The mail.
The clerk who gave it to him did not carte what sort of appearance he made this morning. He only glanced at him from under his brows, upward, as the letters changed hands. Why should the hotel people waste courtesies on him? They had his number. The clerk knew that he was handing him, along with the letters, a bill for his rent. Wilhelm assumed a look that removed him from all such things. But it was bad. To pay the bill he would have to withdraw money from his brokerage account, and the account was being watched because of the drop in lard. According to the Tribune’s figures lard was still twenty points below last year’s level. There were government price supports. Wilhelm didn’t know how these worked be he understood that the farmed was protected and that the SEC kept an eye on the market and therefore he believed that lard would rise again and he wasn’t greatly worried as yet. But in the meantime his father might offered to pick up his hotel tab. Why didn’t he? What a selfish old man he was! He saw his son’s hardships; he could so easily help him. How little it would mean to him, and how much to Wilhelm! Where was the old man’s heart? Maybe thought Wilhelm, I was sentimental1 in the past, and exaggerated his kindliness—warm family life. It may never have been there.
Not long ago his father has said to him in his usual affable, pleasant way, “Well, Wilky, here we are under the same roof again, after all these years.”
Wilhelm was glad for an instant. At last they would talk over old times. But he was also on guard against insinuations. Wasn’t his father saying, “Why are you here in a hotel with me and not at home in Brooklyn with your wife and two boys. You’re neither a widower2 nor a bachelor. You have brought me all your confusions. What do you expect me to do with them?”
So Wilhelm studied the remark for a bit, then said, “The roof is twenty-six stories up. But how many years has it been?”
“That’s what I was asking you.”
“Gosh, Dad, I’m not sure. Wasn’t it the year Mother died? What year was that?”
He asked this question with an innocent frown on his Golden Grimes, dark blond face. What year was it! As though he didn’t know the year, the month, the day, the very hour of his mother’s death.
Wasn’t it nineteen thirty-one?” asked Dr. Adler.
“Oh, was it?” said Wilhelm. And in hiding the sadness and the overwhelming irony4 of the question he gave a nervous shiver and wagged his head and felt the ends of his collar rapidly.
“Do you know?” his father said. “You must realize, an old fellow’s memory becomes unreliable. It was in winter, that I’m sure of. Nineteen-thirty-two?”
Yes, it was age. Don’t make an issue of it, Wilhelm advised himself. If you were to ask the old doctor in what year he had interned5, he’d tell you correctly. All the same, don’t make an issue. Don’t quarrel with your own father. Have pity on an old man’s failings.
“I believe the year was closer to nineteen-thirty-four, Dad,” he said.
But Dr. Adler was thinking. Why the devil can’t he stand still when we’re talking? He’s either hoisting6 his pants up and down by the pockets or jittering7 with his feet. A regular mountain of tics, he’s getting to be. Wilhelm had a habit of moving his feet back and forth8 as though, hurrying into a house, he had to clean his shoes first on the doormat.
Then Wilhelm had said, “Yes, that was the beginning of the end, wasn’t it, Father?”
Wilhelm often astonished Dr. Adler. Beginning of the end? What could he mean—what was he fishing for? Whose end? The end of family life? The old man was puzzled but he would not give Wilhelm an opening to introduce his complaints. He had learned that it was better not to take up Wilhelm’s strange challenges. So he merely agreed pleasantly, for he was a master of social behavior, and said, “It was an awful misfortune for us all.”
He thought, What business has he to complain to me of his mother’s death?
Face to face they had stood, each declaring himself silently after his own way. It was: it was not; the beginning of the end—some end.
Unaware9 of anything odd in his doing it, for he did it all the time, Wilhelm had pinched out the coal of his cigarette and dropped the butt10 in his pocket, where there were many more. And as he gazed at his father the little finger of his right hand began to twitch11 and tremble; of that he was unconscious, too.
And yet Wilhelm believed that when he put his mind to it he could have perfect and even distinguished12 manners, outdoing his father. Despite the slight thickness in his speech—it amounted almost to a stammer13 when he started the same phrase over several times in his effort to eliminate the thick sound—he could be fluent. Otherwise he would never have made a good salesman. He claimed also that he was a good listener. When he listened he made a tight mouth and rolled his eyes thoughtfully. He would soon tire and begin to utter short, loud, impatient breaths, and he would say, “Oh yes . . . yes . . . yes. I couldn't agree more.” When he was forced to differ he would declare, “Well I'm not sure. I don't really see it that way. I'm of two minds about it.” He would never willingly hurt any man's feelings.
