One morning as I was passing through Boston Common, which lies between my home and my office, I met a gentleman lounging along The Mall. I am generally preoccupied1 when walking, and often thread my way through crowded streets without distinctly observing any one. But this man's face forced itself upon me, and a singular face it was. His eyes were faded, and his hair, which he wore long, was flecked with gray. His hair and eyes, if I may say so, were sixty years old, the rest of him not thirty. The youthfulness of his figure, the elasticity2 of his gait, and the venerable appearance of his head were incongruities3 that drew more than one pair of curious eyes towards him, He excited in me the painful suspicion that he had got either somebody else's head or somebody else's body. He was evidently an American, at least so far as the upper part of him was concerned—the New England cut of countenance4 is unmistakable—evidently a man who had seen something of the world, but strangely young and old.
Before reaching the Park Street gate, I had taken up the thread of thought which he had unconsciously broken; yet throughout the day this old young man, with his unwrinkled brow and silvered locks, glided5 in like a phantom6 between me and my duties.
The next morning I again encountered him on The Mall. He was resting lazily on the green rails, watching two little sloops7 in distress8, which two ragged9 ship-owners had consigned10 to the mimic11 perils12 of the Pond. The vessels13 lay becalmed in the middle of the ocean, displaying a tantalizing14 lack of sympathy with the frantic15 helplessness of the owners on shore. As the gentleman observed their dilemma16, a light came into his faded eyes, then died out leaving them drearier17 than before. I wondered if he, too, in his time, had sent out ships that drifted and drifted and never came to port; and if these poor toys were to him types of his own losses.
“That man has a story, and I should like to know it,” I said, half aloud, halting in one of those winding18 paths which branch off from the pastoral quietness of the Pond, and end in the rush and tumult19 of Tremont Street.
“Would you?” exclaimed a voice at my side. I turned and faced Mr. H———, a neighbor of mine, who laughed heartily20 at finding me talking to myself. “Well,” he added, reflectingly, “I can tell you this man's story; and if you will match the narrative21 with anything as curious, I shall be glad to hear it.”
“You know him, then?”
“Yes and no. That is to say, I do not know him personally; but I know a singular passage in his life. I happened to be in Paris when he was buried.”
“Buried!”
“Well, strictly22 speaking, not buried; but something quite like it. If you 've a spare half hour,” continued my friend H———, “we 'll sit on this bench, and I will tell you all I know of an affair that made some noise in Paris a couple of years ago. The gentleman himself, standing23 yonder, will serve as a sort of frontispiece to the romance—a full-page illustration, as it were.”
The following pages contain the story Which Mr. H——— related to me. While he was telling it, a gentle wind arose; the miniature sloops drifted feebly about the ocean; the wretched owners flew from point to point, as the deceptive24 breeze promised to waft25 the barks to either shore; the early robins26 trilled now and then from the newly fringed elms; and the old young man leaned on the rail in the sunshine, little dreaming that two gossips were discussing his affairs within twenty yards of him.
Three persons were sitting in a salon27 whose one large window overlooked the Place Vendôme. M. Dorine, with his back half turned on the other two occupants of the apartment, was reading the Journal des Débats in an alcove28, pausing from time to time to wipe his glasses, and taking scrupulous29 pains not to glance towards the lounge at his right, on which were seated Mile. Dorine and a young American gentleman, whose handsome face rather frankly30 told his position in the family. There was not a happier man in Paris that afternoon than Philip Wentworth. Life had become so delicious to him that he shrunk from looking beyond to-day. What could the future add to his full heart, what might it not take away? The deepest joy has always something of melancholy31 in it—a presentiment32, a fleeting33 sadness, a feeling without a name. Wentworth was conscious of this subtile shadow that night, when he rose from the lounge and thoughtfully held Julie's hand to his lip for a moment before parting. A careless observer would not have thought him, as he was, the happiest man in Paris.
