That evening after supper Charity sat alone in thekitchen and listened to Mr. Royall and young Harneytalking in the porch.
She had remained indoors after the table had beencleared and old Verena had hobbled up to bed. Thekitchen window was open, and Charity seated herselfnear it, her idle hands on her knee. The evening wascool and still. Beyond the black hills an amber2 westpassed into pale green, and then to a deep blue inwhich a great star hung. The soft hoot3 of a little owlcame through the dusk, and between its calls the men'svoices rose and fell.
Mr. Royall's was full of a sonorous4 satisfaction. Itwas a long time since he had had anyone of LuciusHarney's quality to talk to: Charity divined that theyoung man symbolized5 all his ruined and unforgottenpast. When Miss Hatchard had been called toSpringfield by the illness of a widowed sister, andyoung Harney, by that time seriously embarked6 on histask of drawing and measuring all the old housesbetween Nettleton and the New Hampshire border, hadsuggested the possibility of boarding at the red housein his cousin's absence, Charity had trembled lest Mr.
Royall should refuse. There had been no question oflodging the young man: there was no room for him. Butit appeared that he could still live at Miss Hatchard'sif Mr. Royall would let him take his meals at the redhouse; and after a day's deliberation Mr. Royallconsented.
Charity suspected him of being glad of the chance tomake a little money. He had the reputation of being anavaricious man; but she was beginning to think he wasprobably poorer than people knew. His practice hadbecome little more than a vague legend, revived only atlengthening intervals7 by a summons to Hepburn orNettleton; and he appeared to depend for his livingmainly on the scant8 produce of his farm, and on thecommissions received from the few insurance agenciesthat he represented in the neighbourhood. At any rate,he had been prompt in accepting Harney's offer to hirethe buggy at a dollar and a half a day; and hissatisfaction with the bargain had manifested itself,unexpectedly enough, at the end of the first week, byhis tossing a ten-dollar bill into Charity's lap as shesat one day retrimming her old hat.
"Here--go get yourself a Sunday bonnet9 that'll make allthe other girls mad," he said, looking at her with asheepish twinkle in his deep-set eyes; and sheimmediately guessed that the unwonted present--the onlygift of money she had ever received from him--represented Harney's first payment.
But the young man's coming had brought Mr. Royall otherthan pecuniary10 benefit. It gave him, for the firsttime in years, a man's companionship. Charity had onlya dim understanding of her guardian's needs; but sheknew he felt himself above the people among whom helived, and she saw that Lucius Harney thought him so.
She was surprised to find how well he seemed to talknow that he had a listener who understood him; and shewas equally struck by young Harney's friendlydeference.
Their conversation was mostly about politics, andbeyond her range; but tonight it had a peculiarinterest for her, for they had begun to speak of theMountain. She drew back a little, lest they should seeshe was in hearing.
"The Mountain? The Mountain?" she heard Mr. Royall say.
"Why, the Mountain's a blot--that's what it is, sir, ablot. That scum up there ought to have been run inlong ago--and would have, if the people down herehadn't been clean scared of them. The Mountain belongsto this township, and it's North Dormer's fault ifthere's a gang of thieves and outlaws12 living overthere, in sight of us, defying the laws of theircountry. Why, there ain't a sheriff or a tax-collectoror a coroner'd durst go up there. When they hear oftrouble on the Mountain the selectmen look the otherway, and pass an appropriation13 to beautify the townpump. The only man that ever goes up is the minister,and he goes because they send down and get him wheneverthere's any of them dies. They think a lot ofChristian burial on the Mountain--but I never heard oftheir having the minister up to marry them. And theynever trouble the Justice of the Peace either. Theyjust herd15 together like the heathen."He went on, explaining in somewhat technical languagehow the little colony of squatters had contrived16 tokeep the law at bay, and Charity, with burningeagerness, awaited young Harney's comment; but theyoung man seemed more concerned to hear Mr. Royall'sviews than to express his own.
"I suppose you've never been up there yourself?" hepresently asked.
"Yes, I have," said Mr. Royall with a contemptuouslaugh. "The wiseacres down here told me I'd be donefor before I got back; but nobody lifted a finger tohurt me. And I'd just had one of their gang sent upfor seven years too.""You went up after that?""Yes, sir: right after it. The fellow came down toNettleton and ran amuck17, the way they sometimes do.
