‘THERE. What do you think of it?’ Harris asked with I’ll-concealed pride. He stood in the doorway1 of the hut while Wilson moved cautiously forward between the brown sticks of Government furniture like a setter through stubble.
‘Better than the hotel,’ Wilson said cautiously, pointing his muzzle2 towards a Government easy-chair.
‘I thought I’d give you a surprise when you got back from Lagos.’ Harris had curtained the Nissen hut into three: a bedroom for each of them and a common sitting-room3. ‘There’s only one point that worries me. I’m not sure whether there are any cockroaches5.’
‘Well, we only played the game to get rid of them.’
‘I know, but it seems almost a pity, doesn’t it?’
‘Who are our neighbours?’
‘There’s Mrs Rolt who was submarined, and there are two chaps in the Department of Works, and somebody called Clive from the Agricultural Department, Boling, who’s in charge of Sewage - they all seem a nice friendly lot. And Scobie, of course, is just down the road.’
‘Yes.’
Wilson moved restlessly around the hut and came to a stop in front of a photograph which Harris had propped6 against a Government inkstand. It showed three long rows of boys on a lawn: the first row sitting cross-legged on the grass: the second on chairs, wearing high stiff collars, with an elderly man and two women (one had a squint7) in the centre: the third row standing8. Wilson said, ‘That woman with a squint - I could swear I’d seen her somewhere before.’
‘Does the name Snakey convey anything to you?’
‘Why, yes, of course.’ He looked closer. ‘So you were at that hole too?’
‘I saw The Downhamian in your room and I fished this out to surprise you. I was in Jagger’s house. Where were you?’
‘I was a Prog,’ Wilson said.
‘Oh well,’ Harris admitted in a tone of disappointment, ‘there were some good chaps among the Progs.’ He laid the photograph flat down again as though it were something that hadn’t quite come off. ‘I was thinking we might have an old Downhamian dinner.’
‘Whatever for?’ Wilson asked. ‘There are only two of us.’
‘We could invite a guest each.’
‘I don’t see the point.’
Harris said bitterly, ‘Well, you are the real Downhamian, not me. I never joined the association. You get the magazine. I thought perhaps you had an interest in the place.’
‘My father made me a life member and he always forwards the bloody9 paper,’ Wilson said abruptly10.
‘It was lying beside your bed. I thought you’d been reading it.’
‘I may have glanced at it’
‘There was a bit about me in it. They wanted my address.’
‘Oh, but you know why that is?’ Wilson said. ‘They are sending out appeals to any old Downhamian they can rake up. The panelling in the Founders’ Hall is in need of repair. I’d keep your address quiet if I were you.’ He was one of those, it seemed to Harris, who always knew what was on, who gave advance information on extra halves, who knew why old So-and-So had not turned up to school, and what the row brewing11 at the Head’s special meeting was about. A few weeks ago he had been a new boy whom Harris had been delighted to befriend, to show around. He remembered the evening when Wilson would have put on evening dress for a Syrian’s dinner-party if he hadn’t been warned. But Harris from his first year at school had been fated to see how quickly new boys grew up: one term he was their kindly12 mentor13 - the next he was discarded. He could never progress as quickly as the newest unlicked boy. He remembered how even in the cockroach4 game - that he had invented - his rules had been challenged on the first evening. He said sadly, ‘I expect you are right. Perhaps I won’t send a letter after all.’ He added humbly14, ‘I took the bed on this side, but I don’t mind a bit which I have...’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Wilson said.
‘I’ve only engaged one steward15. I thought we could save a bit by sharing.’
‘The less boys we have knocking about here the better,’ Wilson said.
That night was the first night of their new comradeship. They sat reading on their twin Government chairs behind the black-out curtains. On the table was a bottle of whisky for Wilson and a bottle of barley-water flavoured with lime for Harris. A sense of extraordinary peace came to Harris while the rain tingled16 steadily17 on the roof and Wilson read a Wallace. Occasionally a few drunks from the R.A.F. mess passed by, shouting or revving18 their cars, but this only enhanced the sense of peace inside the hut. Sometimes his eyes strayed to the walls seeking a cockroach, but you couldn’t have everything.
‘Have you got The Downhamian handy, old man? I wouldn’t mind another glance at it. This book’s so dull.’