M. Dorine laid down his paper, and came forward. “If the house,” he said, “is such as M. Cherbonneau describes it, I advise you to close with him at once. I would accompany you, Philip, but the truth is, I am too sad at losing this little bird to assist you in selecting a cage for her. Remember, the last train for town leaves at five. Be sure not to miss it; for we have seats for Sardou's new comedy to-morrow night. By to-morrow night,” he added laughingly, “little Julie here will be an old lady—it is such an age from now until then.”
The next morning the train bore Philip to one of the loveliest spots within thirty miles of Paris. An hour's walk through green lanes brought him to M. Cherbonueau's estate. In a kind of dream the young man wandered from room to room, inspected the conservatory34, the stables, the lawns, the strip of woodland through which a merry brook35 sang to itself continually, and, after dining with M. Cherbonneau, completed the purchase, and turned his steps towards the station just in time to catch the express train.
As Paris stretched out before him, with its lights twinkling in the early dusk, and its spires36 and domes37 melting into the evening air, it seemed to Philip as if years had elapsed since he left the city. On reaching Paris he drove to his hôtel, where he found several letters lying on the table. He did not trouble himself even to glance at their superscriptions as he threw aside his travelling surtout for a more appropriate dress.
If, in his impatience38 to return to Mile. Dorine, the cars had appeared to walk, the fiacre, which he had secured at the station appeared to creep. At last it turned into the Place Vendôme, and drew up before M. Dorine's hôtel. The door opened as Philip's foot touched the first step. The valet silently took his cloak and hat, with a special deference39, Philip thought; but was he not now one of the family?
“M. Dorine,” said the servant slowly, “is unable to see Monsieur at present. He wishes Monsieur to be shown up to the salon.”
“Is Mademoiselle”—
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Alone?”
“Alone, Monsieur,” repeated the man, looking curiously40 at Philip, who could scarcely repress an exclamation41 of pleasure.
It was the first time that such a privilege had been accorded him. His interviews with Julie had always taken place in the presence of M. Dorine, or some member of the household. A well-bred Parisian girl has but a formal acquaintance with her lover.
Philip did not linger on the staircase; with a light heart, he went up the steps, two at a time, hastened through the softly lighted hall, in which he detected the faint scent42 of her favorite flowers, and stealthily opened the door of the salon.
The room was darkened. Underneath43 the chandelier stood a slim black casket on trestles. A lighted candle, a crucifix, and some white flowers were on a table near by. Julie Dorine was dead.
When M. Dorine heard the sudden cry that rang through the silent house, he hurried from the library, and found Philip standing like a ghost in the middle of the chamber44.
It was not until long afterwards that Wentworth learned the details of the calamity45 that had befallen him. On the previous night Mile. Dorine had retired46 to her room in seemingly perfect health, and had dismissed her maid with a request to be awakened47 early the next morning. At the appointed hour the girl entered the chamber. Mile. Dorine was sitting in an arm-chair, apparently48 asleep. The candle in the bougeoir had burnt down to the socket49; a book lay half open on the carpet at her feet. The girl started when she saw that the bed had not been occupied, and that her mistress still wore an evening dress. She rushed to Mile. Dorine's side. It was not slumber50; it was death.
Two messages were at once despatched to Philip, one to the station at G———, the other to his hôtel. The first missed him on the road, the second he had neglected to open. On his arrival at M. Dorine's house, the valet, under the supposition that Wentworth had been advised of Mile. Dorine's death, broke the intelligence with awkward cruelty, by showing him directly to the salon. Mile. Dorine's wealth, her beauty, the suddenness of her death, and the romance that had in some way attached itself to her love for the young American drew crowds to witness the funeral ceremonies, which took place in the church in the Rue51 d'Aguesseau. The body was to be laid in M. Dorine's tomb, in the cemetery52 of Montmartre.
This tomb requires a few words of description. First there was a grating of filigraned iron; through this you looked into a small vestibule or hall, at the end of which was a massive door of oak opening upon a short flight of stone steps descending53 into the tomb. The vault54 was fifteen or twenty feet square, ingeniously ventilated from the ceiling, but unlighted. It contained two sarcophagi: the first held the remains55 of Madame Dorine, long since dead; the other was new, and bore on one side the letters J. D., in monogram57, interwoven with fleurs-de-lis.