After they've done a wood-cutting job they come downand blow the money in; and this man ended up withmanslaughter. I got him convicted, though they werescared of the Mountain even at Nettleton; and then aqueer thing happened. The fellow sent for me to go andsee him in gaol18. I went, and this is what he says:
'The fool that defended me is a chicken-livered son ofa--and all the rest of it,' he says. 'I've got a jobto be done for me up on the Mountain, and you're theonly man I seen in court that looks as if he'd do it.'
He told me he had a child up there--or thought he had--a little girl; and he wanted her brought down andreared like a Christian14. I was sorry for the fellow,so I went up and got the child." He paused, and Charitylistened with a throbbing19 heart. "That's the only timeI ever went up the Mountain," he concluded.
There was a moment's silence; then Harney spoke20. "Andthe child--had she no mother?""Oh, yes: there was a mother. But she was glad enoughto have her go. She'd have given her to anybody. Theyain't half human up there. I guess the mother's deadby now, with the life she was leading. Anyhow, I'venever heard of her from that day to this.""My God, how ghastly," Harney murmured; and Charity,choking with humiliation22, sprang to her feet and ranupstairs. She knew at last: knew that she was thechild of a drunken convict and of a mother who wasn't"half human," and was glad to have her go; and she hadheard this history of her origin related to the onebeing in whose eyes she longed to appear superior tothe people about her! She had noticed that Mr. Royallhad not named her, had even avoided any allusion23 thatmight identify her with the child he had brought downfrom the Mountain; and she knew it was out of regardfor her that he had kept silent. But of what use washis discretion24, since only that afternoon, misled byHarney's interest in the out-law colony, she hadboasted to him of coming from the Mountain? Now everyword that had been spoken showed her how such an originmust widen the distance between them.
During his ten days' sojourn25 at North Dormer LuciusHarney had not spoken a word of love to her. He hadintervened in her behalf with his cousin, and hadconvinced Miss Hatchard of her merits as a librarian;but that was a simple act of justice, since it was byhis own fault that those merits had been questioned. Hehad asked her to drive him about the country when hehired lawyer Royall's buggy to go on his sketchingexpeditions; but that too was natural enough, since hewas unfamiliar26 with the region. Lastly, when hiscousin was called to Springfield, he had begged Mr.
Royall to receive him as a boarder; but where else inNorth Dormer could he have boarded? Not with CarrickFry, whose wife was paralysed, and whose large familycrowded his table to over-flowing; not with theTargatts, who lived a mile up the road, nor with poorold Mrs. Hawes, who, since her eldest27 daughter haddeserted her, barely had the strength to cook her ownmeals while Ally picked up her living as a seamstress.
Mr. Royall's was the only house where the young mancould have been offered a decent hospitality. Therehad been nothing, therefore, in the outward course ofevents to raise in Charity's breast the hopes withwhich it trembled. But beneath the visible incidentsresulting from Lucius Harney's arrival there ran anundercurrent as mysterious and potent28 as the influencethat makes the forest break into leaf before the ice isoff the pools.
The business on which Harney had come was authentic;Charity had seen the letter from a New York publishercommissioning him to make a study of the eighteenthcentury houses in the less familiar districts of NewEngland. But incomprehensible as the whole affair wasto her, and hard as she found it to understand why hepaused enchanted29 before certain neglected and paintlesshouses, while others, refurbished and "improved" by thelocal builder, did not arrest a glance, she could notbut suspect that Eagle County was less rich inarchitecture than he averred30, and that the duration ofhis stay (which he had fixed31 at a month) was notunconnected with the look in his eyes when he had firstpaused before her in the library. Everything that hadfollowed seemed to have grown out of that look: his wayof speaking to her, his quickness in catching32 hermeaning, his evident eagerness to prolong theirexcursions and to seize on every chance of being withher.
The signs of his liking33 were manifest enough; but itwas hard to guess how much they meant, because hismanner was so different from anything North Dormer hadever shown her. He was at once simpler and moredeferential than any one she had known; and sometimesit was just when he was simplest that she most felt thedistance between them. Education and opportunity haddivided them by a width that no effort of hers couldbridge, and even when his youth and his admirationbrought him nearest, some chance word, some unconsciousallusion, seemed to thrust her back across the gulf35.