But in conversation with his father he was apt to lose control of himself. After any talk with Dr. Adler, Wilhelm generally felt dissatisfied, and his dissatisfaction reached its greatest intensity14 when they discussed family matters. Ostensibly he had been trying to help the old man to remember a date, but in reality he meant to tell him, “You were set free when Ma died. You’d like to get rid of Catherine, too. Me, too. You’re not kidding anyone”—Wilhelm striving to put this across, and the old man not having it. In the end he was left struggling, while his father seemed unmoved.
And then once more Wilhelm had said to himself, “But man! you’re not a kid. Even then you weren’t a kid!” He looked down over the front of his big, indecently big, spoiled body. He was beginning to lose his shape, his gut15 was fat, and he looked like a hippopotamus16. His younger son called him “a hummuspotamus”; that was little Paul. And here he was still struggling with his old dada, filled with ancient grievances17. Instead of saying, “Good-by, youth! Oh, good-by those marvelous, foolish wasted days. What a big clunk I was--—I am.”
Wilhelm was still paying heavily for his mistakes. His wife Margaret would not give him a divorce, and he had to support her and the two children. She would regularly agree to divorce him, and then think things over again and set new and more difficult conditions. No court would have awarded her the amounts he paid. One of today’s letters, as he had expected, was from her. For the first time he had sent her a postdated check, and she protested. She also enclosed bills for the boys’ educational insurance policies, due next week. Wilhelm’s mother-in-law had taken out these policies in Beverly Hills, and since her death two years ago he had to pay the premiums18. Why couldn’t she have minded her own business! They were his kids, and he took care of them and always would. He had planned to set up a trust fund. But that was on his former expectations. Now he had to rethink the future, because of the money problem. Meanwhile, here were the bills to be paid. When he saw the two sums punched out so neatly19 on the cards he cursed the company and its IBM equipment. His heart and his head were congested with anger. Everyone was supposed to have money. It was nothing to the company. They published pictures of funerals in the magazines and frightened the suckers, and then punched out little holes, and the customers would lie awake to think out ways to raise the dough20. They’d be ashamed not to have it. They couldn’t let a great company down, either, and they got the scratch. In the old days a man was put in prison for debt, but there were subtler things now. They made it a shame not to have money and set everybody to work.
Well, and what else had Margaret sent him? He tore the envelope open with his thumb, swearing that he would send any other bills back to her. There was, luckily, nothing more. He put the hole-punched cards in his pocket. Didn’t Margaret know that he was nearly at the end of his rope? Of course. Her instinct told her that this was her opportunity, and she was giving him the works.
He went it the dining room, which was under Austro-Hungarian management at the Hotel Gloriana. It was run like a European establishment. The pastries21 were excellent, especially the strudel. He often had apple strudel and coffee in the afternoon.
As soon as he entered he saw his father’s small head in the sunny bay at the farther end, and heard his precise voice. It was with an odd sort of perilous22 expression that Wilhelm crossed the dining room.
Dr. Adler liked to sit in a corner that looked across Broadway down to the Hudson and New Jersey23. On the other side of the street was a supermodern cafeteria with gold and purple mosaic24 columns. On the second floor a private-eye school, a dental laboratory, a reducing parlor25, a veteran's club, and a Hebrew school shared the space. The old man was sprinkling sugar on his strawberries. Small hoops26 of brilliance27 were cast by the water glasses on the white tablecloth28, despite a faint murkiness29 in the sunshine. It was early summer, and the long window was turned inward; a moth3 was on the pane30; the putty was broken and the white enamel31 on the frames was streaming with wrinkles.
“Ha, Wilky,” said the old man to his tardy32 son. “You haven’t met our neighbor Mr. Perls, have you? From the fifteenth floor.”
“How d’do,” Wilhelm said. He did not welcome this stranger; he began at once to find fault with him. Mr. Perls carried a heavy cane33 with a crutch34 tip. Dyed hair, a skinny forehead—these were not reasons for bias35. Nor was it Mr. Perls’s fault that Dr. Adler was using him, not wishing to have breakfast with his son alone. But a gruffer voice within Wilhelm spoke36, asking “Who is this damn frazzle-faced herring with his dyed hair and his fish teeth and this drippy mustache? Another one of Dad’s German friends. Where does he collect all these guys? What is the stuff on his teeth? I never saw such pointed37 crowns. Are they stainless38 steel, or a kind of silver? How can a human face get into this condition? Uch!” Staring with his widely spaced gray eyes, Wilhelm sat, his broad back stooped under the sports jacket. He clasped his hands on the table with an implication of suppliance. Then he began to relent a little toward Mr. Perls, beginning at the teeth. Each of those crowns represented a tooth ground to the quick, and estimating a man's grief with his teeth as two per cent of the total, and adding to that his flight from Germany and the probable origin of his wincing39 wrinkles, not to be confused with the wrinkles of his smile, it came to a sizable load.