The funeral train stopped at the gate of the small garden that enclosed the place of burial, only the immediate58 relatives follow-ing the bearers into the tomb. A slender wax candle, such as is used in Catholic churches, burnt at the foot of the uncovered sarcophagus, casting a dim glow oyer the centre of the apartment, and deepening the shadows which seemed to huddle59 together in the corners. By this flickering60 light the coffin61 was placed in its granite62 shell, the heavy slab63 laid over it reverently64, and the oaken door swung on its rusty65 hinges, shutting out the uncertain ray of sunshine that had ventured to peep in on the darkness.
M. Dorine, muffled66 in his cloak, threw himself on the back seat of the landau, too abstracted in his grief to observe that he was the only occupant of the vehicle. There was a sound of wheels grating on the gravelled avenue, and then all was silence again in the cemetery of Montmartre. At the main entrance the carriages parted company, dashing off into various streets at a pace that seemed to express a sense of relief.
The rattle67 of wheels had died out of the air when Philip opened his eyes, bewildered, like a man abruptly68 roused from slumber. He raised himself on one arm and stared into the surrounding blackness. Where was he? In a second the truth flashed upon him. He had been left in the tomb! While kneeling on the farther side of the stone box, perhaps he had fainted, and during the last solemn rites69 his absence had been unnoticed.
His first emotion was one of natural terror. But this passed as quickly as it came. Life had ceased to be so very precious to him; and if it were his fate to die at Julie's side, was not that the fulfilment of the desire which he had expressed to himself a hundred times that morning? What did it matter, a few years sooner or later? He must lay down the burden at last. Why not then? A pang70 of self-reproach followed they thought. Could he so lightly throw aside the love that had bent71 over his cradle. The sacred name of mother rose involuntarily to his lips. Was it not cowardly to yield up without a struggle the life when he should guard for her sake? Was it not his duty to the living and the dead to face the difficulties of his position, and overcome them if it were within human power?
With an organization as delicate as a woman's he had that spirit which, however sluggish72 in repose73, leaps with a kind of exultation74 to measure its strength with disaster.
The vague fear of the supernatural, that would affect most men in a similar situation, found no room in his heart. He was simply shut in a chamber from which it was necessary that he should obtain release within a given period. That this chamber contained the body of the woman he loved, so far from adding to the terror of the case, was a circumstance from which he drew consolation75. She was a beautiful white statue now. Her soul was far hence; and if that pure spirit could return, would it not be to shield him with her love? It was impossible that the place should not engender76 some thought of the kind. He did not put the thought entirely77 from him as he rose to his feet and stretched out his hands in the darkness; but his mind was too healthy and practical to indulge long in such speculations78.
Philip, being a smoker79, chanced to have in his pocket a box of allumettes. After several ineffectual essays, he succeeded in igniting one against the dank wall, and by its momentary80 glare perceived that the candle had been left in the tomb. This would serve him in examining the fastenings of the vault. If he could force the inner door by any means, and reach the grating, of which he had an indistinct recollection, he might hope to make himself heard. But the oaken door was immovable, as solid as the wall itself, into which it fitted air-tight. Even if he had had the requisite81 tools, there were no fastenings to be removed; the hinges were set on the outside.
Having ascertained82 this, Philip replaced the candle on the floor, and leaned against the wall thoughtfully, watching the blue fan of flame that wavered to and fro, threatening to detach itself from the wick. “At all events,” he thought, “the place is ventilated.” Suddenly he sprang forward and extinguished the light.
His existence depended on that candle! He had read somewhere, in some account of shipwreck83, how the survivors84 had lived for days upon a few candles which one of the passengers had insanely thrown into the long-boat. And here he had been burning away his very life!
By the transient illumination of one of the tapers85, he looked at his watch. It had stopped at eleven—but eleven that day, or the preceding night? The funeral, he knew, had left the church at ten. How many hours had passed since then? Of what duration had been his swoon? Alas86! it was no longer possible for him to measure those hours which crawl like snails87 by the wretched, and fly like swallows over the happy.