Never had it yawned so wide as when she fled up to herroom carrying with her the echo of Mr. Royall's tale.
Her first confused thought was the prayer that shemight never see young Harney again. It was toobitter to picture him as the detached impartiallistener to such a story. "I wish he'd go away: Iwish he'd go tomorrow, and never come back!" she moanedto her pillow; and far into the night she lay there, inthe disordered dress she had forgotten to take off, herwhole soul a tossing misery36 on which her hopes anddreams spun37 about like drowning straws.
Of all this tumult38 only a vague heart-soreness was leftwhen she opened her eyes the next morning. Her firstthought was of the weather, for Harney had asked her totake him to the brown house under Porcupine39, and thenaround by Hamblin; and as the trip was a long one theywere to start at nine. The sun rose without a cloud,and earlier than usual she was in the kitchen, makingcheese sandwiches, decanting40 buttermilk into a bottle,wrapping up slices of apple pie, and accusing Verena ofhaving given away a basket she needed, which had alwayshung on a hook in the passage. When she came out intothe porch, in her pink calico, which had run a littlein the washing, but was still bright enough to set offher dark tints41, she had such a triumphant42 sense ofbeing a part of the sunlight and the morning thatthe last trace of her misery vanished. What did itmatter where she came from, or whose child she was,when love was dancing in her veins43, and down the roadshe saw young Harney coming toward her?
Mr. Royall was in the porch too. He had said nothingat breakfast, but when she came out in her pink dress,the basket in her hand, he looked at her with surprise.
"Where you going to?" he asked.
"Why--Mr. Harney's starting earlier than usual today,"she answered.
"Mr. Harney, Mr. Harney? Ain't Mr. Harney learned howto drive a horse yet?"She made no answer, and he sat tilted44 back in hischair, drumming on the rail of the porch. It was thefirst time he had ever spoken of the young man in thattone, and Charity felt a faint chill of apprehension45.
After a moment he stood up and walked away toward thebit of ground behind the house, where the hired man washoeing.
The air was cool and clear, with the autumnal sparklethat a north wind brings to the hills in early summer,and the night had been so still that the dew hung oneverything, not as a lingering moisture, but inseparate beads46 that glittered like diamonds on theferns and grasses. It was a long drive to the foot ofPorcupine: first across the valley, with blue hillsbounding the open slopes; then down into the beech-woods, following the course of the Creston, a brownbrook leaping over velvet47 ledges48; then out again ontothe farm-lands about Creston Lake, and gradually up theridges of the Eagle Range. At last they reached theyoke of the hills, and before them opened anothervalley, green and wild, and beyond it more blue heightseddying away to the sky like the waves of a recedingtide.
Harney tied the horse to a tree-stump, and theyunpacked their basket under an aged49 walnut50 with a riventrunk out of which bumblebees darted51. The sun hadgrown hot, and behind them was the noonday murmur21 ofthe forest. Summer insects danced on the air, and aflock of white butterflies fanned the mobile tips ofthe crimson52 fireweed. In the valley below not a housewas visible; it seemed as if Charity Royall and youngHarney were the only living beings in the great hollowof earth and sky.
Charity's spirits flagged and disquieting53 thoughtsstole back on her. Young Harney had grown silent,and as he lay beside her, his arms under his head, hiseyes on the network of leaves above him, she wonderedif he were musing54 on what Mr. Royall had told him, andif it had really debased her in his thoughts. Shewished he had not asked her to take him that day to thebrown house; she did not want him to see the people shecame from while the story of her birth was fresh in hismind. More than once she had been on the point ofsuggesting that they should follow the ridge34 and drivestraight to Hamblin, where there was a little desertedhouse he wanted to see; but shyness and pride held herback. "He'd better know what kind of folks I belongto," she said to herself, with a somewhat forceddefiance; for in reality it was shame that kept hersilent.
Suddenly she lifted her hand and pointed55 to the sky.