‘There’s a new one unopened on the dressing-table.’
‘You don’t mind my opening it?’
‘Why the hell should I?’
Harris turned first to the old Downhamian notes and read again how the whereabouts of H R. Harris (1917-1921) was still wanted. He wondered whether it was possible that Wilson was wrong: there was no word here about the panelling in Hall. Perhaps after all he would send that letter and he pictured the reply he might receive from the Secretary. My dear Harris, it would go something like that, we were all delighted to receive your letter from those romantic parts. Why not send us a full length contribution to the mag. and while I’m writing to you, what about membership of the Old Downhamian Association? I notice you’ve never joined. I’m speaking for all Old Downhamians when I say that we’ll be glad to welcome you. He tried out ‘proud to welcome you’ on his tongue, but rejected that. He was a realist.
The Downhamians had had a fairly successful Christmas term. They had beaten Harpenden by one goal, Merchant Taylors by two, and had drawn19 with Lancing. Ducker and Tierney were coming on well as forwards, but the scrum was still slow in getting the ball out. He turned a page and read how the Opera Society had given an excellent rendering20 of Patience in the Founders’ Hall. F.J.K., who was obviously the English master, wrote: Lane as Bunthorne displayed a degree of aestheticism which surprised all his companions of Vb. We would not hitherto have described his hand as mediaeval or associated him with lilies, but he persuaded us that we had misjudged him. A great performance, Lane.
Harris skimmed through the account of five matches, a fantasy called ‘The Tick of the Clock’ beginning There was once a little old lady whose most beloved possession ... The walls of Downham - the red brick laced with yellow, the extraordinary crockets, the mid-Victorian gargoyles21 - rose around him: boots beat on stone stairs and a cracked dinner-bell rang to rouse him to another miserable22 day. He felt the loyalty23 we feel to unhappiness - the sense that that is where we really belong. His eyes filled with tears, he took a sip24 of his barley-water and thought, ‘I’ll post that letter whatever Wilson says.’ Somebody outside shouted, ‘Bagster. Where are you, Bagster, you sod?’ and stumbled in a ditch. He might have been back at Downham, except of course that they wouldn’t have used that word.
Harris turned a page or two and the title of a poem caught his eye. It was called ‘West Coast’ and it was dedicated25 to ‘L.S.’. He wasn’t very keen on poetry, but it struck him as interesting that somewhere on this enormous coastline of sand and smells there existed a third old Downhamian.
Another Tristram on this distant coast, he read
Raises the poisoned chalice26 to his lips,
Another Mark upon the palm-fringed shore
Watches his love’s eclipse.
It seemed to Harris obscure: his eye passed rapidly over the intervening verses to the initials at the foot: E.W. He nearly exclaimed aloud, but he restrained himself in time. In such close quarters as they now shared it was necessary to be circumspect27. There wasn’t space to quarrel in. Who is L.S., he wondered, and thought, surely it can’t be ... the very idea crinkled his lips in a cruel smile. He said, ‘There’s not much in the mag. We beat Harpenden. There’s a poem called West Coast. Another poor devil out here, I suppose.’
‘Oh.’
‘Lovelorn,’ Harris said. ‘But I don’t read poetry.’
‘Nor do I,’ Wilson lied behind the barrier of the Wallace.
2
It had been a very narrow squeak28. Wilson lay on his back in bed and listened to the rain on the roof and (he heavy breathing of the old Downhamian beyond the curtain. It was as if the hideous29 years had extended through the intervening mist to surround him again. What madness had induced him to send that poem to the Downhamian? But it wasn’t madness: he had long since become incapable30 of anything so honest as madness: he was one of those condemned31 in childhood to complexity32. He knew what he had intended to do: to cut the poem out with no indication of its source and to send it to Louise. It wasn’t quite her sort of poem, he knew, but surely, he had argued, she would be impressed to some extent by the mere33 fact that the poem was in print. If she asked him where it had appeared, it would be easy to invent some convincing coterie34 name. The Downhamian luckily was well printed and on good paper. It was true, of course, that he would have to paste the cutting on opaque35 paper to disguise what was printed on the other side, but it would be easy to think up an explanation of that. It was as if his profession were slowly absorbing his whole life, just as school had done. His profession was to lie, to have the quick story ready, never to give himself away, and his private life was taking the same pattern. He lay on his back in a nausea36 of self-disgust.