He picked up the candle, and seated himself on the stone steps. He was a sanguine88 man, but, as he weighed the chances of escape, the prospect89 appalled90 him. Of course he would be missed. His disappearance91 under the circumstances would surely alarm his friends; they would institute a search for him; but who would think of searching for a live man in the cemetery of Montmartre? The préfet of police would set a hundred intelligences at work to find him; the Seine might be dragged, les misérables turned over at the Morgue; a minute description of him would be in every detective's pocket; and he—in M. Dorine's family tomb!
Yet, on the other hand, it was here, he was last seen; from this point a keen detective would naturally work up the case. Then might not the undertaker return for the candlestick, probably not left by design? Or, again, might not M. Dorine send fresh wreaths of flowers, to take the place of those which now diffused92 a pungent93, aromatic94 odor throughout the chamber? Ah! what unlikely chances! But if one of these things did not happen speedily, it had better never happen. How long could he keep life in himself?
With his pocket-knife Wentworth cut the half-burned candle into four equal parts. “To-night,” he meditated95, “I will eat the first of these pieces; to-morrow, the second; to-morrow evening, the third; the next day, the fourth; and then—then I 'll wait!”
He had taken no breakfast that morning, unless a cup of coffee can be called a breakfast. He had never been very hungry before. He was ravenously96 hungry now. But he postponed97 the meal as long as practicable. It must have been near midnight, according to his calculation, when he determined98 to try the first of his four singular repasts. The bit of white-wax was tasteless; but it served its purpose.
His appetite for the time appeased99, he found a new discomfort100. The humidity of the walls, and the wind that crept through the unseen ventilator, chilled him to the bone. To keep walking was his only resource.
A kind of drowsiness101, too, occasionally came over him. It took all his will to fight it off. To sleep, he felt, was to die, and he had made up his mind to live.
The strangest fancies flitted through his head as he groped up and down the stone floor of the dungeon102, feeling his way along the wall to avoid the sepulchres. Voices that had long been silent spoke103 words that had long been forgotten; faces he had known in childhood grew palpable against the dark. His whole life in detail was unrolled before him like a panorama104; the changes of a year, with its burden of love and death, its sweets and its bitternesses, were epitomized in a single second. The desire to sleep had left him, but the keen hunger came again.
“It must be near morning now,” he mused105; “perhaps the sun is just gilding106 the towers of Notre Dame56; or, may be, a dull, drizzling107 rain is beating on Paris, sobbing108 on these mounds109 above me. Paris! it seems like a dream. Did I ever walk in its gay boulevards in the golden air? Oh, the delight and pain and passion of that sweet human life!”
Philip became conscious that the gloom, the silence, and the cold were gradually conquering him. The feverish110 activity of his brain brought on a reaction. He grew lethargic111; he sunk down on the steps, and thought of nothing. His hand fell by chance on one of the pieces of candle; he grasped it and devoured112 it mechanically. This revived him. “How strange,” he thought, “that I am not thirsty. Is it possible that the dampness of the walls, which I must inhale113 with every breath, has supplied the need of water? Not a drop has passed my lips for two days, and still I experience no thirst. That drowsiness, thank Heaven, has gone. I think I was never wide awake until this hour. It would be an anodyne114 like poison that could weigh down my eyelids115. No doubt the dread116 of sleep has something to do with this.”
The minutes were like hours. Now he walked as briskly as he dared up and down the tomb; now he rested against the door. More than once he was tempted117 to throw himself upon the stone coffin that held Julie, and make no further struggle for his life.
Only one piece of candle remained. He had eaten the third portion, not to satisfy hunger, but from a precautionary motive118 he had taken it as a man takes some disagreeable drug upon the result of which hangs safety. The time was rapidly approaching when even this poor substitute for nourishment119 would be exhausted120. He delayed that moment. He gave himself a long fast this time. The half-inch of candle which he held in his hand was a sacred thing to him. It was his last defence against death.
Finally, with such a sinking at heart as he had not known before, he raised it to his lips. Then he paused, then he hurled121 the fragment across the tomb, then the oaken door was flung open, and Philip, with dazzled eyes, saw M. Dorine's form sharply defined against the blue sky.