“Mr. Perls was a hosiery wholesaler,” said Dr. Adler.
“Is this the son you told me was in the selling line?” said Mr. Perls.
“Dr. Adler replied, “I have only this one son. One daughter. She was a medical technician before she got married—anesthetist. At one time she had an important position in Mount Sinai.”
He couldn’t mention his children without boasting. In Wilhelm’s opinion, there was little to boast of. Catherine, like Wilhelm, was big and fair-haired. She had married a court reporter who had a pretty hard time of it. She had taken a professional name, too – Philippa. At forty she was still ambitious to become a painter. Wilhelm didn’t venture to criticize her work. It didn’t do much to him, he said, but then he was no critic. Anyway, he and his sister were generally on the outs and he didn’t often see her paintings. She worked very hard, but there were fifty thousand people in New York with paints and brushes, each practically a law unto himself. It was the Tower of Babel in paint. He didn’t want to go far into this. Things were chaotic40 all over.
Dr. Adler thought that Wilhelm looked particularly untidy this morning – unrested, too, his eyes red-rimmed from excessive smoking. He was breathing through his mouth and he was evidently much distracted and rolled his red-shot eyes barbarously. As usual, his coat collar was turned up as though he had had to go out in the rain. When he went to business he pulled himself together a little; otherwise he let himself go and looked like hell.
“What’s the matter, Wilky, didn’t you sleep last night?”
“Not very much.”
“You take too many pills of every kind—first stimulants41 and then depressants, anodynes followed by analeptics, until the poor organism doesn’t know what’s happened. Then the luminal won’t put people to sleep, and the Pervitin or Benzedrine won’t wake them up. God knows! These things get to be as serious as poisons, and yet everyone puts all their faith in them.”
“No, Dad, it’s not the pills. It’s that I'm not used to New York anymore. For a native, that's very peculiar42, isn't it? It was never so noisy at night as now, and every little thing is a strain. Like the alternate parking. You have to run out at eight to move your car. And where can you put it? If you forget for a minute they tow you away. Then some fool puts advertising44 leaflets under your windshield wiper and you have heart failure a block away because you think you've got a ticket. When you do get stung with a ticket, you can’t argue. You haven’t got a chance in court and the city wants the revenue!”
“But in your line you have to have a car, eh?” said Mr. Perls.
“Lord knows why any lunatic would want one in the city who didn’t need it for his livelihood45.”
Wilhelm’s old Pontiac was parked in the street. Formerly46, when on an expense account, he had always put it up in a garage. Now he was afraid to move the car from Riverside Drive lest he lose his space, and he used it only on Saturdays when the Dodgers47 were playing in Ebbets Field and he took his boys to the game. Last Saturday, when the Dodgers were out of town, he had gone out to visit his mother’s grave.
Dr. Adler had refused to go along. He couldn’t bear his son’s driving. Forgetfully, Wilhelm traveled for miles in second gear; he was seldom in the right lane and he neither gave signals nor watched for lights. The upholstery of his Pontiac was filthy49 with grease and ashes. One cigarette burned in the ashtray50, another in his hand, a third on the floor with maps and other waste paper and Coca-Cola bottles. He dreamed at the wheel or argued and gestured, and therefore the old doctor would not ride with him.
Then Wilhelm had come back form the cemetery51 angry because the stone bench between his mother’s and his grandmother’s graves had been overturned and broken by vandals. “Those damn teen-age hoodlums get worse and worse,” he said. “Why, they must have used a sledgehammer to break the seat smack52 in half like that. If I could catch one of them!” He wanted the doctor to pay for a new seat, but his father was cool to the idea. He said he was going to have himself cremated53.
Mr. Perls said, “I don’t blame you if you get no sleep up where you are.” His voice was tuned54 somewhat sharp, as though he were slightly deaf. “Don’t you have Parigi the singing teacher there? God, they have some queer elements in this hotel. On which floor is that Estonian woman with all her cats and dogs. They should have made her leave long ago.”
“They’ve moved her down to twelve,” said Dr. Adler.