The rain had momentarily stopped. It was one of those cool intervals37 that were the consolation38 of the sleepless39. In Harris’s heavy dreams the rain went on. Wilson got softly out and mixed himself a bromide; the grains fizzed in the bottom of the glass and Harris spoke40 hoarsely41 and turned over behind the curtain. Wilson flashed his torch on his watch and read 2.25. Tiptoeing to the door so as not to waken Harris, he felt the little sting of a jigger under his toe-nail. In the morning he must get his boy to scoop43 it out. He stood on the small cement pavement above the marshy44 ground and let the cool air play on him with his pyjama jacket flapping open. All the huts were in darkness, and the moon was patched with the rain-clouds coming up. He was going to turn away when he heard someone stumble a few yards away and he flashed his torch. It lit on a man’s bowed back moving between the huts towards the road. ‘Scobie,’ Wilson exclaimed and the man turned.
‘Hullo, Wilson,’ Scobie said, ‘I didn’t know you lived up here.’
‘I’m sharing with Harris,’ Wilson said, watching the man who had watched his tears.
‘I’ve been taking a walk,’ Scobie said unconvincingly, ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ It seemed to Wilson that Scobie was still a novice45 in the world of deceit: he hadn’t lived in it since childhood, and he felt an odd elderly envy for Scobie, much as an old lag might envy the young crook46 serving his first sentence, to whom all this was new.
3
Wilson sat in his little stuffy47 room in the U.A.C. office. Several of the firm’s journals and day books bound in quarter pigskin formed a barrier between him and the door. Surreptitiously, like a schoolboy using a crib, Wilson behind the barrier worked at his code books, translating a cable. A commercial calendar showed a week old date - June 20, and a motto: The best investments are honesty and enterprise. William P. Cornforth. A clerk knocked and said, ‘There’s a nigger for you, Wilson, with a note.’
‘Who from?’
‘He says Brown.’
‘Keep him a couple of minutes, there’s a good chap, and then boot him in.’ However diligently48 Wilson practised, the slang phrase sounded unnaturally49 on his lips. He folded up the cable and stuck it in the code book to keep his place: then he put the cable and the code book in the safe and pulled the door to. Pouring himself out a glass of water he looked out on the street; the mammies, their heads tied up in bright cotton cloths, passed under their coloured umbrellas. Their shapeless cotton gowns fell to the ankle: one with a design of matchboxes: another with kerosene50 lamps: the third - the latest from Manchester - covered with mauve cigarette-lighters on a yellow ground. Naked to the waist a young girl passed gleaming through the rain and Wilson watched her out of sight with melancholy51 lust52. He swallowed and turned as the door opened.
‘Shut the door.’
The boy obeyed. He had apparently53 put on his best clothes for this morning call: a white cotton shirt fell outside his white shorts. His gym shoes were immaculate in spite of the rain, except that his toes protruded54.
‘You small boy at Yusef’s?’
‘Yes, sah.’
‘You got a message,’ Wilson said, ‘from my boy. He tell you what I want, eh? He’s your young brother, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, sah,’
‘Same father?’
‘Yes, sah.’
‘He says you good boy, honest. You want to be a steward, eh?’
‘Yes, sah.’
‘Can you read?’
‘No, sah.’
‘Write?’
‘No, sah.’
‘You got eyes in your head? Good ears? You see everything? You hear everything?’ The boy grinned - a gash55 of white in the smooth grey elephant hide of his face: he had a look of sleek56 intelligence. Intelligence, to Wilson, was more valuable than honesty. Honesty was a double-edged weapon, but intelligence looked after number one. Intelligence realized that a Syrian might one day go home to his own land, but the English stayed. Intelligence knew that it was a good thing to work for Government, whatever the Government. ‘How much you get as small boy?’
‘Ten shillings.’
‘I pay you five shillings more. If Yusef sack you I pay you ten shillings. If you stay with Yusef one year and give me good information - true information - no lies, I give you job as steward with white man. Understand?’ ‘Yes, sah.’
‘If you give me lies, then you go to prison. Maybe they shoot you. I don’t know. I don’t care. Understand?’
‘Yes, sah.’