When they led him out, half blinded, into the broad daylight, M. Dorine noticed that Philip's hair, which a short time since was as black as a crow's wing, had actually turned gray in places. The man's eyes, too, had faded; the darkness had dimmed their lustre122.
“And how long was he really confined in the tomb?” I asked, as Mr. H——— concluded the story.
As he spoke, the Lilliputian sloops, with their sails all blown out like white roses, came floating bravely into port, and Philip Wentworth lounged by us, wearily, in the pleasant April sunshine.
Mr. H———'s narrative haunted me. Here was a man who had undergone a strange ordeal124. Here was a man whose sufferings were unique. His was no threadbare experience. Eighty minutes had seemed like two days to him! If he had really been immured125 two days in the tomb, the story, from my point of view, would have lost its tragic126 value.
After this it was natural that I should regard Mr. Wentworth with stimulated127 curiosity. As I met him from day to day, passing through the Common with that same introspective air, there was something in his loneliness which touched me. I wondered that I had not read before in his pale, meditative128 face some such sad history as Mr. H——— had confided129 to me. I formed the resolution of speaking to him, though with no very lucid130 purpose. One morning we came face to face at the intersection131 of two paths. He halted courteously132 to allow me the precedence.
“Mr. Wentworth,” I began, “I”—
He interrupted me.
“My name, sir,” he said, in an off-hand manner, “is Jones.”
“No, not Joseph Jones,” he returned, with a glacial air—“Frederick.”
A dim light, in which the perfidy134 of my friend H——— was becoming discernible, began to break upon my mind.
It will probably be a standing wonder to Mr. Frederick Jones why a strange man accosted135 him one morning on the Common as “Mr. Wentworth,” and then dashed madly down the nearest foot-path and disappeared in the crowd.
The fact is, I had been duped by Mr. H———, who is a gentleman of literary proclivities136, and has, it is whispered, become somewhat demented in brooding over the Great American Novel—not yet hatched, He had actually tried the effect of one of his chapters on me!
My hero, as I subsequently learned, is a commonplace young person, who had some connection, I know not what, with the building of that graceful137 granite bridge which spans the crooked138 silver lake in the Public Garden.
When I think of the readiness with which Mr. H——— built up his airy fabric139 on my credulity, I feel half inclined to laugh, though I am deeply mortified140 at having been the unresisting victim of his Black Art.
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1
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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2
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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3
incongruities
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| n.不协调( incongruity的名词复数 )；不一致；不适合；不协调的东西 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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7
sloops
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| n.单桅纵帆船( sloop的名词复数 ) | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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10
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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11
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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12
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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drearier
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的比较级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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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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deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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38
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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39
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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40
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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41
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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42
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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43
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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44
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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45
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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46
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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47
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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48
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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49
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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50
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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51
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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52
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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53
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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54
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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55
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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56
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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57
monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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58
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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59
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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60
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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61
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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62
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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63
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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64
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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65
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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66
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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67
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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68
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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69
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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70
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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71
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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72
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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73
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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74
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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75
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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76
engender
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| v.产生，引起 | |
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77
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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78
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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79
smoker
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| n.吸烟者，吸烟车厢，吸烟室 | |
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80
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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81
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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82
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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84
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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85
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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86
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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87
snails
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| n.蜗牛；迟钝的人；蜗牛( snail的名词复数 ) | |
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88
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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89
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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90
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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91
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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92
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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93
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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94
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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95
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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96
ravenously
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| adv.大嚼地，饥饿地 | |
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97
postponed
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| 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） | |
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98
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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99
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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100
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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101
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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102
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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103
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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104
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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105
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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106
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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107
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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108
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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109
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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110
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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111
lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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112
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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113
inhale
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| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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114
anodyne
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| n.解除痛苦的东西，止痛剂 | |
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115
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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116
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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117
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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118
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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119
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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120
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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121
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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122
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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123
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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124
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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125
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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127
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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128
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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129
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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130
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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131
intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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132
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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133
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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134
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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135
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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136
proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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137
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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138
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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139
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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140
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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