Wilhelm ordered a large Coca-Cola with his breakfast. Working in secret at the small envelopes in his pocket, he found two pills by touch. Much fingering had worn and weakened the paper. Under cover of a napkin he swallowed a Phenaphen sedative55 and a Unicap, but the doctor was sharp-eyed and said, “Wilky, what are you taking now?”
“Just my vitamin pills.” He put his cigar butt in an ashtray on the table behind him, for his father did not like the odor. Then he drank his Coca-Cola.
“That’s what you drink for breakfast, and not orange juice?” said Mr. Perls. He seemed to sense that he would not lose Dr. Adler’s favor by taking an ironic56 tone with his son.
“The caffeine stimulates57 brain activity,” said the old doctor. “It does all kinds of things to the respiratory center.”
“It’s just a habit of the road, that’s all,” Wilhelm said. “if you drive around long enough it turns your brains, your stomach, and everything else.”
His father explained, “Wilhelm used to be with the Rojax Corporation. He was their northeastern sales representative for a good many years but recently ended the connection.”
“Yes,” said Wilhem. “I was with them from the end of the war.” He sipped58 the Coca-Cola and chewed the ice, glancing at one and the other with his attitude of large, shaky, patient dignity. The waitress set two boiled eggs before him.
“What kind of line does this Rojax corporation manufacture?” said Mr. Perls.
“Kiddies’ furniture. Little chairs, rockers, tables, Jungle-Gyms, slides, swings, seesaws59.”
Wilhelm let his father do the explaining. Large and stiff-backed, he tried to sit patiently, but his feet were abnormally restless. All right! His father had to impress Mr. Perls? He would go along once more, and play his part. Fine! He would play along and help his father maintain his style. Style was the main consideration. That was just fine!
“I was with the Rojax Corporation for almost ten years,” he said. We parted ways because they wanted me to share my territory. They took a son-in-law into the business—a new fellow. It was his idea.”
To himself, Wilhelm said, Now God alone can tell why I have to lay my whole life bare to this blasted red herring here. I’m sure nobody else does it. Other people keep their business to themselves. Not me.
He continued, “But the rationalization was that it was too big a territory for one man. I had a monopoly. That wasn’t so. The real reason was that they had gotten to the place where they would have to make me an officer of the corporation. Vice60 presidency61. I was in line for it, but instead this son-in-law got in, and—”
Dr. Adler though Wilhelm was discussing his grievances much too openly and said, “My son’s income was up in the five figures.”
As soon as money was mentioned Mr. Perl’s voice grew eagerly sharper. “Yes? What, the thirty-two-per-cent bracket? Higher even, I guess?” He asked for a hint, and he named the figures not idly but with a sort of hugging relish62. Uch! How they love money, thought Wilhelm. They adore money! Holy money! Beautiful money! It was getting so that people were feeble-minded about everything except money. While if you didn't have it you were a dummy63, a dummy! You had to excuse yourself from the face of the earth. Chicken! that’s what it was. The world’s business. If only he could find a way out of it.
Such thinking brought on the usual congestion64. It would grow into a fit of passion if he allowed it to continue. Therefore he stopped talking and began to eat.
Before he struck the egg with his spoon he dried the moisture with his napkin. Then he battered65 it (in his father’s opinion) more than was necessary. A faint grime was left by his fingers on the white of the egg after he had picked away the shell. Dr. Adler saw it with silent repugnance66. What a Wilky he had given to the world! Why, he didn’t even wash his hands in the morning. He used an electric razor so that he didn’t have to touch water. The doctor couldn't bear Wilky's dirty habits. Only once—and never again, he swore—had he visited his room. Wilhelm, in pajamas67 and stocking had sat on his bed, drinking gin from a coffee mug and rooting for the Dodgers on television. “That’s two and two on you, Duke. Come on—hit it, now.” He came down on the mattress—bam! The bed looked kicked to pieces. Then he drank the gin as though it were tea, and urged his team on with his fist. The smell of dirty clothes was outrageous68. By the bedside lay a quart bottle and foolish magazines and mystery stories for the hours of insomnia69. Wilhelm lived in worse filth48 than a savage70. When the doctor spoke to him about this he answered, “Well, I have no wife to look after my things.” And who—who!—had done the leaving? Not Margaret. The doctor was certain that she wanted him back.
Wilhelm drank his coffee with a trembling hand. In his full face his abused bloodshot gray eyes moved back and forth. Jerkily he set his cup back and put half the length of a cigarette into his mouth; he seemed to hold it with his teeth, as though it were a cigar.