‘Every day you see your brother at meat market. You tell him who comes to Yusef s house. Tell him where Yusef goes. You tell him any strange boys who come to Yusef’s house. You no tell lies, you tell truth. No humbug57. If no one comes to Yusef’s house you say no one. You no make big lie. If you tell lie, I know it and you go to prison straight away.’ The wearisome recital58 went on. He was never quite sure how much was understood. The sweat ran off Wilson’s forehead and the cool contained grey face of the boy aggravated59 him like an accusation60 he couldn’t answer. ‘You go to prison and you stay in prison plenty long time.’ He could hear his own voice cracking with the desire to impress; he could hear himself, like the parody61 of a white man on the halls. He said, ‘Scobie? Do you know Major Scobie?’
‘Yes, sah. He very good man, sah.’ They were the first words apart from yes and no the boy had uttered.
‘You see him at your master’s?’
‘Yes, sah.’
‘How often?’
‘Once, twice, sah.’
‘He and your master - they are friends?’
‘My master he think Major Scobie very good man, sah.’ The reiteration62 of the phrase angered Wilson. He broke furiously out, ‘I don’t want to hear whether he’s good or not. I want to know where he meets Yusef, see? What do they talk about? You bring them in drinks some time when steward’s busy? What do you hear?’
‘Last time they have big palaver63,’ the boy brought ingratiatingly out, as if he were showing a corner of his wares64.
‘I bet they did. I want to know all about their palaver.’
‘When Major Scobie go away one time, my master he put pillow right on his face.’
‘What on earth do you mean by that?’
The boy folded his arms over his eyes in a gesture of great dignity and said, ‘His eyes make pillow wet.’
‘Good God,’ Wilson said, ‘what an extraordinary thing.’
‘Then he drink plenty whisky and go to sleep - ten, twelve hours. Then he go to his store in Bond Street and make plenty hell.’
‘Why?’
‘He say they humbug him.’
‘What’s that got to do with Major Scobie?’
The boy shrugged65. As so many times before Wilson had the sense of a door closed in his face; he was always on the outside of the door.
When the boy had gone he opened his safe again, moving the knob of the combination first left to 32 - his age, secondly66 right to 10, the year of his birth, left again to 65, the number of his home in Western Avenue, Pinner, and took out the code books. 32946 78523 97042. Row after row of groups swam before his eyes. The telegram was headed Important, or he would have postponed67 the decoding68 till the evening. He knew how little important it really was - the usual ship had left Lobito carrying the usual suspects - diamonds, diamonds, diamonds. When he had decoded69 the telegram he would hand it to the long-suffering Commissioner70, who had already probably received the same information or contradictory71 information from S.O.E. or one of the other secret organizations which took root on the coast like mangroves. Leave alone but do not repeat not pinpoint72 P. Ferreira passenger 1st class repeat P. Ferreira passenger 1st class. Ferreira was presumably an agent his organization had recruited on board. It was quite possible that the Commissioner would receive simultaneously73 a message from Colonel Wright that P. Ferreira was suspected of carrying diamonds and should be rigorously searched. 72391 87052 63847 92034. How did one simultaneously leave alone, not repeat not pinpoint, and rigorously search Mr Ferreira? That luckily was not his worry. Perhaps it was Scobie who would suffer any headache there was.
Again he went to the window for a glass of water and again he saw the same girl pass. Or maybe it was not the same girl. He watched the water trickling74 down between the two thin wing-like shoulder-blades. He remembered there was a time when he had not noticed a black skin. He felt as though he had passed years and not months on this coast, all the years between puberty and manhood.
4
‘Going out?’ Harris asked with surprise. ‘Where to?’
‘Just into town,’ Wilson said, loosening the knot round his mosquito-boots.
‘What on earth can you find to do in town at this hour?’
‘Business,’ Wilson said.
Well, he thought, it was business of a kind, the kind of joyless business one did alone, without friends. He had bought a second-hand75 car a few weeks ago, the first he had ever owned, and he was not yet a very reliable driver. No gadget76 survived the climate long and every few hundred yards he had to wipe the windscreen with his handkerchief. In Kru town the hut doors were open and families sat around the kerosene lamps waiting till it was cool enough to sleep. A dead pye-dog lay in the gutter77 with the rain running over its white swollen78 belly79. He drove in second gear at little more than a walking pace, for civilian80 head-lamps had to be blacked out to the size of a visiting-card and he couldn’t see more than fifteen paces ahead. It took him ten minutes to reach the great cotton tree near the police station. There were no lights on in any of the officer’s rooms and he left his car outside the main entrance. If anyone saw it there they would assume he was inside. For a moment he sat with the door open hesitating. The image of the girl passing in the rain conflicting with the sight of Harris on his shoulder-blades reading a book with a glass of squash at his elbow. He thought sadly, as lust won the day, what a lot of trouble it was; the sadness of the after-taste fell upon his spirits beforehand.
