hurt, and that she scrutinized146 his face eagerly as if she weighed the sincerity147 of his words, his sense of utter loneliness was completed.
Over his mean drama of pain and debasement in its close atmosphere buzzing with flies, it was as if some gigantic and remorseless being watched him as a man of science might hover148 over some experiment, and marked his life and all his world. “You are alone,” this brooding witness counselled, “you are utterly alone. Curse God and die.”
It seemed a long time before Mr. Huss answered this imagined voice, and when he answered it he spoke as if he addressed his wife alone.
“No,” he said with a sudden decisiveness. “No. I will face that operation.... We are 38ill and our hearts are faint. Neither for you, dear, nor for me must our story finish in this fashion. No. I shall go on to the end.”
“And have your operation here?”
“In this house. It is by far the most convenient place, as things are.”
“You may die here!”
“Well, I shall die fighting.”
“Leaving me here with Mrs. Croome.”
His temper broke under her reply. “Leaving you here with Mrs. Croome,” he said harshly.
He got up. “I can eat nothing,” he repeated, and dropped back sullenly149 into the horsehair armchair.
There was a long silence, and then he heard the little, almost mouselike, movements of his wife as she began her meal. For a while he had forgotten the dull ache within him, but now, glowing and fading and glowing, it made its way back into his consciousness. He was helpless and perplexed150; he had not meant to quarrel. He had hurt this poor thing who had been his love and companion; he had bullied151 her. His clogged152 brain could think of nothing to set matters right. He stared with dull eyes at a world utterly hateful to him.
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1
sundering
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的现在分词 ) | |
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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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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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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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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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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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acerbity
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| n.涩，酸，刻薄 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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eldest
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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liberate
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| v.解放，使获得自由，释出，放出；vt.解放，使获自由 | |
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entanglement
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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36
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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37
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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38
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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39
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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40
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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42
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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43
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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44
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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45
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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46
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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48
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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49
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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50
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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51
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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52
effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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53
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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54
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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55
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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56
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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57
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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58
brooked
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| 容忍，忍受（brook的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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59
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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60
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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61
rehabilitation
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| n.康复，悔过自新，修复，复兴，复职，复位 | |
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62
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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63
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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64
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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65
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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66
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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67
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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68
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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69
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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70
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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71
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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72
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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73
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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74
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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75
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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76
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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77
lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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78
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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79
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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80
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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82
callousness
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83
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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84
parsimony
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| n.过度节俭，吝啬 | |
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85
tussle
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| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
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86
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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87
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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88
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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89
necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
tentacles
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| n.触手( tentacle的名词复数 )；触角；触须；触毛 | |
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91
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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92
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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93
conditional
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| adj.条件的，带有条件的 | |
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94
cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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95
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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96
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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97
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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98
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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99
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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100
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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101
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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102
wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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103
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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104
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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105
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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106
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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107
diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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108
mileage
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| n.里程，英里数；好处，利润 | |
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109
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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110
broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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111
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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112
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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113
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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114
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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115
nauseated
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| adj.作呕的，厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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117
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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118
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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119
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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120
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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121
bridling
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的现在分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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122
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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123
repels
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| v.击退( repel的第三人称单数 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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124
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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125
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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126
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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127
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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128
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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129
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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130
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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131
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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132
flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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133
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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134
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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135
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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136
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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138
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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139
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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140
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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141
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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142
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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143
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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144
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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146
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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148
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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149
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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150
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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151
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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