“I can’t let them get away with it,” he said. “It’s also a question of morale71.”
His father corrected him. “Don’t you mean a moral question, Wilky?”
“I mean that, too. I have to do something to protect myself. I was promised executive standing72.” Correction before a stranger mortified73 him, and his dark blond face changed color, more pale, and then more dark. He went on talking to Perls but his eyes spied on his father. “I was the one who opened the territory for them I could go back for on eof their competitors and take away their customers. My customers. Morale enters into it because they’ve tried to take away my confidence.”
“Would you offer a different line to the same people?” Mr. Perls wondered.
“Why not? I know what’s wrong with the Rojax product.:
“Nonsense,” said his father. “Just nonsense and kid’s talk, Wilky. You’re only looking for trouble and embarrassment74 that way. What would you gain by such a silly feud75? You have to think about making a living and meeting your obligations.”
Hot and bitter, Wilhelm said with pride, while his feet moved angroily under the table, “I don’t have to be told about my obligations. I’ve been meeting them for years. In more than twenty years I’ve never had a penny of help from anybody. I preferred to dig a ditch on the WPA but never asked anyone to meet my obligations for me.”
“Wilky has had all kinds of experiences, said Dr. Adler.
The old doctor’s face had a wholesome76 reddish and almost translucent77 color, like a ripe apricot. The wrinkles beside his ears were deep because the skin conformed so tightly to his bones. With all his might, he was a healthy and fine small old man. He wore a light vest of a light check pattern. His hearing-aid doodad was in the pocket. An unusual shirt of red and black stripes covered his chest. He bought his clothes in a college shop farther uptown. Wilhelm thought he had no business to get himself up like a jockey, out of respect for his profession.
“Well,” said Mr. Perls. “I can understand how you feel. You want to fight it out. By a certain time of life, to have to start all over again can’t be a pleasure, though a good man can always do it. But anyway you want to keep on with a business you know already, and not have to meet a whole lot of new contacts.”
Wilhelm again thought, Why does it have to be me and my life that’s discussed, and not him and his life? He would never allow it. But I am an idiot. I have no reserve. To me it can be done. I talk. I must ask for it. Everybody wants to have intimate conversations, but the smart fellows don’t give out, only the fools. The smart fellows talk intimately about the fools, and examine them all over and give them advice. Why do I allow it? The hint about his age had hurt him. No, you can’t admit it’s as good as ever, he conceded. Things do give out.
“In the meanwhile,” Dr. Adler said, “Wilky is taking it easy and considering various propositions. Isn’t that so?’
“More or less,” said Wilhelm. He suffered his father to increase Mr. Perl’s respect for him. The WPA ditch had brought the family into contempt. He was a little tired. The spirit, the peculiar burden of his existence lay on him like an accretion78, a load, a lump. In any moment of quiet, when sheer fatigue79 prevented him from struggling, he was apt to feel this mysterious weight, this growth or collection of nameless things which it was the business of his life to carry about. That must be what a man was for. This large, odd, excited, fleshy, blond, abrupt80 personality named Wilhem, or Tommy, was here, present, in the present—Dr. Tamkin had been putting into his mind many suggestions about the present moment, the here and now—this Wilky, or Tommy Wilhelm, forty-four years old, father of two sons, at present living in the Hotel Gloriana, was assigned to be the carrier of a load which was his own self, his characteristic self. There was no figure or estimate for the value of this load. But it is probably exaggerated by the subject, T. W. Who is a visionary sort of animal. Who has to believe that he can know why he exists. Though he has never seriously tried to find out why.
Mr. Perls said, “If he wants time to think things over and have a rest, why doesn’t he run down to Florida for a while? Off season it’s cheap and quiet. Fairyland. The mangoes are just coming in. I got two acres down there. You’d think you were in India.”
Mr. Perls utterly81 astonished Wilhelm when he spoke of fairyland with a foreign accent. Mangoes—India? What did he mean, India?
“Once upon a time,” said Wilhelm, “I did some public relations work for a big hotel down in Cuba. If I could get them a notice in Leonard Lyons or one of the other columns it might be good for another holiday there, gratis82. I haven’t had a vacation for a long time, and I could stand a rest after going so hard. You know that’s true, Father.” He meant that his father knew how deep the crisis was becoming; how badly he was strapped83 for money; and the he could not rest but would be crushed if he stumbled; and that his obligations would destroy him. He couldn’t falter84. The thought, The money! When I had it, I flowed money. They bled it away from me. I hemorrhaged money. But now it’s almost all gone, and where am I supposed to turn for more?