He had forgotten to bring his umbrella and he was wet through before he had walked a dozen yards down the hill. It was the passion of curiosity more than of lust that impelled81 him now. Some time or another if one lived in a place one must try the local product. It was like having a box of chocolates shut in a bedroom drawer. Until the box was empty it occupied the mind too much. He thought: when this is over I shall be able to write another poem to Louise.
The brothel was a tin-roofed bungalow82 half-way down the hill on the right-hand side. In the dry season the girls sat outside in the gutter like sparrows; they chatted with the policeman on duty at the top of the hill. The road was never made up, so that nobody drove by the brothel on the way to the wharf83 or the Cathedral: it could be ignored. Now it turned a shuttered silent front to the muddy street, except where a door, propped open with a rock out of the roadway, opened on a passage. Wilson looked quickly this way and that and stepped inside.
Years ago the passage had been white-washed and plastered, but rats had torn holes in the plaster and human beings had mutilated the whitewash84 with scrawls85 and pencilled names. The walls were tattooed86 like a sailor’s arm, with initials, dates, there was even a pair of hearts interlocked. At first it seemed to Wilson that the place was entirely87 deserted88; on either side of the passage there were little cells nine feet by four with curtains instead of doorways89 and beds made out of old packing-cases spread with a native cloth. He walked rapidly to the end of the passage; then, he told himself, he would turn and go back to the quiet and somnolent90 security of the room where the old Downhamian dozed91 over his book.
He felt an awful disappointment, as though he had not found what he was looking for, when he readied the end and discovered that the left-hand cell was occupied; in the light of an oil lamp burning on the floor he saw a girl in a dirty shift spread out on the packing-cases like a fish on a counter; her bare pink soles dangled92 over the words ‘Tate’s Sugar’. She lay there on duty, waiting for a customer. She grinned at Wilson, not bothering to sit up and said, ‘Want jig42 jig, darling. Ten bob.’ He had a vision of a girl with a rain-wet back moving forever out of his sight.
‘No,’ he said, ‘no,’ shaking his head and thinking, What a fool I was, what a fool, to drive all the way for only this. The girl giggled93 as if she understood his stupidity and he heard the slop slop of bare feet coming up the passage from the road; the way was blocked by an old mammy carrying a striped umbrella. She said something to the girl in her native tongue and received a grinning explanation. He had the sense that all this was only strange to him, that it was one of the stock situations the old woman was accustomed to meet in the dark regions which she ruled. He said weakly, ‘I’ll just go and get a drink first.’
‘She get drink,’ the mammy said. She commanded the girl sharply in the language he couldn’t understand and the girl swung her legs off the sugar cases. ‘You stay here,’ the mammy said to Wilson, and mechanically like a hostess whose mind is elsewhere but who must make conversation with however uninteresting a guest, she said, ‘Pretty girl, jig jig, one pound.’ Market values here were reversed: the price rose steadily with his reluctance94.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t wait,’ Wilson said. ‘Here’s ten bob,’ and he made the preliminary motions of departure, but the old woman paid him no attention at all, blocking the way, smiling steadily like a dentist who knows what’s good for you. Here a man’s colour had no value: he couldn’t bluster95 as a white man could elsewhere: by entering this narrow plaster passage, he had shed every racial, social and individual trait, he had reduced himself to human nature. If he had wanted to hide, here was the perfect hiding-place; if he had wanted to be anonymous96, here he was simply a man. Even his reluctance, disgust and fear were not personal characteristics; they were so common to those who came here for the first time that the old woman knew exactly what each move would be. First the suggestion of a drink, then the offer of money, after that...