"There's a storm coming up."He followed her glance and smiled. "Is it that scrapof cloud among the pines that frightens you?""It's over the Mountain; and a cloud over the Mountainalways means trouble.""Oh, I don't believe half the bad things you allsay of the Mountain! But anyhow, we'll get down tothe brown house before the rain comes."He was not far wrong, for only a few isolated56 drops hadfallen when they turned into the road under the shaggyflank of Porcupine, and came upon the brown house. Itstood alone beside a swamp bordered with alder57 thicketsand tall bulrushes. Not another dwelling58 was in sight,and it was hard to guess what motive59 could haveactuated the early settler who had made his home in sounfriendly a spot.
Charity had picked up enough of her companion'serudition to understand what had attracted him to thehouse. She noticed the fan-shaped tracery of thebroken light above the door, the flutings of thepaintless pilasters at the corners, and the roundwindow set in the gable; and she knew that, for reasonsthat still escaped her, these were things to be admiredand recorded. Still, they had seen other houses farmore "typical" (the word was Harney's); and as he threwthe reins60 on the horse's neck he said with a slightshiver of repugnance61: "We won't stay long."Against the restless alders62 turning their white liningto the storm the house looked singularly desolate63.
The paint was almost gone from the clap-boards, thewindow-panes64 were broken and patched with rags, and thegarden was a poisonous tangle65 of nettles66, burdocks andtall swamp-weeds over which big blue-bottles hummed.
At the sound of wheels a child with a tow-head and paleeyes like Liff Hyatt's peered over the fence and thenslipped away behind an out-house. Harney jumped downand helped Charity out; and as he did so the rain brokeon them. It came slant-wise, on a furious gale67, layingshrubs and young trees flat, tearing off their leaveslike an autumn storm, turning the road into a river,and making hissing68 pools of every hollow. Thunderrolled incessantly69 through the roar of the rain, and astrange glitter of light ran along the ground under theincreasing blackness.
"Lucky we're here after all," Harney laughed. Hefastened the horse under a half-roofless shed, andwrapping Charity in his coat ran with her to the house.
The boy had not reappeared, and as there was noresponse to their knocks Harney turned the door-handleand they went in.
There were three people in the kitchen to which thedoor admitted them. An old woman with ahandkerchief over her head was sitting by thewindow. She held a sickly-looking kitten on her knees,and whenever it jumped down and tried to limp away shestooped and lifted it back without any change of heraged, unnoticing face. Another woman, the unkemptcreature that Charity had once noticed in driving by,stood leaning against the window-frame and stared atthem; and near the stove an unshaved man in a tatteredshirt sat on a barrel asleep.
The place was bare and miserable70 and the air heavy withthe smell of dirt and stale tobacco. Charity's heartsank. Old derided71 tales of the Mountain people cameback to her, and the woman's stare was sodisconcerting, and the face of the sleeping man sosodden and bestial72, that her disgust was tinged73 with avague dread74. She was not afraid for herself; she knewthe Hyatts would not be likely to trouble her; but shewas not sure how they would treat a "city fellow."Lucius Harney would certainly have laughed at herfears. He glanced about the room, uttered a general"How are you?" to which no one responded, and thenasked the younger woman if they might take shelter tillthe storm was over.
She turned her eyes away from him and looked atCharity.
"You're the girl from Royall's, ain't you?"The colour rose in Charity's face. "I'm CharityRoyall," she said, as if asserting her right to thename in the very place where it might have been mostopen to question.
The woman did not seem to notice. "You kin1 stay," shemerely said; then she turned away and stooped over adish in which she was stirring something.
Harney and Charity sat down on a bench made of a boardresting on two starch75 boxes. They faced a door hangingon a broken hinge, and through the crack they saw theeyes of the tow-headed boy and of a pale little girlwith a scar across her cheek. Charity smiled, andsigned to the children to come in; but as soon as theysaw they were discovered they slipped away on barefeet. It occurred to her that they were afraid ofrousing the sleeping man; and probably the woman sharedtheir fear, for she moved about as noiselessly andavoided going near the stove.
The rain continued to beat against the house, and inone or two places it sent a stream through thepatched panes and ran into pools on the floor.
Every now and then the kitten mewed and struggled down,and the old woman stooped and caught it, holding ittight in her bony hands; and once or twice the man onthe barrel half woke, changed his position and dozedagain, his head falling forward on his hairy breast. Asthe minutes passed, and the rain still streamed againstthe windows, a loathing76 of the place and the peoplecame over Charity. The sight of the weak-minded oldwoman, of the cowed children, and the ragged77 mansleeping off his liquor, made the setting of her ownlife seem a vision of peace and plenty. She thought ofthe kitchen at Mr. Royall's, with its scrubbed floorand dresser full of china, and the peculiar11 smell ofyeast and coffee and soft-soap that she had alwayshated, but that now seemed the very symbol of householdorder. She saw Mr. Royall's room, with the high-backedhorsehair chair, the faded rag carpet, the row of bookson a shelf, the engraving78 of "The Surrender ofBurgoyne" over the stove, and the mat with a brown andwhite spaniel on a moss-green border. And then hermind travelled to Miss Hatchard's house, where all wasfreshness, purity and fragrance79, and compared to whichthe red house had always seemed so poor and plain.
"This is where I belong--this is where I belong," shekept repeating to herself; but the words had no meaningfor her. Every instinct and habit made her a strangeramong these poor swamp-people living like vermin intheir lair80. With all her soul she wished she had notyielded to Harney's curiosity, and brought him there.
The rain had drenched81 her, and she began to shiverunder the thin folds of her dress. The younger womanmust have noticed it, for she went out of the room andcame back with a broken tea-cup which she offered toCharity. It was half full of whiskey, and Charityshook her head; but Harney took the cup and put hislips to it. When he had set it down Charity saw himfeel in his pocket and draw out a dollar; he hesitateda moment, and then put it back, and she guessed that hedid not wish her to see him offering money to peopleshe had spoken of as being her kin.
The sleeping man stirred, lifted his head and openedhis eyes. They rested vacantly for a moment on Charityand Harney, and then closed again, and his headdrooped; but a look of anxiety came into the woman'sface. She glanced out of the window and then cameup to Harney. "I guess you better go along now," shesaid. The young man understood and got to his feet.
"Thank you," he said, holding out his hand. She seemednot to notice the gesture, and turned away as theyopened the door.
The rain was still coming down, but they hardly noticedit: the pure air was like balm in their faces. Theclouds were rising and breaking, and between theiredges the light streamed down from remote blue hollows.
Harney untied82 the horse, and they drove off through thediminishing rain, which was already beaded withsunlight.
For a while Charity was silent, and her companion didnot speak. She looked timidly at his profile: it wasgraver than usual, as though he too were oppressed bywhat they had seen. Then she broke out abruptly83:
"Those people back there are the kind of folks I comefrom. They may be my relations, for all I know." Shedid not want him to think that she regretted havingtold him her story.
"Poor creatures," he rejoined. "I wonder why they camedown to that fever-hole."She laughed ironically. "To better themselves! It'sworse up on the Mountain. Bash Hyatt married thedaughter of the farmer that used to own the brownhouse. That was him by the stove, I suppose."Harney seemed to find nothing to say and she went on:
"I saw you take out a dollar to give to that poorwoman. Why did you put it back?"He reddened, and leaned forward to flick84 a swamp-flyfrom the horse's neck. "I wasn't sure----""Was it because you knew they were my folks, andthought I'd be ashamed to see you give them money?"He turned to her with eyes full of reproach. "Oh,Charity----" It was the first time he had ever calledher by her name. Her misery welled over.
"I ain't--I ain't ashamed. They're my people, and Iain't ashamed of them," she sobbed85.
"My dear..." he murmured, putting his arm about her;and she leaned against him and wept out her pain.
It was too late to go around to Hamblin, and all thestars were out in a clear sky when they reached theNorth Dormer valley and drove up to the red house.
收听单词发音 |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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symbolized
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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intervals
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| 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 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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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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outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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appropriation
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| n.拨款，批准支出 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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amuck
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| ad.狂乱地 | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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porcupine
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| n.豪猪， 箭猪 | |
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decanting
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| n.滗析（手续）v.将（酒等）自瓶中倒入另一容器( decant的现在分词 ) | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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alder
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| n.赤杨树 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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starch
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| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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82
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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84
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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