He said, “As a matter of fact, Father, I am as tired as hell.”
But Mr. Perls began to smile and said, “I understand from Doctor Tamkin that you’re going into some kind of investment with him, partners.”
“You know, he’s a very ingenious fellow,” said Dr. Adler. “I really enjoy hearing him go on. I wonder if he really is a medical doctor.”
“Isn’t he?” said Perls. “Everybody thinks he is. He talks about his patients. Doesn’t he write prescriptions85.”
“I don’t really know what he does,” said Dr. Adler. “He’s a cunning man.”
“He’s a psychologist, I understand,” said Wilhelm.
“I don’t know what sort of a psychologist or psychiatrist86 he may be,” said his father. “He’s a little vague. It’s growing into a major industry, and a very expensive one. Fellows have to hold down very bog87 jobs in order to pay those fees. Anyway, this Tamkin is clever. He never said he practiced here, but I believe he was a doctor in California. They don't seem to have much legislation out there to cover these things, and I hear a thousand dollars will get you a degree from LA correspondence school. He gives the impression of knowing something about chemistry, and things like hypnotism. I wouldn't trust him, though.”
“And why wouldn’t you?” Wilhelm demanded.
“Because he’s probably a liar43. Do you believe he invented all the things he claims?”
Mr. Perls was grinning.
“He was written up in Fortune,” said Wilhelm. “Yes, in Fortune magazine. He showed me the article. I’ve seen his clippings.”
“That doesn’t make him legitimate,” said Dr. Adler. “It might have been another Tamkin. Make no mistake, he’s an operator. Perhaps even crazy.”
“Crazy, you say?”
Mr. Perls put in “He could be both sane88 and crazy. In these days nobody can tell for sure which is which.”
“An electrical device for truck drivers to wear in their caps,” said Dr. Adler, describing one of Tamkin's proposed inventions. “To wake them with a shock when they begin to be drowsy89 at the wheel. It's triggered by the change in blood-pressure when they start to doze90.”
“It doesn’t sound like such an impossible thing to me,” said Wilhelm.
Mr. Perls said, “To me he described an underwater suit so a man could walk on the bed of the Hudson in case of an atomic attack. He said he could walk to Albany in it.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!” cried Dr. Adler in his old man’s voice. “Tamkin’s Folly91. You could go on a camping trip under Niagara Falls.”
“This is just his kind of fantasy,” said Wilhelm “It doesn’t mean a thing. Inventors are supposed to be like that. I get funny ideas myself. Everybody wants to make something. Any American does.”
But his father ignored this and said to Perls, “What other inventions did he describe?”
While the frazzle-faced Mr. Perls and his father in the unseemly, monkey-striped shirt were laughing, Wilhelm could not restrain himself and joined in with his own panting laugh. But he was in despair. They were laughing at the man to whom he had given a power of attorney over his last seven hundred dollars to speculate for him in the commodities market. They had bought all that lard. It had to rise today. By ten o’clock, or half-past ten, trading would be active, and he would see.
收听单词发音 |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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interned
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| v.拘留，关押( intern的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hoisting
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| 起重，提升 | |
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jittering
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| v.紧张不安，战战兢兢( jitter的现在分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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hippopotamus
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| n.河马 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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premiums
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| n.费用( premium的名词复数 )；保险费；额外费用；（商品定价、贷款利息等以外的）加价 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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pastries
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| n.面粉制的糕点 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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murkiness
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| n.阴暗；混浊；可疑；黝暗 | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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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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crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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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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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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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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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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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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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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dodgers
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| n.躲闪者，欺瞒者( dodger的名词复数 ) | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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ashtray
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| n.烟灰缸 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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cremated
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| v.火葬，火化（尸体）( cremate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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stimulates
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| v.刺激( stimulate的第三人称单数 )；激励；使兴奋；起兴奋作用，起刺激作用，起促进作用 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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seesaws
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| n.跷跷板，上下动( seesaw的名词复数 )v.使上下（来回）摇动( seesaw的第三人称单数 )；玩跷跷板，上下（来回）摇动 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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presidency
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| n.总统(校长，总经理)的职位(任期) | |
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62
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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morale
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| n.道德准则，士气，斗志 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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75
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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76
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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78
accretion
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| n.自然的增长，增加物 | |
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79
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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82
gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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83
strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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84
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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85
prescriptions
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| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
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86
psychiatrist
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| n.精神病专家；精神病医师 | |
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87
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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88
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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89
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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