Wilson said weakly, ‘Let me by,’ but he knew that she wouldn’t move; she stood watching him, as though he were a tethered animal on whom she was keeping an eye for its owner. She wasn’t interested in him, but occasionally she repeated calmly, ‘Pretty girl jig jig by-and-by.’ He held out a pound to her and she pocketed it and went on blocking the way. When he tried to push by, she thrust him backwards97 with a casual pink palm, saying, ‘By-an-by. Jig jig.’ It had all happened so many hundreds of times before.
Down the passage the girl came carrying a vinegar bottle filled with palm wine, and with a sigh of reluctance Wilson surrendered. The heat between the walls of rain, the musty smell of his companion, the dim and wayward light of the kerosene lamp reminded him of a vault98 newly opened for another body to be let down upon its floor. A grievance99 stirred in him, a hatred100 of those who had brought him here. In their presence he felt as though his dead veins101 would bleed again.
收听单词发音 |
1
doorway
|
|
| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
muzzle
|
|
| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
sitting-room
|
|
| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
cockroach
|
|
| n.蟑螂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
cockroaches
|
|
| n.蟑螂( cockroach的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
propped
|
|
| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
squint
|
|
| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
bloody
|
|
| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
brewing
|
|
| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
mentor
|
|
| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
humbly
|
|
| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
steward
|
|
| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
tingled
|
|
| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
steadily
|
|
| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
revving
|
|
| v.（使）加速( rev的现在分词 )；（数量、活动等）激增；（使发动机）快速旋转；（使）活跃起来 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
rendering
|
|
| n.表现，描写 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
gargoyles
|
|
| n.怪兽状滴水嘴( gargoyle的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
loyalty
|
|
| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
sip
|
|
| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
dedicated
|
|
| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
chalice
|
|
| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
circumspect
|
|
| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
squeak
|
|
| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
hideous
|
|
| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
incapable
|
|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
condemned
|
|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
complexity
|
|
| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
coterie
|
|
| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
opaque
|
|
| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
nausea
|
|
| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
intervals
|
|
| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
consolation
|
|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
sleepless
|
|
| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
hoarsely
|
|
| adv.嘶哑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
jig
|
|
| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
scoop
|
|
| n.铲子，舀取，独家新闻；v.汲取，舀取，抢先登出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
marshy
|
|
| adj.沼泽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
novice
|
|
| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
crook
|
|
| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
stuffy
|
|
| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
diligently
|
|
| ad.industriously;carefully | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
unnaturally
|
|
| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
kerosene
|
|
| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
lust
|
|
| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
protruded
|
|
| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
gash
|
|
| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
sleek
|
|
| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
humbug
|
|
| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
recital
|
|
| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
aggravated
|
|
| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
accusation
|
|
| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
parody
|
|
| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
reiteration
|
|
| n. 重覆, 反覆, 重说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
palaver
|
|
| adj.壮丽堂皇的；n.废话，空话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
wares
|
|
| n. 货物, 商品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
shrugged
|
|
| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
secondly
|
|
| adv.第二，其次 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
postponed
|
|
| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
decoding
|
|
| n.译码，解码v.译（码），解（码）( decode的现在分词 )；分析及译解电子信号 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
decoded
|
|
| v.译（码），解（码）( decode的过去式和过去分词 )；分析及译解电子信号 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
commissioner
|
|
| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
contradictory
|
|
| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
pinpoint
|
|
| vt.准确地确定；用针标出…的精确位置 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
simultaneously
|
|
| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
trickling
|
|
| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
second-hand
|
|
| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
gadget
|
|
| n.小巧的机械，精巧的装置，小玩意儿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
gutter
|
|
| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
swollen
|
|
| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
belly
|
|
| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
civilian
|
|
| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
impelled
|
|
| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
bungalow
|
|
| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
wharf
|
|
| n.码头，停泊处 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
whitewash
|
|
| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
scrawls
|
|
| 潦草的笔迹( scrawl的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
tattooed
|
|
| v.刺青，文身( tattoo的过去式和过去分词 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
deserted
|
|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
doorways
|
|
| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
somnolent
|
|
| adj.想睡的，催眠的；adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
dozed
|
|
| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
dangled
|
|
| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
giggled
|
|
| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
reluctance
|
|
| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
bluster
|
|
| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
anonymous
|
|
| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
backwards
|
|
| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
vault
|
|
| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
grievance
|
|
| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
hatred
|
|
| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
veins
|
|
| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |