If you are not afraid of being stung by the nettles, come by the narrow footpath10 that leads to the lodge, and let us see what is going on inside. Opening the first door, we walk into the entry. Here along the walls and by the stove every sort of hospital rubbish lies littered about. Mattresses11, old tattered13 dressing-gowns, trousers, blue striped shirts, boots and shoes no good for anything —all these remnants are piled up in heaps, mixed up and crumpled14, mouldering15 and giving out a sickly smell.
The porter, Nikita, an old soldier wearing rusty good-conduct stripes, is always lying on the litter with a pipe between his teeth. He has a grim, surly, battered-looking face, overhanging eyebrows16 which give him the expression of a sheep-dog of the steppes, and a red nose; he is short and looks thin and scraggy, but he is of imposing17 deportment and his fists are vigorous. He belongs to the class of simple-hearted, practical, and dull-witted people, prompt in carrying out orders, who like discipline better than anything in the world, and so are convinced that it is their duty to beat people. He showers blows on the face, on the chest, on the back, on whatever comes first, and is convinced that there would be no order in the place if he did not.
Next you come into a big, spacious18 room which fills up the whole lodge except for the entry. Here the walls are painted a dirty blue, the ceiling is as sooty as in a hut without a chimney—it is evident that in the winter the stove smokes and the room is full of fumes19. The windows are disfigured by iron gratings on the inside. The wooden floor is grey and full of splinters. There is a stench of sour cabbage, of smouldering wicks, of bugs20, and of ammonia, and for the first minute this stench gives you the impression of having walked into a menagerie.
There are bedsteads screwed to the floor. Men in blue hospital dressing-gowns, and wearing nightcaps in the old style, are sitting and lying on them. These are the lunatics.
There are five of them in all here. Only one is of the upper class, the rest are all artisans. The one nearest the door—a tall, lean workman with shining red whiskers and tear-stained eyes—sits with his head propped21 on his hand, staring at the same point. Day and night he grieves, shaking his head, sighing and smiling bitterly. He takes a part in conversation and usually makes no answer to questions; he eats and drinks mechanically when food is offered him. From his agonizing23, throbbing24 cough, his thinness, and the flush on his cheeks, one may judge that he is in the first stage of consumption. Next to him is a little, alert, very lively old man, with a pointed25 beard and curly black hair like a negro’s. By day he walks up and down the ward7 from window to window, or sits on his bed, cross-legged like a Turk, and, ceaselessly as a bullfinch whistles, softly sings and titters. He shows his childish gaiety and lively character at night also when he gets up to say his prayers —that is, to beat himself on the chest with his fists, and to scratch with his fingers at the door. This is the Jew Moiseika, an imbecile, who went crazy twenty years ago when his hat factory was burnt down.
And of all the inhabitants of Ward No. 6, he is the only one who is allowed to go out of the lodge, and even out of the yard into the street. He has enjoyed this privilege for years, probably because he is an old inhabitant of the hospital—a quiet, harmless imbecile, the buffoon26 of the town, where people are used to seeing him surrounded by boys and dogs. In his wretched gown, in his absurd night-cap, and in slippers28, sometimes with bare legs and even without trousers, he walks about the streets, stopping at the gates and little shops, and begging for a copper29. In one place they will give him some kvass, in another some bread, in another a copper, so that he generally goes back to the ward feeling rich and well fed. Everything that he brings back Nikita takes from him for his own benefit. The soldier does this roughly, angrily turning the Jew’s pockets inside out, and calling God to witness that he will not let him go into the street again, and that breach30 of the regulations is worse to him than anything in the world.
Moiseika likes to make himself useful. He gives his companions water, and covers them up when they are asleep; he promises each of them to bring him back a kopeck, and to make him a new cap; he feeds with a spoon his neighbour on the left, who is paralyzed. He acts in this way, not from compassion31 nor from any considerations of a humane32 kind, but through imitation, unconsciously dominated by Gromov, his neighbour on the right hand.
Ivan Dmitritch Gromov, a man of thirty-three, who is a gentleman by birth, and has been a court usher33 and provincial34 secretary, suffers from the mania35 of persecution36. He either lies curled up in bed, or walks from corner to corner as though for exercise; he very rarely sits down. He is always excited, agitated37, and overwrought by a sort of vague, undefined expectation. The faintest rustle38 in the entry or shout in the yard is enough to make him raise his head and begin listening: whether they are coming for him, whether they are looking for him. And at such times his face expresses the utmost uneasiness and repulsion.
I like his broad face with its high cheek-bones, always pale and unhappy, and reflecting, as though in a mirror, a soul tormented39 by conflict and long-continued terror. His grimaces40 are strange and abnormal, but the delicate lines traced on his face by profound, genuine suffering show intelligence and sense, and there is a warm and healthy light in his eyes. I like the man himself, courteous41, anxious to be of use, and extraordinarily42 gentle to everyone except Nikita. When anyone drops a button or a spoon, he jumps up from his bed quickly and picks it up; every day he says good-morning to his companions, and when he goes to bed he wishes them good-night.
Besides his continually overwrought condition and his grimaces, his madness shows itself in the following way also. Sometimes in the evenings he wraps himself in his dressing-gown, and, trembling all over, with his teeth chattering43, begins walking rapidly from corner to corner and between the bedsteads. It seems as though he is in a violent fever. From the way he suddenly stops and glances at his companions, it can be seen that he is longing45 to say something very important, but, apparently46 reflecting that they would not listen, or would not understand him, he shakes his head impatiently and goes on pacing up and down. But soon the desire to speak gets the upper hand of every consideration, and he will let himself go and speak fervently47 and passionately48. His talk is disordered and feverish49 like delirium50, disconnected, and not always intelligible51, but, on the other hand, something extremely fine may be felt in it, both in the words and the voice. When he talks you recognize in him the lunatic and the man. It is difficult to reproduce on paper his insane talk. He speaks of the baseness of mankind, of violence trampling53 on justice, of the glorious life which will one day be upon earth, of the window-gratings, which remind him every minute of the stupidity and cruelty of oppressors. It makes a disorderly, incoherent potpourri54 of themes old but not yet out of date.
ii
Some twelve or fifteen years ago an official called Gromov, a highly respectable and prosperous person, was living in his own house in the principal street of the town. He had two sons, Sergey and Ivan. When Sergey was a student in his fourth year he was taken ill with galloping55 consumption and died, and his death was, as it were, the first of a whole series of calamities56 which suddenly showered on the Gromov family. Within a week of Sergey’s funeral the old father was put on trial for fraud and misappropriation, and he died of typhoid in the prison hospital soon afterwards. The house, with all their belongings57, was sold by auction58, and Ivan Dmitritch and his mother were left entirely59 without means.
Hitherto in his father’s lifetime, Ivan Dmitritch, who was studying in the University of Petersburg, had received an allowance of sixty or seventy roubles a month, and had had no conception of poverty; now he had to make an abrupt60 change in his life. He had to spend his time from morning to night giving lessons for next to nothing, to work at copying, and with all that to go hungry, as all his earnings61 were sent to keep his mother. Ivan Dmitritch could not stand such a life; he lost heart and strength, and, giving up the university, went home.
Here, through interest, he obtained the post of teacher in the district school, but could not get on with his colleagues, was not liked by the boys, and soon gave up the post. His mother died. He was for six months without work, living on nothing but bread and water; then he became a court usher. He kept this post until he was dismissed owing to his illness.
He had never even in his young student days given the impression of being perfectly62 healthy. He had always been pale, thin, and given to catching63 cold; he ate little and slept badly. A single glass of wine went to his head and made him hysterical64. He always had a craving65 for society, but, owing to his irritable66 temperament67 and suspiciousness, he never became very intimate with anyone, and had no friends. He always spoke68 with contempt of his fellow-townsmen, saying that their coarse ignorance and sleepy animal existence seemed to him loathsome69 and horrible. He spoke in a loud tenor70, with heat, and invariably either with scorn and indignation, or with wonder and enthusiasm, and always with perfect sincerity71. Whatever one talked to him about he always brought it round to the same subject: that life was dull and stifling72 in the town; that the townspeople had no lofty interests, but lived a dingy73, meaningless life, diversified74 by violence, coarse profligacy75, and hypocrisy76; that scoundrels were well fed and clothed, while honest men lived from hand to mouth; that they needed schools, a progressive local paper, a theatre, public lectures, the coordination77 of the intellectual elements; that society must see its failings and be horrified78. In his criticisms of people he laid on the colours thick, using only black and white, and no fine shades; mankind was divided for him into honest men and scoundrels: there was nothing in between. He always spoke with passion and enthusiasm of women and of love, but he had never been in love.
In spite of the severity of his judgments79 and his nervousness, he was liked, and behind his back was spoken of affectionately as Vanya. His innate80 refinement81 and readiness to be of service, his good breeding, his moral purity, and his shabby coat, his frail82 appearance and family misfortunes, aroused a kind, warm, sorrowful feeling. Moreover, he was well educated and well read; according to the townspeople’s notions, he knew everything, and was in their eyes something like a walking encyclopedia83.
He had read a great deal. He would sit at the club, nervously84 pulling at his beard and looking through the magazines and books; and from his face one could see that he was not reading, but devouring85 the pages without giving himself time to digest what he read. It must be supposed that reading was one of his morbid86 habits, as he fell upon anything that came into his hands with equal avidity, even last year’s newspapers and calendars. At home he always read lying down.
iii
One autumn morning Ivan Dmitritch, turning up the collar of his greatcoat and splashing through the mud, made his way by side-streets and back lanes to see some artisan, and to collect some payment that was owing. He was in a gloomy mood, as he always was in the morning. In one of the side-streets he was met by two convicts in fetters87 and four soldiers with rifles in charge of them. Ivan Dmitritch had very often met convicts before, and they had always excited feelings of compassion and discomfort88 in him; but now this meeting made a peculiar, strange impression on him. It suddenly seemed to him for some reason that he, too, might be put into fetters and led through the mud to prison like that. After visiting the artisan, on the way home he met near the post office a police superintendent89 of his acquaintance, who greeted him and walked a few paces along the street with him, and for some reason this seemed to him suspicious. At home he could not get the convicts or the soldiers with their rifles out of his head all day, and an unaccountable inward agitation90 prevented him from reading or concentrating his mind. In the evening he did not light his lamp, and at night he could not sleep, but kept thinking that he might be arrested, put into fetters, and thrown into prison. He did not know of any harm he had done, and could be certain that he would never be guilty of murder, arson91, or theft in the future either; but was it not easy to commit a crime by accident, unconsciously, and was not false witness always possible, and, indeed, miscarriage92 of justice? It was not without good reason that the agelong experience of the simple people teaches that beggary and prison are ills none can be safe from. A judicial93 mistake is very possible as legal proceedings94 are conducted nowadays, and there is nothing to be wondered at in it. People who have an official, professional relation to other men’s sufferings—for instance, judges, police officers, doctors —in course of time, through habit, grow so callous95 that they cannot, even if they wish it, take any but a formal attitude to their clients; in this respect they are not different from the peasant who slaughters96 sheep and calves97 in the back-yard, and does not notice the blood. With this formal, soulless attitude to human personality the judge needs but one thing—time—in order to deprive an innocent man of all rights of property, and to condemn98 him to penal99 servitude. Only the time spent on performing certain formalities for which the judge is paid his salary, and then—it is all over. Then you may look in vain for justice and protection in this dirty, wretched little town a hundred and fifty miles from a railway station! And, indeed, is it not absurd even to think of justice when every kind of violence is accepted by society as a rational and consistent necessity, and every act of mercy—for instance, a verdict of acquittal—calls forth100 a perfect outburst of dissatisfied and revengeful feeling?
In the morning Ivan Dmitritch got up from his bed in a state of horror, with cold perspiration101 on his forehead, completely convinced that he might be arrested any minute. Since his gloomy thoughts of yesterday had haunted him so long, he thought, it must be that there was some truth in them. They could not, indeed, have come into his mind without any grounds whatever.
A policeman walking slowly passed by the windows: that was not for nothing. Here were two men standing102 still and silent near the house. Why were they silent? And agonizing days and nights followed for Ivan Dmitritch. Everyone who passed by the windows or came into the yard seemed to him a spy or a detective. At midday the chief of the police usually drove down the street with a pair of horses; he was going from his estate near the town to the police department; but Ivan Dmitritch fancied every time that he was driving especially quickly, and that he had a peculiar expression: it was evident that he was in haste to announce that there was a very important criminal in the town. Ivan Dmitritch started at every ring at the bell and knock at the gate, and was agitated whenever he came upon anyone new at his landlady103’s; when he met police officers and gendarmes104 he smiled and began whistling so as to seem unconcerned. He could not sleep for whole nights in succession expecting to be arrested, but he snored loudly and sighed as though in deep sleep, that his landlady might think he was asleep; for if he could not sleep it meant that he was tormented by the stings of conscience—what a piece of evidence! Facts and common sense persuaded him that all these terrors were nonsense and morbidity105, that if one looked at the matter more broadly there was nothing really terrible in arrest and imprisonment—so long as the conscience is at ease; but the more sensibly and logically he reasoned, the more acute and agonizing his mental distress107 became. It might be compared with the story of a hermit108 who tried to cut a dwelling-place for himself in a virgin109 forest; the more zealously110 he worked with his axe111, the thicker the forest grew. In the end Ivan Dmitritch, seeing it was useless, gave up reasoning altogether, and abandoned himself entirely to despair and terror.
He began to avoid people and to seek solitude112. His official work had been distasteful to him before: now it became unbearable113 to him. He was afraid they would somehow get him into trouble, would put a bribe114 in his pocket unnoticed and then denounce him, or that he would accidentally make a mistake in official papers that would appear to be fraudulent, or would lose other people’s money. It is strange that his imagination had never at other times been so agile115 and inventive as now, when every day he thought of thousands of different reasons for being seriously anxious over his freedom and honour; but, on the other hand, his interest in the outer world, in books in particular, grew sensibly fainter, and his memory began to fail him.
In the spring when the snow melted there were found in the ravine near the cemetery116 two half-decomposed corpses—the bodies of an old woman and a boy bearing the traces of death by violence. Nothing was talked of but these bodies and their unknown murderers. That people might not think he had been guilty of the crime, Ivan Dmitritch walked about the streets, smiling, and when he met acquaintances he turned pale, flushed, and began declaring that there was no greater crime than the murder of the weak and defenceless. But this duplicity soon exhausted117 him, and after some reflection he decided118 that in his position the best thing to do was to hide in his landlady’s cellar. He sat in the cellar all day and then all night, then another day, was fearfully cold, and waiting till dusk, stole secretly like a thief back to his room. He stood in the middle of the room till daybreak, listening without stirring. Very early in the morning, before sunrise, some workmen came into the house. Ivan Dmitritch knew perfectly well that they had come to mend the stove in the kitchen, but terror told him that they were police officers disguised as workmen. He slipped stealthily out of the flat, and, overcome by terror, ran along the street without his cap and coat. Dogs raced after him barking, a peasant shouted somewhere behind him, the wind whistled in his ears, and it seemed to Ivan Dmitritch that the force and violence of the whole world was massed together behind his back and was chasing after him.
He was stopped and brought home, and his landlady sent for a doctor. Doctor Andrey Yefimitch, of whom we shall have more to say hereafter, prescribed cold compresses on his head and laurel drops, shook his head, and went away, telling the landlady he should not come again, as one should not interfere120 with people who are going out of their minds. As he had not the means to live at home and be nursed, Ivan Dmitritch was soon sent to the hospital, and was there put into the ward for venereal patients. He could not sleep at night, was full of whims121 and fancies, and disturbed the patients, and was soon afterwards, by Andrey Yefimitch’s orders, transferred to Ward No. 6.
Within a year Ivan Dmitritch was completely forgotten in the town, and his books, heaped up by his landlady in a sledge122 in the shed, were pulled to pieces by boys.
iv
Ivan Dmitritch’s neighbour on the left hand is, as I have said already, the Jew Moiseika; his neighbour on the right hand is a peasant so rolling in fat that he is almost spherical123, with a blankly stupid face, utterly124 devoid125 of thought. This is a motionless, gluttonous126, unclean animal who has long ago lost all powers of thought or feeling. An acrid127, stifling stench always comes from him.
Nikita, who has to clean up after him, beats him terribly with all his might, not sparing his fists; and what is dreadful is not his being beaten—that one can get used to—but the fact that this stupefied creature does not respond to the blows with a sound or a movement, nor by a look in the eyes, but only sways a little like a heavy barrel.
The fifth and last inhabitant of Ward No. 6 is a man of the artisan class who had once been a sorter in the post office, a thinnish, fair little man with a good-natured but rather sly face. To judge from the clear, cheerful look in his calm and intelligent eyes, he has some pleasant idea in his mind, and has some very important and agreeable secret. He has under his pillow and under his mattress12 something that he never shows anyone, not from fear of its being taken from him and stolen, but from modesty129. Sometimes he goes to the window, and turning his back to his companions, puts something on his breast, and bending his head, looks at it; if you go up to him at such a moment, he is overcome with confusion and snatches something off his breast. But it is not difficult to guess his secret.
“Congratulate me,” he often says to Ivan Dmitritch; “I have been presented with the Stanislav order of the second degree with the star. The second degree with the star is only given to foreigners, but for some reason they want to make an exception for me,” he says with a smile, shrugging his shoulders in perplexity. “That I must confess I did not expect.”
“I don’t understand anything about that,” Ivan Dmitritch replies morosely130.
“But do you know what I shall attain131 to sooner or later?” the former sorter persists, screwing up his eyes slyly. “I shall certainly get the Swedish ‘Polar Star.’ That’s an order it is worth working for, a white cross with a black ribbon. It’s very beautiful.”
Probably in no other place is life so monotonous132 as in this ward. In the morning the patients, except the paralytic133 and the fat peasant, wash in the entry at a big tab and wipe themselves with the skirts of their dressing-gowns; after that they drink tea out of tin mugs which Nikita brings them out of the main building. Everyone is allowed one mugful. At midday they have soup made out of sour cabbage and boiled grain, in the evening their supper consists of grain left from dinner. In the intervals134 they lie down, sleep, look out of window, and walk from one corner to the other. And so every day. Even the former sorter always talks of the same orders.
Fresh faces are rarely seen in Ward No. 6. The doctor has not taken in any new mental cases for a long time, and the people who are fond of visiting lunatic asylums136 are few in this world. Once every two months Semyon Lazaritch, the barber, appears in the ward. How he cuts the patients’ hair, and how Nikita helps him to do it, and what a trepidation137 the lunatics are always thrown into by the arrival of the drunken, smiling barber, we will not describe.
No one even looks into the ward except the barber. The patients are condemned138 to see day after day no one but Nikita.
A rather strange rumour139 has, however, been circulating in the hospital of late.
It is rumoured140 that the doctor has begun to visit Ward No. 6.
v
A strange rumour!
Dr. Andrey Yefimitch Ragin is a strange man in his way. They say that when he was young he was very religious, and prepared himself for a clerical career, and that when he had finished his studies at the high school in 1863 he intended to enter a theological academy, but that his father, a surgeon and doctor of medicine, jeered141 at him and declared point-blank that he would disown him if he became a priest. How far this is true I don’t know, but Andrey Yefimitch himself has more than once confessed that he has never had a natural bent142 for medicine or science in general.
However that may have been, when he finished his studies in the medical faculty143 he did not enter the priesthood. He showed no special devoutness144, and was no more like a priest at the beginning of his medical career than he is now.
His exterior145 is heavy—coarse like a peasant’s, his face, his beard, his flat hair, and his coarse, clumsy figure, suggest an overfed, intemperate146, and harsh innkeeper on the highroad. His face is surly-looking and covered with blue veins147, his eyes are little and his nose is red. With his height and broad shoulders he has huge hands and feet; one would think that a blow from his fist would knock the life out of anyone, but his step is soft, and his walk is cautious and insinuating148; when he meets anyone in a narrow passage he is always the first to stop and make way, and to say, not in a bass150, as one would expect, but in a high, soft tenor: “I beg your pardon!” He has a little swelling151 on his neck which prevents him from wearing stiff starched152 collars, and so he always goes about in soft linen153 or cotton shirts. Altogether he does not dress like a doctor. He wears the same suit for ten years, and the new clothes, which he usually buys at a Jewish shop, look as shabby and crumpled on him as his old ones; he sees patients and dines and pays visits all in the same coat; but this is not due to niggardliness154, but to complete carelessness about his appearance.
When Andrey Yefimitch came to the town to take up his duties the “institution founded to the glory of God” was in a terrible condition. One could hardly breathe for the stench in the wards6, in the passages, and in the courtyards of the hospital. The hospital servants, the nurses, and their children slept in the wards together with the patients. They complained that there was no living for beetles155, bugs, and mice. The surgical156 wards were never free from erysipelas. There were only two scalpels and not one thermometer in the whole hospital; potatoes were kept in the baths. The superintendent, the housekeeper157, and the medical assistant robbed the patients, and of the old doctor, Andrey Yefimitch’s predecessor158, people declared that he secretly sold the hospital alcohol, and that he kept a regular harem consisting of nurses and female patients. These disorderly proceedings were perfectly well known in the town, and were even exaggerated, but people took them calmly; some justified159 them on the ground that there were only peasants and working men in the hospital, who could not be dissatisfied, since they were much worse off at home than in the hospital—they couldn’t be fed on woodcocks! Others said in excuse that the town alone, without help from the Zemstvo, was not equal to maintaining a good hospital; thank God for having one at all, even a poor one. And the newly formed Zemstvo did not open infirmaries either in the town or the neighbourhood, relying on the fact that the town already had its hospital.
After looking over the hospital Andrey Yefimitch came to the conclusion that it was an immoral160 institution and extremely prejudicial to the health of the townspeople. In his opinion the most sensible thing that could be done was to let out the patients and close the hospital. But he reflected that his will alone was not enough to do this, and that it would be useless; if physical and moral impurity161 were driven out of one place, they would only move to another; one must wait for it to wither162 away of itself Besides, if people open a hospital and put up with having it, it must be because they need it; superstition163 and all the nastiness and abominations of daily life were necessary, since in process of time they worked out to something sensible, just as manure164 turns into black earth. There was nothing on earth so good that it had not something nasty about its first origin.
When Andrey Yefimitch undertook his duties he was apparently not greatly concerned about the irregularities at the hospital. He only asked the attendants and nurses not to sleep in the wards, and had two cupboards of instruments put up; the superintendent, the housekeeper, the medical assistant, and the erysipelas remained unchanged.
Andrey Yefimitch loved intelligence and honesty intensely, but he had no strength of will nor belief in his right to organize an intelligent and honest life about him. He was absolutely unable to give orders, to forbid things, and to insist. It seemed as though he had taken a vow165 never to raise his voice and never to make use of the imperative166. It was difficult for him to say. “Fetch” or “Bring”; when he wanted his meals he would cough hesitatingly and say to the cook, “How about tea?. . .” or “How about dinner? . . .” To dismiss the superintendent or to tell him to leave off stealing, or to abolish the unnecessary parasitic167 post altogether, was absolutely beyond his powers. When Andrey Yefimitch was deceived or flattered, or accounts he knew to be cooked were brought him to sign, he would turn as red as a crab168 and feel guilty, but yet he would sign the accounts. When the patients complained to him of being hungry or of the roughness of the nurses, he would be confused and mutter guiltily: “Very well, very well, I will go into it later . . . . Most likely there is some misunderstanding. . .”
At first Andrey Yefimitch worked very zealously. He saw patients every day from morning till dinner-time, performed operations, and even attended confinements170. The ladies said of him that he was attentive171 and clever at diagnosing diseases, especially those of women and children. But in process of time the work unmistakably wearied him by its monotony and obvious uselessness. To-day one sees thirty patients, and tomorrow they have increased to thirty-five, the next day forty, and so on from day to day, from year to year, while the mortality in the town did not decrease and the patients did not leave off coming. To be any real help to forty patients between morning and dinner was not physically172 possible, so it could but lead to deception173. If twelve thousand patients were seen in a year it meant, if one looked at it simply, that twelve thousand men were deceived. To put those who were seriously ill into wards, and to treat them according to the principles of science, was impossible, too, because though there were principles there was no science; if he were to put aside philosophy and pedantically174 follow the rules as other doctors did, the things above all necessary were cleanliness and ventilation instead of dirt, wholesome175 nourishment176 instead of broth177 made of stinking178, sour cabbage, and good assistants instead of thieves; and, indeed, why hinder people dying if death is the normal and legitimate179 end of everyone? What is gained if some shop-keeper or clerk lives an extra five or ten years? If the aim of medicine is by drugs to alleviate180 suffering, the question forces itself on one: why alleviate it? In the first place, they say that suffering leads man to perfection; and in the second, if mankind really learns to alleviate its sufferings with pills and drops, it will completely abandon religion and philosophy, in which it has hitherto found not merely protection from all sorts of trouble, but even happiness. Pushkin suffered terrible agonies before his death, poor Heine lay paralyzed for several years; why, then, should not some Andrey Yefimitch or Matryona Savishna be ill, since their lives had nothing of importance in them, and would have been entirely empty and like the life of an amoeba except for suffering?
Oppressed by such reflections, Andrey Yefimitch relaxed his efforts and gave up visiting the hospital every day.
vi
His life was passed like this. As a rule he got up at eight o’clock in the morning, dressed, and drank his tea. Then he sat down in his study to read, or went to the hospital. At the hospital the out-patients were sitting in the dark, narrow little corridor waiting to be seen by the doctor. The nurses and the attendants, tramping with their boots over the brick floors, ran by them; gaunt-looking patients in dressing-gowns passed; dead bodies and vessels181 full of filth182 were carried by; the children were crying, and there was a cold draught183. Andrey Yefimitch knew that such surroundings were torture to feverish, consumptive, and impressionable patients; but what could be done? In the consulting-room he was met by his assistant, Sergey Sergeyitch—a fat little man with a plump, well-washed shaven face, with soft, smooth manners, wearing a new loosely cut suit, and looking more like a senator than a medical assistant. He had an immense practice in the town, wore a white tie, and considered himself more proficient184 than the doctor, who had no practice. In the corner of the consulting-room there stood a large ikon in a shrine185 with a heavy lamp in front of it, and near it a candle-stand with a white cover on it. On the walls hung portraits of bishops186, a view of the Svyatogorsky Monastery187, and wreaths of dried cornflowers. Sergey Sergeyitch was religious, and liked solemnity and decorum. The ikon had been put up at his expense; at his instructions some one of the patients read the hymns188 of praise in the consulting-room on Sundays, and after the reading Sergey Sergeyitch himself went through the wards with a censer and burned incense189.
There were a great many patients, but the time was short, and so the work was confined to the asking of a few brief questions and the administration of some drugs, such as castor-oil or volatile190 ointment191. Andrey Yefimitch would sit with his cheek resting in his hand, lost in thought and asking questions mechanically. Sergey Sergeyitch sat down too, rubbing his hands, and from time to time putting in his word.
“We suffer pain and poverty,” he would say, “because we do not pray to the merciful God as we should. Yes!”
Andrey Yefimitch never performed any operation when he was seeing patients; he had long ago given up doing so, and the sight of blood upset him. When he had to open a child’s mouth in order to look at its throat, and the child cried and tried to defend itself with its little hands, the noise in his ears made his head go round and brought tears to his eyes. He would make haste to prescribe a drug, and motion to the woman to take the child away.
He was soon wearied by the timidity of the patients and their incoherence, by the proximity192 of the pious193 Sergey Sergeyitch, by the portraits on the walls, and by his own questions which he had asked over and over again for twenty years. And he would go away after seeing five or six patients. The rest would be seen by his assistant in his absence.
With the agreeable thought that, thank God, he had no private practice now, and that no one would interrupt him, Andrey Yefimitch sat down to the table immediately on reaching home and took up a book. He read a great deal and always with enjoyment194. Half his salary went on buying books, and of the six rooms that made up his abode195 three were heaped up with books and old magazines. He liked best of all works on history and philosophy; the only medical publication to which he subscribed196 was The Doctor, of which he always read the last pages first. He would always go on reading for several hours without a break and without being weary. He did not read as rapidly and impulsively197 as Ivan Dmitritch had done in the past, but slowly and with concentration, often pausing over a passage which he liked or did not find intelligible. Near the books there always stood a decanter of vodka, and a salted cucumber or a pickled apple lay beside it, not on a plate, but on the baize table-cloth. Every half-hour he would pour himself out a glass of vodka and drink it without taking his eyes off the book. Then without looking at it he would feel for the cucumber and bite off a bit.
At three o’clock he would go cautiously to the kitchen door; cough, and say, “Daryushka, what about dinner? . .”
After his dinner—a rather poor and untidily served one—Andrey Yefimitch would walk up and down his rooms with his arms folded, thinking. The clock would strike four, then five, and still he would be walking up and down thinking. Occasionally the kitchen door would creak, and the red and sleepy face of Daryushka would appear.
“Andrey Yefimitch, isn’t it time for you to have your beer?” she would ask anxiously.
“No, it’s not time yet . . .” he would answer. “I’ll wait a little . . . . I’ll wait a little. . .”
Towards the evening the postmaster, Mihail Averyanitch, the only man in town whose society did not bore Andrey Yefimitch, would come in. Mihail Averyanitch had once been a very rich landowner, and had served in the calvary, but had come to ruin, and was forced by poverty to take a job in the post office late in life. He had a hale and hearty198 appearance, luxuriant grey whiskers, the manners of a well-bred man, and a loud, pleasant voice. He was good-natured and emotional, but hot-tempered. When anyone in the post office made a protest, expressed disagreement, or even began to argue, Mihail Averyanitch would turn crimson199, shake all over, and shout in a voice of thunder, “Hold your tongue!” so that the post office had long enjoyed the reputation of an institution which it was terrible to visit. Mihail Averyanitch liked and respected Andrey Yefimitch for his culture and the loftiness of his soul; he treated the other inhabitants of the town superciliously200, as though they were his subordinates.
“Here I am,” he would say, going in to Andrey Yefimitch. “Good evening, my dear fellow! I’ll be bound, you are getting sick of me, aren’t you?”
“On the contrary, I am delighted,” said the doctor. “I am always glad to see you.”
The friends would sit on the sofa in the study and for some time would smoke in silence.
“Daryushka, what about the beer?” Andrey Yefimitch would say.
They would drink their first bottle still in silence, the doctor brooding and Mihail Averyanitch with a gay and animated201 face, like a man who has something very interesting to tell. The doctor was always the one to begin the conversation.
“What a pity,” he would say quietly and slowly, not looking his friend in the face (he never looked anyone in the face)—“what a great pity it is that there are no people in our town who are capable of carrying on intelligent and interesting conversation, or care to do so. It is an immense privation for us. Even the educated class do not rise above vulgarity; the level of their development, I assure you, is not a bit higher than that of the lower orders.”
“Perfectly true. I agree.”
“You know, of course,” the doctor went on quietly and deliberately202, “that everything in this world is insignificant203 and uninteresting except the higher spiritual manifestations204 of the human mind. Intellect draws a sharp line between the animals and man, suggests the divinity of the latter, and to some extent even takes the place of the immortality206 which does not exist. Consequently the intellect is the only possible source of enjoyment. We see and hear of no trace of intellect about us, so we are deprived of enjoyment. We have books, it is true, but that is not at all the same as living talk and converse207. If you will allow me to make a not quite apt comparison: books are the printed score, while talk is the singing.”
“Perfectly true.”
A silence would follow. Daryushka would come out of the kitchen and with an expression of blank dejection would stand in the doorway208 to listen, with her face propped on her fist.
“Eh!” Mihail Averyanitch would sigh. “To expect intelligence of this generation!”
And he would describe how wholesome, entertaining, and interesting life had been in the past. How intelligent the educated class in Russia used to be, and what lofty ideas it had of honour and friendship; how they used to lend money without an IOU, and it was thought a disgrace not to give a helping209 hand to a comrade in need; and what campaigns, what adventures, what skirmishes, what comrades, what women! And the Caucasus, what a marvellous country! The wife of a battalion210 commander, a queer woman, used to put on an officer’s uniform and drive off into the mountains in the evening, alone, without a guide. It was said that she had a love affair with some princeling in the native village.
“Queen of Heaven, Holy Mother...” Daryushka would sigh.
“And how we drank! And how we ate! And what desperate liberals we were!”
Andrey Yefimitch would listen without hearing; he was musing211 as he sipped212 his beer.
“I often dream of intellectual people and conversation with them,” he said suddenly, interrupting Mihail Averyanitch. “My father gave me an excellent education, but under the influence of the ideas of the sixties made me become a doctor. I believe if I had not obeyed him then, by now I should have been in the very centre of the intellectual movement. Most likely I should have become a member of some university. Of course, intellect, too, is transient and not eternal, but you know why I cherish a partiality for it. Life is a vexatious trap; when a thinking man reaches maturity213 and attains214 to full consciousness he cannot help feeling that he is in a trap from which there is no escape. Indeed, he is summoned without his choice by fortuitous circumstances from non-existence into life . . . what for? He tries to find out the meaning and object of his existence; he is told nothing, or he is told absurdities215; he knocks and it is not opened to him; death comes to him—also without his choice. And so, just as in prison men held together by common misfortune feel more at ease when they are together, so one does not notice the trap in life when people with a bent for analysis and generalization216 meet together and pass their time in the interchange of proud and free ideas. In that sense the intellect is the source of an enjoyment nothing can replace.”
“Perfectly true.”
Not looking his friend in the face, Andrey Yefimitch would go on, quietly and with pauses, talking about intellectual people and conversation with them, and Mihail Averyanitch would listen attentively217 and agree: “Perfectly true.”
“And you do not believe in the immortality of the soul?” he would ask suddenly.
“No, honoured Mihail Averyanitch; I do not believe it, and have no grounds for believing it.”
“I must own I doubt it too. And yet I have a feeling as though I should never die. Oh, I think to myself: ‘Old fogey, it is time you were dead!’ But there is a little voice in my soul says: ‘Don’t believe it; you won’t die.’”
Soon after nine o’clock Mihail Averyanitch would go away. As he put on his fur coat in the entry he would say with a sigh:
“What a wilderness218 fate has carried us to, though, really! What’s most vexatious of all is to have to die here. Ech! . .”
vii
After seeing his friend out Andrey Yefimitch would sit down at the table and begin reading again. The stillness of the evening, and afterwards of the night, was not broken by a single sound, and it seemed as though time were standing still and brooding with the doctor over the book, and as though there were nothing in existence but the books and the lamp with the green shade. The doctor’s coarse peasant-like face was gradually lighted up by a smile of delight and enthusiasm over the progress of the human intellect. Oh, why is not man immortal205? he thought. What is the good of the brain centres and convolutions, what is the good of sight, speech, self-consciousness, genius, if it is all destined219 to depart into the soil, and in the end to grow cold together with the earth’s crust, and then for millions of years to fly with the earth round the sun with no meaning and no object? To do that there was no need at all to draw man with his lofty, almost godlike intellect out of non-existence, and then, as though in mockery, to turn him into clay. The transmutation of substances! But what cowardice220 to comfort oneself with that cheap substitute for immortality! The unconscious processes that take place in nature are lower even than the stupidity of man, since in stupidity there is, anyway, consciousness and will, while in those processes there is absolutely nothing. Only the coward who has more fear of death than dignity can comfort himself with the fact that his body will in time live again in the grass, in the stones, in the toad221. To find one’s immortality in the transmutation of substances is as strange as to prophesy222 a brilliant future for the case after a precious violin has been broken and become useless.
When the clock struck, Andrey Yefimitch would sink back into his chair and close his eyes to think a little. And under the influence of the fine ideas of which he had been reading he would, unawares, recall his past and his present. The past was hateful—better not to think of it. And it was the same in the present as in the past. He knew that at the very time when his thoughts were floating together with the cooling earth round the sun, in the main building beside his abode people were suffering in sickness and physical impurity: someone perhaps could not sleep and was making war upon the insects, someone was being infected by erysipelas, or moaning over too tight a bandage; perhaps the patients were playing cards with the nurses and drinking vodka. According to the yearly return, twelve thousand people had been deceived; the whole hospital rested as it had done twenty years ago on thieving, filth, scandals, gossip, on gross quackery223, and, as before, it was an immoral institution extremely injurious to the health of the inhabitants. He knew that Nikita knocked the patients about behind the barred windows of Ward No. 6, and that Moiseika went about the town every day begging alms.
On the other hand, he knew very well that a magical change had taken place in medicine during the last twenty-five years. When he was studying at the university he had fancied that medicine would soon be overtaken by the fate of alchemy and metaphysics; but now when he was reading at night the science of medicine touched him and excited his wonder, and even enthusiasm. What unexpected brilliance224, what a revolution! Thanks to the antiseptic system operations were performed such as the great Pirogov had considered impossible even in spe. Ordinary Zemstvo doctors were venturing to perform the resection of the kneecap; of abdominal225 operations only one per cent. was fatal; while stone was considered such a trifle that they did not even write about it. A radical226 cure for syphilis had been discovered. And the theory of heredity, hypnotism, the discoveries of Pasteur and of Koch, hygiene227 based on statistics, and the work of Zemstvo doctors!
Psychiatry228 with its modern classification of mental diseases, methods of diagnosis229, and treatment, was a perfect Elborus in comparison with what had been in the past. They no longer poured cold water on the heads of lunatics nor put strait-waistcoats upon them; they treated them with humanity, and even, so it was stated in the papers, got up balls and entertainments for them. Andrey Yefimitch knew that with modern tastes and views such an abomination as Ward No. 6 was possible only a hundred and fifty miles from a railway in a little town where the mayor and all the town council were half-illiterate tradesmen who looked upon the doctor as an oracle230 who must be believed without any criticism even if he had poured molten lead into their mouths; in any other place the public and the newspapers would long ago have torn this little Bastille to pieces.
“But, after all, what of it?” Andrey Yefimitch would ask himself, opening his eyes. “There is the antiseptic system, there is Koch, there is Pasteur, but the essential reality is not altered a bit; ill-health and mortality are still the same. They get up balls and entertainments for the mad, but still they don’t let them go free; so it’s all nonsense and vanity, and there is no difference in reality between the best Vienna clinic and my hospital.” But depression and a feeling akin22 to envy prevented him from feeling indifferent; it must have been owing to exhaustion231. His heavy head sank on to the book, he put his hands under his face to make it softer, and thought: “I serve in a pernicious institution and receive a salary from people whom I am deceiving. I am not honest, but then, I of myself am nothing, I am only part of an inevitable232 social evil: all local officials are pernicious and receive their salary for doing nothing. . . . And so for my dishonesty it is not I who am to blame, but the times.... If I had been born two hundred years later I should have been different. . .”
When it struck three he would put out his lamp and go into his bedroom; he was not sleepy.
viii
Two years before, the Zemstvo in a liberal mood had decided to allow three hundred roubles a year to pay for additional medical service in the town till the Zemstvo hospital should be opened, and the district doctor, Yevgeny Fyodoritch Hobotov, was invited to the town to assist Andrey Yefimitch. He was a very young man—not yet thirty—tall and dark, with broad cheek-bones and little eyes; his forefathers233 had probably come from one of the many alien races of Russia. He arrived in the town without a farthing, with a small portmanteau, and a plain young woman whom he called his cook. This woman had a baby at the breast. Yevgeny Fyodoritch used to go about in a cap with a peak, and in high boots, and in the winter wore a sheepskin. He made great friends with Sergey Sergeyitch, the medical assistant, and with the treasurer234, but held aloof235 from the other officials, and for some reason called them aristocrats236. He had only one book in his lodgings237, “The Latest Prescriptions238 of the Vienna Clinic for 1881.” When he went to a patient he always took this book with him. He played billiards239 in the evening at the club: he did not like cards. He was very fond of using in conversation such expressions as “endless bobbery,” “canting soft soap,” “shut up with your finicking. . .”
He visited the hospital twice a week, made the round of the wards, and saw out-patients. The complete absence of antiseptic treatment and the cupping roused his indignation, but he did not introduce any new system, being afraid of offending Andrey Yefimitch. He regarded his colleague as a sly old rascal240, suspected him of being a man of large means, and secretly envied him. He would have been very glad to have his post.
ix
On a spring evening towards the end of March, when there was no snow left on the ground and the starlings were singing in the hospital garden, the doctor went out to see his friend the postmaster as far as the gate. At that very moment the Jew Moiseika, returning with his booty, came into the yard. He had no cap on, and his bare feet were thrust into goloshes; in his hand he had a little bag of coppers241.
“Give me a kopeck!” he said to the doctor, smiling, and shivering with cold. Andrey Yefimitch, who could never refuse anyone anything, gave him a ten-kopeck piece.
“How bad that is!” he thought, looking at the Jew’s bare feet with their thin red ankles. “Why, it’s wet.”
And stirred by a feeling akin both to pity and disgust, he went into the lodge behind the Jew, looking now at his bald head, now at his ankles. As the doctor went in, Nikita jumped up from his heap of litter and stood at attention.
“Good-day, Nikita,” Andrey Yefimitch said mildly. “That Jew should be provided with boots or something, he will catch cold.”
“Certainly, your honour. I’ll inform the superintendent.”
“Please do; ask him in my name. Tell him that I asked.”
The door into the ward was open. Ivan Dmitritch, lying propped on his elbow on the bed, listened in alarm to the unfamiliar242 voice, and suddenly recognized the doctor. He trembled all over with anger, jumped up, and with a red and wrathful face, with his eyes starting out of his head, ran out into the middle of the road.
“The doctor has come!” he shouted, and broke into a laugh. “At last! Gentlemen, I congratulate you. The doctor is honouring us with a visit! Cursed reptile244!” he shrieked245, and stamped in a frenzy246 such as had never been seen in the ward before. “Kill the reptile! No, killing’s too good. Drown him in the midden-pit!”
Andrey Yefimitch, hearing this, looked into the ward from the entry and asked gently: “What for?”
“What for?” shouted Ivan Dmitritch, going up to him with a menacing air and convulsively wrapping himself in his dressing-gown. “What for? Thief!” he said with a look of repulsion, moving his lips as though he would spit at him. “Quack! hangman!”
“Calm yourself,” said Andrey Yefimitch, smiling guiltily. “I assure you I have never stolen anything; and as to the rest, most likely you greatly exaggerate. I see you are angry with me. Calm yourself, I beg, if you can, and tell me coolly what are you angry for?”
“What are you keeping me here for?”
“Because you are ill.”
“Yes, I am ill. But you know dozens, hundreds of madmen are walking about in freedom because your ignorance is incapable247 of distinguishing them from the sane52. Why am I and these poor wretches248 to be shut up here like scapegoats249 for all the rest? You, your assistant, the superintendent, and all your hospital rabble250, are immeasurably inferior to every one of us morally; why then are we shut up and you not? Where’s the logic106 of it?”
“Morality and logic don’t come in, it all depends on chance. If anyone is shut up he has to stay, and if anyone is not shut up he can walk about, that’s all. There is neither morality nor logic in my being a doctor and your being a mental patient, there is nothing but idle chance.”
“That twaddle I don’t understand. . .” Ivan Dmitritch brought out in a hollow voice, and he sat down on his bed.
Moiseika, whom Nikita did not venture to search in the presence of the doctor, laid out on his bed pieces of bread, bits of paper, and little bones, and, still shivering with cold, began rapidly in a singsong voice saying something in Yiddish. He most likely imagined that he had opened a shop.
“Let me out,” said Ivan Dmitritch, and his voice quivered.
“I cannot.”
“But why, why?”
“Because it is not in my power. Think, what use will it be to you if I do let you out? Go. The townspeople or the police will detain you or bring you back.”
“Yes, yes, that’s true,” said Ivan Dmitritch, and he rubbed his forehead. “It’s awful! But what am I to do, what?”
Andrey Yefimitch liked Ivan Dmitritch’s voice and his intelligent young face with its grimaces. He longed to be kind to the young man and soothe251 him; he sat down on the bed beside him, thought, and said:
“You ask me what to do. The very best thing in your position would be to run away. But, unhappily, that is useless. You would be taken up. When society protects itself from the criminal, mentally deranged252, or otherwise inconvenient253 people, it is invincible254. There is only one thing left for you: to resign yourself to the thought that your presence here is inevitable.”
“It is no use to anyone.”
“So long as prisons and madhouses exist someone must be shut up in them. If not you, I. If not I, some third person. Wait till in the distant future prisons and madhouses no longer exist, and there will be neither bars on the windows nor hospital gowns. Of course, that time will come sooner or later.”
Ivan Dmitritch smiled ironically.
“You are jesting,” he said, screwing up his eyes. “Such gentlemen as you and your assistant Nikita have nothing to do with the future, but you may be sure, sir, better days will come! I may express myself cheaply, you may laugh, but the dawn of a new life is at hand; truth and justice will triumph, and—our turn will come! I shall not live to see it, I shall perish, but some people’s great-grandsons will see it. I greet them with all my heart and rejoice, rejoice with them! Onward255! God be your help, friends!”
With shining eyes Ivan Dmitritch got up, and stretching his hands towards the window, went on with emotion in his voice:
“From behind these bars I bless you! Hurrah256 for truth and justice! I rejoice!”
“I see no particular reason to rejoice,” said Andrey Yefimitch, who thought Ivan Dmitritch’s movement theatrical257, though he was delighted by it. “Prisons and madhouses there will not be, and truth, as you have just expressed it, will triumph; but the reality of things, you know, will not change, the laws of nature will still remain the same. People will suffer pain, grow old, and die just as they do now. However magnificent a dawn lighted up your life, you would yet in the end be nailed up in a coffin258 and thrown into a hole.”
“And immortality?”
“Oh, come, now!”
“You don’t believe in it, but I do. Somebody in Dostoevsky or Voltaire said that if there had not been a God men would have invented him. And I firmly believe that if there is no immortality the great intellect of man will sooner or later invent it.”
“Well said,” observed Andrey Yefimitch, smiling with pleasure; its a good thing you have faith. With such a belief one may live happily even shut up within walls. You have studied somewhere, I presume?”
“Yes, I have been at the university, but did not complete my studies.”
“You are a reflecting and a thoughtful man. In any surroundings you can find tranquillity259 in yourself. Free and deep thinking which strives for the comprehension of life, and complete contempt for the foolish bustle260 of the world—those are two blessings261 beyond any that man has ever known. And you can possess them even though you lived behind threefold bars. Diogenes lived in a tub, yet he was happier than all the kings of the earth.”
“Your Diogenes was a blockhead,” said Ivan Dmitritch morosely. “Why do you talk to me about Diogenes and some foolish comprehension of life?” he cried, growing suddenly angry and leaping up. “I love life; I love it passionately. I have the mania of persecution, a continual agonizing terror; but I have moments when I am overwhelmed by the thirst for life, and then I am afraid of going mad. I want dreadfully to live, dreadfully!”
He walked up and down the ward in agitation, and said, dropping his voice:
“When I dream I am haunted by phantoms262. People come to me, I hear voices and music, and I fancy I am walking through woods or by the seashore, and I long so passionately for movement, for interests . . . . Come, tell me, what news is there?” asked Ivan Dmitritch; “what’s happening?”
“Do you wish to know about the town or in general?”
“Well, tell me first about the town, and then in general.”
“Well, in the town it is appallingly264 dull. . . . There’s no one to say a word to, no one to listen to. There are no new people. A young doctor called Hobotov has come here recently.”
“He had come in my time. Well, he is a low cad, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is a man of no culture. It’s strange, you know. . . . Judging by every sign, there is no intellectual stagnation265 in our capital cities; there is a movement—so there must be real people there too; but for some reason they always send us such men as I would rather not see. It’s an unlucky town!”
“Yes, it is an unlucky town,” sighed Ivan Dmitritch, and he laughed. “And how are things in general? What are they writing in the papers and reviews?”
It was by now dark in the ward. The doctor got up, and, standing, began to describe what was being written abroad and in Russia, and the tendency of thought that could be noticed now. Ivan Dmitritch listened attentively and put questions, but suddenly, as though recalling something terrible, clutched at his head and lay down on the bed with his back to the doctor.
“What’s the matter?” asked Andrey Yefimitch.
“You will not hear another word from me,” said Ivan Dmitritch rudely. “Leave me alone.”
“Why so?”
“I tell you, leave me alone. Why the devil do you persist?”
Andrey Yefimitch shrugged266 his shoulders, heaved a sigh, and went out. As he crossed the entry he said: “You might clear up here, Nikita . . . there’s an awfully267 stuffy268 smell.”
“Certainly, your honour.”
“What an agreeable young man!” thought Andrey Yefimitch, going back to his flat. “In all the years I have been living here I do believe he is the first I have met with whom one can talk. He is capable of reasoning and is interested in just the right things.”
While he was reading, and afterwards, while he was going to bed, he kept thinking about Ivan Dmitritch, and when he woke next morning he remembered that he had the day before made the acquaintance of an intelligent and interesting man, and determined269 to visit him again as soon as possible.
x
Ivan Dmitritch was lying in the same position as on the previous day, with his head clutched in both hands and his legs drawn270 up. His face was not visible.
“Good-day, my friend,” said Andrey Yefimitch. “You are not asleep, are you?”
“In the first place, I am not your friend,” Ivan Dmitritch articulated into the pillow; “and in the second, your efforts are useless; you will not get one word out of me.”
“Strange,” muttered Andrey Yefimitch in confusion. “Yesterday we talked peacefully, but suddenly for some reason you took offence and broke off all at once. . . . Probably I expressed myself awkwardly, or perhaps gave utterance271 to some idea which did not fit in with your convictions. . . .”
“Yes, a likely idea!” said Ivan Dmitritch, sitting up and looking at the doctor with irony272 and uneasiness. His eyes were red. “You can go and spy and probe somewhere else, it’s no use your doing it here. I knew yesterday what you had come for.”
“A strange fancy,” laughed the doctor. “So you suppose me to be a spy?”
“Yes, I do. . . . A spy or a doctor who has been charged to test me—it’s all the same ——”
“Oh excuse me, what a queer fellow you are really!”
The doctor sat down on the stool near the bed and shook his head reproachfully.
“But let us suppose you are right,” he said, “let us suppose that I am treacherously273 trying to trap you into saying something so as to betray you to the police. You would be arrested and then tried. But would you be any worse off being tried and in prison than you are here? If you are banished274 to a settlement, or even sent to penal servitude, would it be worse than being shut up in this ward? I imagine it would be no worse. . . . What, then, are you afraid of?”
These words evidently had an effect on Ivan Dmitritch. He sat down quietly.
It was between four and five in the afternoon—the time when Andrey Yefimitch usually walked up and down his rooms, and Daryushka asked whether it was not time for his beer. It was a still, bright day.
“I came out for a walk after dinner, and here I have come, as you see,” said the doctor. “It is quite spring.”
“What month is it? March?” asked Ivan Dmitritch.
“Yes, the end of March.”
“Is it very muddy?”
“No, not very. There are already paths in the garden.”
“It would be nice now to drive in an open carriage somewhere into the country,” said Ivan Dmitritch, rubbing his red eyes as though he were just awake, “then to come home to a warm, snug275 study, and . . . and to have a decent doctor to cure one’s headache. . . . It’s so long since I have lived like a human being. It’s disgusting here! Insufferably disgusting!”
After his excitement of the previous day he was exhausted and listless, and spoke unwillingly276. His fingers twitched277, and from his face it could be seen that he had a splitting headache.
“There is no real difference between a warm, snug study and this ward,” said Andrey Yefimitch. “A man’s peace and contentment do not lie outside a man, but in himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“The ordinary man looks for good and evil in external things— that is, in carriages, in studies—but a thinking man looks for it in himself.”
“You should go and preach that philosophy in Greece, where it’s warm and fragrant278 with the scent279 of pomegranates, but here it is not suited to the climate. With whom was it I was talking of Diogenes? Was it with you?”
“Yes, with me yesterday.”
“Diogenes did not need a study or a warm habitation; it’s hot there without. You can lie in your tub and eat oranges and olives. But bring him to Russia to live: he’d be begging to be let indoors in May, let alone December. He’d be doubled up with the cold.”
“No. One can be insensible to cold as to every other pain. Marcus Aurelius says: ‘A pain is a vivid idea of pain; make an effort of will to change that idea, dismiss it, cease to complain, and the pain will disappear.’ That is true. The wise man, or simply the reflecting, thoughtful man, is distinguished280 precisely281 by his contempt for suffering; he is always contented282 and surprised at nothing.”
“Then I am an idiot, since I suffer and am discontented and surprised at the baseness of mankind.”
“You are wrong in that; if you will reflect more on the subject you will understand how insignificant is all that external world that agitates283 us. One must strive for the comprehension of life, and in that is true happiness.”
“Comprehension . . .” repeated Ivan Dmitritch frowning. “External, internal. . . . Excuse me, but I don t understand it. I only know,” he said, getting up and looking angrily at the doctor—“I only know that God has created me of warm blood and nerves, yes, indeed! If organic tissue is capable of life it must react to every stimulus284. And I do! To pain I respond with tears and outcries, to baseness with indignation, to filth with loathing285. To my mind, that is just what is called life. The lower the organism, the less sensitive it is, and the more feebly it reacts to stimulus; and the higher it is, the more responsively and vigorously it reacts to reality. How is it you don’t know that? A doctor, and not know such trifles! To despise suffering, to be always contented, and to be surprised at nothing, one must reach this condition”—and Ivan Dmitritch pointed to the peasant who was a mass of fat—“or to harden oneself by suffering to such a point that one loses all sensibility to it— that is, in other words, to cease to live. You must excuse me, I am not a sage149 or a philosopher,” Ivan Dmitritch continued with irritation286, “and I don’t understand anything about it. I am not capable of reasoning.”
“On the contrary, your reasoning is excellent.”
“The Stoics287, whom you are parodying289, were remarkable290 people, but their doctrine291 crystallized two thousand years ago and has not advanced, and will not advance, an inch forward, since it is not practical or living. It had a success only with the minority which spends its life in savouring all sorts of theories and ruminating292 over them; the majority did not understand it. A doctrine which advocates indifference293 to wealth and to the comforts of life, and a contempt for suffering and death, is quite unintelligible294 to the vast majority of men, since that majority has never known wealth or the comforts of life; and to despise suffering would mean to it despising life itself, since the whole existence of man is made up of the sensations of hunger, cold, injury, and a Hamlet-like dread128 of death. The whole of life lies in these sensations; one may be oppressed by it, one may hate it, but one cannot despise it. Yes, so, I repeat, the doctrine of the Stoics can never have a future; from the beginning of time up to today you see continually increasing the struggle, the sensibility to pain, the capacity of responding to stimulus.”
Ivan Dmitritch suddenly lost the thread of his thoughts, stopped, and rubbed his forehead with vexation.
“I meant to say something important, but I have lost it,” he said. “What was I saying? Oh, yes! This is what I mean: one of the Stoics sold himself into slavery to redeem295 his neighbour, so, you see, even a Stoic288 did react to stimulus, since, for such a generous act as the destruction of oneself for the sake of one’s neighbour, he must have had a soul capable of pity and indignation. Here in prison I have forgotten everything I have learned, or else I could have recalled something else. Take Christ, for instance: Christ responded to reality by weeping, smiling, being sorrowful and moved to wrath243, even overcome by misery296. He did not go to meet His sufferings with a smile, He did not despise death, but prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane that this cup might pass Him by.”
Ivan Dmitritch laughed and sat down.
“Granted that a man’s peace and contentment lie not outside but in himself,” he said, “granted that one must despise suffering and not be surprised at anything, yet on what ground do you preach the theory? Are you a sage? A philosopher?”
“No, I am not a philosopher, but everyone ought to preach it because it is reasonable.”
“No, I want to know how it is that you consider yourself competent to judge of ‘comprehension,’ contempt for suffering, and so on. Have you ever suffered? Have you any idea of suffering? Allow me to ask you, were you ever thrashed in your childhood?”
“No, my parents had an aversion for corporal punishment.”
“My father used to flog me cruelly; my father was a harsh, sickly Government clerk with a long nose and a yellow neck. But let us talk of you. No one has laid a finger on you all your life, no one has scared you nor beaten you; you are as strong as a bull. You grew up under your father’s wing and studied at his expense, and then you dropped at once into a sinecure297. For more than twenty years you have lived rent free with heating, lighting298, and service all provided, and had the right to work how you pleased and as much as you pleased, even to do nothing. You were naturally a flabby, lazy man, and so you have tried to arrange your life so that nothing should disturb you or make you move. You have handed over your work to the assistant and the rest of the rabble while you sit in peace and warmth, save money, read, amuse yourself with reflections, with all sorts of lofty nonsense, and” (Ivan Dmitritch looked at the doctor’s red nose) “with boozing; in fact, you have seen nothing of life, you know absolutely nothing of it, and are only theoretically acquainted with reality; you despise suffering and are surprised at nothing for a very simple reason: vanity of vanities, the external and the internal, contempt for life, for suffering and for death, comprehension, true happiness—that’s the philosophy that suits the Russian sluggard299 best. You see a peasant beating his wife, for instance. Why interfere? Let him beat her, they will both die sooner or later, anyway; and, besides, he who beats injures by his blows, not the person he is beating, but himself. To get drunk is stupid and unseemly, but if you drink you die, and if you don’t drink you die. A peasant woman comes with toothache . . . well, what of it? Pain is the idea of pain, and besides ‘there is no living in this world without illness; we shall all die, and so, go away, woman, don’t hinder me from thinking and drinking vodka.’ A young man asks advice, what he is to do, how he is to live; anyone else would think before answering, but you have got the answer ready: strive for ‘comprehension’ or for true happiness. And what is that fantastic ‘true happiness’? There’s no answer, of course. We are kept here behind barred windows, tortured, left to rot; but that is very good and reasonable, because there is no difference at all between this ward and a warm, snug study. A convenient philosophy. You can do nothing, and your conscience is clear, and you feel you are wise . . . . No, sir, it is not philosophy, it’s not thinking, it’s not breadth of vision, but laziness, fakirism, drowsy300 stupefaction. Yes,” cried Ivan Dmitritch, getting angry again, “you despise suffering, but I’ll be bound if you pinch your finger in the door you will howl at the top of your voice.”
“And perhaps I shouldn’t howl,” said Andrey Yefimitch, with a gentle smile.
“Oh, I dare say! Well, if you had a stroke of paralysis301, or supposing some fool or bully302 took advantage of his position and rank to insult you in public, and if you knew he could do it with impunity303, then you would understand what it means to put people off with comprehension and true happiness.”
“That’s original,” said Andrey Yefimitch, laughing with pleasure and rubbing his hands. “I am agreeably struck by your inclination304 for drawing generalizations305, and the sketch306 of my character you have just drawn is simply brilliant. I must confess that talking to you gives me great pleasure. Well, I’ve listened to you, and now you must graciously listen to me.”
xi
The conversation went on for about an hour longer, and apparently made a deep impression on Andrey Yefimitch. He began going to the ward every day. He went there in the mornings and after dinner, and often the dusk of evening found him in conversation with Ivan Dmitritch. At first Ivan Dmitritch held aloof from him, suspected him of evil designs, and openly expressed his hostility307. But afterwards he got used to him, and his abrupt manner changed to one of condescending308 irony.
Soon it was all over the hospital that the doctor, Andrey Yefimitch, had taken to visiting Ward No. 6. No one—neither Sergey Sergevitch, nor Nikita, nor the nurses—could conceive why he went there, why he stayed there for hours together, what he was talking about, and why he did not write prescriptions. His actions seemed strange. Often Mihail Averyanitch did not find him at home, which had never happened in the past, and Daryushka was greatly perturbed309, for the doctor drank his beer now at no definite time, and sometimes was even late for dinner.
One day—it was at the end of June—Dr. Hobotov went to see Andrey Yefimitch about something. Not finding him at home, he proceeded to look for him in the yard; there he was told that the old doctor had gone to see the mental patients. Going into the lodge and stopping in the entry, Hobotov heard the following conversation:
“We shall never agree, and you will not succeed in converting me to your faith,” Ivan Dmitritch was saying irritably310; “you are utterly ignorant of reality, and you have never known suffering, but have only like a leech311 fed beside the sufferings of others, while I have been in continual suffering from the day of my birth till today. For that reason, I tell you frankly312, I consider myself superior to you and more competent in every respect. It’s not for you to teach me.”
“I have absolutely no ambition to convert you to my faith,” said Andrey Yefimitch gently, and with regret that the other refused to understand him. “And that is not what matters, my friend; what matters is not that you have suffered and I have not. Joy and suffering are passing; let us leave them, never mind them. What matters is that you and I think; we see in each other people who are capable of thinking and reasoning, and that is a common bond between us however different our views. If you knew, my friend, how sick I am of the universal senselessness, ineptitude313, stupidity, and with what delight I always talk with you! You are an intelligent man, and I enjoyed your company.”
Hobotov opened the door an inch and glanced into the ward; Ivan Dmitritch in his night-cap and the doctor Andrey Yefimitch were sitting side by side on the bed. The madman was grimacing314, twitching315, and convulsively wrapping himself in his gown, while the doctor sat motionless with bowed head, and his face was red and look helpless and sorrowful. Hobotov shrugged his shoulders, grinned, and glanced at Nikita. Nikita shrugged his shoulders too.
Next day Hobotov went to the lodge, accompanied by the assistant. Both stood in the entry and listened.
“I fancy our old man has gone clean off his chump!” said Hobotov as he came out of the lodge.
“Lord have mercy upon us sinners!” sighed the decorous Sergey Sergeyitch, scrupulously316 avoiding the puddles317 that he might not muddy his polished boots. “I must own, honoured Yevgeny Fyodoritch, I have been expecting it for a long time.”
xii
After this Andrey Yefimitch began to notice a mysterious air in all around him. The attendants, the nurses, and the patients looked at him inquisitively318 when they met him, and then whispered together. The superintendent’s little daughter Masha, whom he liked to meet in the hospital garden, for some reason ran away from him now when he went up with a smile to stroke her on the head. The postmaster no longer said, “Perfectly true,” as he listened to him, but in unaccountable confusion muttered, “Yes, yes, yes . . .” and looked at him with a grieved and thoughtful expression; for some reason he took to advising his friend to give up vodka and beer, but as a man of delicate feeling he did not say this directly, but hinted it, telling him first about the commanding officer of his battalion, an excellent man, and then about the priest of the regiment319, a capital fellow, both of whom drank and fell ill, but on giving up drinking completely regained320 their health. On two or three occasions Andrey Yefimitch was visited by his colleague Hobotov, who also advised him to give up spirituous liquors, and for no apparent reason recommended him to take bromide.
In August Andrey Yefimitch got a letter from the mayor of the town asking him to come on very important business. On arriving at the town hall at the time fixed321, Andrey Yefimitch found there the military commander, the superintendent of the district school, a member of the town council, Hobotov, and a plump, fair gentleman who was introduced to him as a doctor. This doctor, with a Polish surname difficult to pronounce, lived at a pedigree stud-farm twenty miles away, and was now on a visit to the town.
“There’s something that concerns you,” said the member of the town council, addressing Andrey Yefimitch after they had all greeted one another and sat down to the table. “Here Yevgeny Fyodoritch says that there is not room for the dispensary in the main building, and that it ought to be transferred to one of the lodges322. That’s of no consequence—of course it can be transferred, but the point is that the lodge wants doing up.”
“Yes, it would have to be done up,” said Andrey Yefimitch after a moment’s thought. “If the corner lodge, for instance, were fitted up as a dispensary, I imagine it would cost at least five hundred roubles. An unproductive expenditure323!”
Everyone was silent for a space.
“I had the honour of submitting to you ten years ago,” Andrey Yefimitch went on in a low voice, “that the hospital in its present form is a luxury for the town beyond its means. It was built in the forties, but things were different then. The town spends too much on unnecessary buildings and superfluous324 staff. I believe with a different system two model hospitals might be maintained for the same money.”
“Well, let us have a different system, then!” the member of the town council said briskly.
“I have already had the honour of submitting to you that the medical department should be transferred to the supervision325 of the Zemstvo.”
“Yes, transfer the money to the Zemstvo and they will steal it,” laughed the fair-haired doctor.
“That’s what it always comes to,” the member of the council assented326, and he also laughed.
Andrey Yefimitch looked with apathetic327, lustreless328 eyes at the fair-haired doctor and said: “One should be just.”
Again there was silence. Tea was brought in. The military commander, for some reason much embarrassed, touched Andrey Yefimitch’s hand across the table and said: “You have quite forgotten us, doctor. But of course you are a hermit: you don’t play cards and don’t like women. You would be dull with fellows like us.”
They all began saying how boring it was for a decent person to live in such a town. No theatre, no music, and at the last dance at the club there had been about twenty ladies and only two gentlemen. The young men did not dance, but spent all the time crowding round the refreshment329 bar or playing cards.
Not looking at anyone and speaking slowly in a low voice, Andrey Yefimitch began saying what a pity, what a terrible pity it was that the townspeople should waste their vital energy, their hearts, and their minds on cards and gossip, and should have neither the power nor the inclination to spend their time in interesting conversation and reading, and should refuse to take advantage of the enjoyments330 of the mind. The mind alone was interesting and worthy331 of attention, all the rest was low and petty. Hobotov listened to his colleague attentively and suddenly asked:
“Andrey Yefimitch, what day of the month is it?”
Having received an answer, the fair-haired doctor and he, in the tone of examiners conscious of their lack of skill, began asking Andrey Yefimitch what was the day of the week, how many days there were in the year, and whether it was true that there was a remarkable prophet living in Ward No. 6.
In response to the last question Andrey Yefimitch turned rather red and said: “Yes, he is mentally deranged, but he is an interesting young man.”
They asked him no other questions.
When he was putting on his overcoat in the entry, the military commander laid a hand on his shoulder and said with a sigh:
“It’s time for us old fellows to rest!”
As he came out of the hall, Andrey Yefimitch understood that it had been a committee appointed to enquire332 into his mental condition. He recalled the questions that had been asked him, flushed crimson, and for some reason, for the first time in his life, felt bitterly grieved for medical science.
“My God. . .” he thought, remembering how these doctors had just examined him; “why, they have only lately been hearing lectures on mental pathology; they had passed an examination—what’s the explanation of this crass333 ignorance? They have not a conception of mental pathology!”
And for the first time in his life he felt insulted and moved to anger.
In the evening of the same day Mihail Averyanitch came to see him. The postmaster went up to him without waiting to greet him, took him by both hands, and said in an agitated voice:
“My dear fellow, my dear friend, show me that you believe in my genuine affection and look on me as your friend!” And preventing Andrey Yefimitch from speaking, he went on, growing excited: “I love you for your culture and nobility of soul. Listen to me, my dear fellow. The rules of their profession compel the doctors to conceal334 the truth from you, but I blurt335 out the plain truth like a soldier. You are not well! Excuse me, my dear fellow, but it is the truth; everyone about you has been noticing it for a long time. Dr. Yevgeny Fyodoritch has just told me that it is essential for you to rest and distract your mind for the sake of your health. Perfectly true! Excellent! In a day or two I am taking a holiday and am going away for a sniff336 of a different atmosphere. Show that you are a friend to me, let us go together! Let us go for a jaunt337 as in the good old days.”
“I feel perfectly well,” said Andrey Yefimitch after a moment’s thought. “I can’t go away. Allow me to show you my friendship in some other way.”
To go off with no object, without his books, without his Daryushka, without his beer, to break abruptly338 through the routine of life, established for twenty years—the idea for the first minute struck him as wild and fantastic, but he remembered the conversation at the Zemstvo committee and the depressing feelings with which he had returned home, and the thought of a brief absence from the town in which stupid people looked on him as a madman was pleasant to him.
“And where precisely do you intend to go?” he asked.
“To Moscow, to Petersburg, to Warsaw. . . . I spent the five happiest years of my life in Warsaw. What a marvellous town! Let us go, my dear fellow!”
xiii
A week later it was suggested to Andrey Yefimitch that he should have a rest—that is, send in his resignation—a suggestion he received with indifference, and a week later still, Mihail Averyanitch and he were sitting in a posting carriage driving to the nearest railway station. The days were cool and bright, with a blue sky and a transparent339 distance. They were two days driving the hundred and fifty miles to the railway station, and stayed two nights on the way. When at the posting station the glasses given them for their tea had not been properly washed, or the drivers were slow in harnessing the horses, Mihail Averyanitch would turn crimson, and quivering all over would shout:
“Hold your tongue! Don’t argue!”
And in the carriage he talked without ceasing for a moment, describing his campaigns in the Caucasus and in Poland. What adventures he had had, what meetings! He talked loudly and opened his eyes so wide with wonder that he might well be thought to be lying. Moreover, as he talked he breathed in Andrey Yefimitch’s face and laughed into his ear. This bothered the doctor and prevented him from thinking or concentrating his mind.
In the train they travelled, from motives340 of economy, third-class in a non-smoking compartment341. Half the passengers were decent people. Mihail Averyanitch soon made friends with everyone, and moving from one seat to another, kept saying loudly that they ought not to travel by these appalling263 lines. It was a regular swindle! A very different thing riding on a good horse: one could do over seventy miles a day and feel fresh and well after it. And our bad harvests were due to the draining of the Pinsk marshes342; altogether, the way things were done was dreadful. He got excited, talked loudly, and would not let others speak. This endless chatter44 to the accompaniment of loud laughter and expressive343 gestures wearied Andrey Yefimitch.
“Which of us is the madman?” he thought with vexation. “I, who try not to disturb my fellow-passengers in any way, or this egoist who thinks that he is cleverer and more interesting than anyone here, and so will leave no one in peace?”
In Moscow Mihail Averyanitch put on a military coat without epaulettes and trousers with red braid on them. He wore a military cap and overcoat in the street, and soldiers saluted344 him. It seemed to Andrey Yefimitch, now, that his companion was a man who had flung away all that was good and kept only what was bad of all the characteristics of a country gentleman that he had once possessed345. He liked to be waited on even when it was quite unnecessary. The matches would be lying before him on the table, and he would see them and shout to the waiter to give him the matches; he did not hesitate to appear before a maidservant in nothing but his underclothes; he used the familiar mode of address to all footmen indiscriminately, even old men, and when he was angry called them fools and blockheads. This, Andrey Yefimitch thought, was like a gentleman, but disgusting.
First of all Mihail Averyanitch led his friend to the Iversky Madonna. He prayed fervently, shedding tears and bowing down to the earth, and when he had finished, heaved a deep sigh and said:
“Even though one does not believe it makes one somehow easier when one prays a little. Kiss the ikon, my dear fellow.”
Andrey Yefimitch was embarrassed and he kissed the image, while Mihail Averyanitch pursed up his lips and prayed in a whisper, and again tears came into his eyes. Then they went to the Kremlin and looked there at the Tsar-cannon and the Tsar-bell, and even touched them with their fingers, admired the view over the river, visited St. Saviour’s and the Rumyantsev museum.
They dined at Tyestov’s. Mihail Averyanitch looked a long time at the menu, stroking his whiskers, and said in the tone of a gourmand346 accustomed to dine in restaurants:
“We shall see what you give us to eat today, angel!”
xiv
The doctor walked about, looked at things, ate and drank, but he had all the while one feeling: annoyance347 with Mihail Averyanitch. He longed to have a rest from his friend, to get away from him, to hide himself, while the friend thought it was his duty not to let the doctor move a step away from him, and to provide him with as many distractions348 as possible. When there was nothing to look at he entertained him with conversation. For two days Andrey Yefimitch endured it, but on the third he announced to his friend that he was ill and wanted to stay at home for the whole day; his friend replied that in that case he would stay too—that really he needed rest, for he was run off his legs already. Andrey Yefimitch lay on the sofa, with his face to the back, and clenching349 his teeth, listened to his friend, who assured him with heat that sooner or later France would certainly thrash Germany, that there were a great many scoundrels in Moscow, and that it was impossible to judge of a horse’s quality by its outward appearance. The doctor began to have a buzzing in his ears and palpitations of the heart, but out of delicacy350 could not bring himself to beg his friend to go away or hold his tongue. Fortunately Mihail Averyanitch grew weary of sitting in the hotel room, and after dinner he went out for a walk.
As soon as he was alone Andrey Yefimitch abandoned himself to a feeling of relief. How pleasant to lie motionless on the sofa and to know that one is alone in the room! Real happiness is impossible without solitude. The fallen angel betrayed God probably because he longed for solitude, of which the angels know nothing. Andrey Yefimitch wanted to think about what he had seen and heard during the last few days, but he could not get Mihail Averyanitch out of his head.
“Why, he has taken a holiday and come with me out of friendship, out of generosity,” thought the doctor with vexation; “nothing could be worse than this friendly supervision. I suppose he is good-natured and generous and a lively fellow, but he is a bore. An insufferable bore. In the same way there are people who never say anything but what is clever and good, yet one feels that they are dull-witted people.”
For the following days Andrey Yefimitch declared himself ill and would not leave the hotel room; he lay with his face to the back of the sofa, and suffered agonies of weariness when his friend entertained him with conversation, or rested when his friend was absent. He was vexed351 with himself for having come, and with his friend, who grew every day more talkative and more free-and-easy; he could not succeed in attuning352 his thoughts to a serious and lofty level.
“This is what I get from the real life Ivan Dmitritch talked about,” he thought, angry at his own pettiness. “It’s of no consequence, though. . . . I shall go home, and everything will go on as before . . . .”
It was the same thing in Petersburg too; for whole days together he did not leave the hotel room, but lay on the sofa and only got up to drink beer.
Mihail Averyanitch was all haste to get to Warsaw.
“My dear man, what should I go there for?” said Andrey Yefimitch in an imploring353 voice. “You go alone and let me get home! I entreat354 you!”
“On no account,” protested Mihail Averyanitch. “It’s a marvellous town.”
Andrey Yefimitch had not the strength of will to insist on his own way, and much against his inclination went to Warsaw. There he did not leave the hotel room, but lay on the sofa, furious with himself, with his friend, and with the waiters, who obstinately355 refused to understand Russian; while Mihail Averyanitch, healthy, hearty, and full of spirits as usual, went about the town from morning to night, looking for his old acquaintances. Several times he did not return home at night. After one night spent in some unknown haunt he returned home early in the morning, in a violently excited condition, with a red face and tousled hair. For a long time he walked up and down the rooms muttering something to himself, then stopped and said:
“Honour before everything.”
After walking up and down a little longer he clutched his head in both hands and pronounced in a tragic356 voice: “Yes, honour before everything! Accursed be the moment when the idea first entered my head to visit this Babylon! My dear friend,” he added, addressing the doctor, “you may despise me, I have played and lost; lend me five hundred roubles!”
Andrey Yefimitch counted out five hundred roubles and gave them to his friend without a word. The latter, still crimson with shame and anger, incoherently articulated some useless vow, put on his cap, and went out. Returning two hours later he flopped358 into an easy-chair, heaved a loud sigh, and said:
“My honour is saved. Let us go, my friend; I do not care to remain another hour in this accursed town. Scoundrels! Austrian spies!”
By the time the friends were back in their own town it was November, and deep snow was lying in the streets. Dr. Hobotov had Andrey Yefimitch’s post; he was still living in his old lodgings, waiting for Andrey Yefimitch to arrive and clear out of the hospital apartments. The plain woman whom he called his cook was already established in one of the lodges.
Fresh scandals about the hospital were going the round of the town. It was said that the plain woman had quarrelled with the superintendent, and that the latter had crawled on his knees before her begging forgiveness. On the very first day he arrived Andrey Yefimitch had to look out for lodgings.
“My friend,” the postmaster said to him timidly, “excuse an indiscreet question: what means have you at your disposal?”
Andrey Yefimitch, without a word, counted out his money and said: “Eighty-six roubles.”
“I don’t mean that,” Mihail Averyanitch brought out in confusion, misunderstanding him; “I mean, what have you to live on?”
“I tell you, eighty-six roubles . . . I have nothing else.”
Mihail Averyanitch looked upon the doctor as an honourable359 man, yet he suspected that he had accumulated a fortune of at least twenty thousand. Now learning that Andrey Yefimitch was a beggar, that he had nothing to live on he was for some reason suddenly moved to tears and embraced his friend.
xv
Andrey Yefimitch now lodged360 in a little house with three windows. There were only three rooms besides the kitchen in the little house. The doctor lived in two of them which looked into the street, while Daryushka and the landlady with her three children lived in the third room and the kitchen. Sometimes the landlady’s lover, a drunken peasant who was rowdy and reduced the children and Daryushka to terror, would come for the night. When he arrived and established himself in the kitchen and demanded vodka, they all felt very uncomfortable, and the doctor would be moved by pity to take the crying children into his room and let them lie on his floor, and this gave him great satisfaction.
He got up as before at eight o’clock, and after his morning tea sat down to read his old books and magazines: he had no money for new ones. Either because the books were old, or perhaps because of the change in his surroundings, reading exhausted him, and did not grip his attention as before. That he might not spend his time in idleness he made a detailed361 catalogue of his books and gummed little labels on their backs, and this mechanical, tedious work seemed to him more interesting than reading. The monotonous, tedious work lulled362 his thoughts to sleep in some unaccountable way, and the time passed quickly while he thought of nothing. Even sitting in the kitchen, peeling potatoes with Daryushka or picking over the buckwheat grain, seemed to him interesting. On Saturdays and Sundays he went to church. Standing near the wall and half closing his eyes, he listened to the singing and thought of his father, of his mother, of the university, of the religions of the world; he felt calm and melancholy363, and as he went out of the church afterwards he regretted that the service was so soon over. He went twice to the hospital to talk to Ivan Dmitritch. But on both occasions Ivan Dmitritch was unusually excited and ill-humoured; he bade the doctor leave him in peace, as he had long been sick of empty chatter, and declared, to make up for all his sufferings, he asked from the damned scoundrels only one favour—solitary confinement169. Surely they would not refuse him even that? On both occasions when Andrey Yefimitch was taking leave of him and wishing him good-night, he answered rudely and said:
“Go to hell!”
And Andrey Yefimitch did not know now whether to go to him for the third time or not. He longed to go.
In old days Andrey Yefimitch used to walk about his rooms and think in the interval135 after dinner, but now from dinner-time till evening tea he lay on the sofa with his face to the back and gave himself up to trivial thoughts which he could not struggle against. He was mortified364 that after more than twenty years of service he had been given neither a pension nor any assistance. It is true that he had not done his work honestly, but, then, all who are in the Service get a pension without distinction whether they are honest or not. Contemporary justice lies precisely in the bestowal365 of grades, orders, and pensions, not for moral qualities or capacities, but for service whatever it may have been like. Why was he alone to be an exception? He had no money at all. He was ashamed to pass by the shop and look at the woman who owned it. He owed thirty-two roubles for beer already. There was money owing to the landlady also. Daryushka sold old clothes and books on the sly, and told lies to the landlady, saying that the doctor was just going to receive a large sum of money.
He was angry with himself for having wasted on travelling the thousand roubles he had saved up. How useful that thousand roubles would have been now! He was vexed that people would not leave him in peace. Hobotov thought it his duty to look in on his sick colleague from time to time. Everything about him was revolting to Andrey Yefimitch—his well-fed face and vulgar, condescending tone, and his use of the word “colleague,” and his high top-boots; the most revolting thing was that he thought it was his duty to treat Andrey Yefimitch, and thought that he really was treating him. On every visit he brought a bottle of bromide and rhubarb pills.
Mihail Averyanitch, too, thought it his duty to visit his friend and entertain him. Every time he went in to Andrey Yefimitch with an affectation of ease, laughed constrainedly367, and began assuring him that he was looking very well today, and that, thank God, he was on the highroad to recovery, and from this it might be concluded that he looked on his friend’s condition as hopeless. He had not yet repaid his Warsaw debt, and was overwhelmed by shame; he was constrained366, and so tried to laugh louder and talk more amusingly. His anecdotes368 and descriptions seemed endless now, and were an agony both to Andrey Yefimitch and himself.
In his presence Andrey Yefimitch usually lay on the sofa with his face to the wall, and listened with his teeth clenched369; his soul was oppressed with rankling370 disgust, and after every visit from his friend he felt as though this disgust had risen higher, and was mounting into his throat.
To stifle371 petty thoughts he made haste to reflect that he himself, and Hobotov, and Mihail Averyanitch, would all sooner or later perish without leaving any trace on the world. If one imagined some spirit flying by the earthly globe in space in a million years he would see nothing but clay and bare rocks. Everything—culture and the moral law—would pass away and not even a burdock would grow out of them. Of what consequence was shame in the presence of a shopkeeper, of what consequence was the insignificant Hobotov or the wearisome friendship of Mihail Averyanitch? It was all trivial and nonsensical.
But such reflections did not help him now. Scarcely had he imagined the earthly globe in a million years, when Hobotov in his high top-boots or Mihail Averyanitch with his forced laugh would appear from behind a bare rock, and he even heard the shamefaced whisper: “The Warsaw debt. . . . I will repay it in a day or two, my dear fellow, without fail. . . .”
xvi
One day Mihail Averyanitch came after dinner when Andrey Yefimitch was lying on the sofa. It so happened that Hobotov arrived at the same time with his bromide. Andrey Yefimitch got up heavily and sat down, leaning both arms on the sofa.
“You have a much better colour today than you had yesterday, my dear man,” began Mihail Averyanitch. “Yes, you look jolly. Upon my soul, you do!”
“It’s high time you were well, dear colleague,” said Hobotov, yawning. “I’ll be bound, you are sick of this bobbery.”
“And we shall recover,” said Mihail Averyanitch cheerfully. “We shall live another hundred years! To be sure!”
“Not a hundred years, but another twenty,” Hobotov said reassuringly372. “It’s all right, all right, colleague; don’t lose heart. . . . Don’t go piling it on!”
“We’ll show what we can do,” laughed Mihail Averyanitch, and he slapped his friend on the knee. “We’ll show them yet! Next summer, please God, we shall be off to the Caucasus, and we will ride all over it on horseback—trot373, trot, trot! And when we are back from the Caucasus I shouldn’t wonder if we will all dance at the wedding.” Mihail Averyanitch gave a sly wink374. “We’ll marry you, my dear boy, we’ll marry you. . . .”
Andrey Yefimitch felt suddenly that the rising disgust had mounted to his throat, his heart began beating violently.
“That’s vulgar,” he said, getting up quickly and walking away to the window. “Don’t you understand that you are talking vulgar nonsense?”
He meant to go on softly and politely, but against his will he suddenly clenched his fists and raised them above his head.
“Leave me alone,” he shouted in a voice unlike his own, blushing crimson and shaking all over. “Go away, both of you!”
Mihail Averyanitch and Hobotov got up and stared at him first with amazement375 and then with alarm.
“Go away, both!” Andrey Yefimitch went on shouting. “Stupid people! Foolish people! I don’t want either your friendship or your medicines, stupid man! Vulgar! Nasty!”
Hobotov and Mihail Averyanitch, looking at each other in bewilderment, staggered to the door and went out. Andrey Yefimitch snatched up the bottle of bromide and flung it after them; the bottle broke with a crash on the door-frame.
“Go to the devil!” he shouted in a tearful voice, running out into the passage. “To the devil!”
When his guests were gone Andrey Yefimitch lay down on the sofa, trembling as though in a fever, and went on for a long while repeating: “Stupid people! Foolish people!”
When he was calmer, what occurred to him first of all was the thought that poor Mihail Averyanitch must be feeling fearfully ashamed and depressed376 now, and that it was all dreadful. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. Where was his intelligence and his tact377? Where was his comprehension of things and his philosophical378 indifference?
The doctor could not sleep all night for shame and vexation with himself, and at ten o’clock next morning he went to the post office and apologized to the postmaster.
“We won’t think again of what has happened,” Mihail Averyanitch, greatly touched, said with a sigh, warmly pressing his hand. “Let bygones be bygones. Lyubavkin,” he suddenly shouted so loud that all the postmen and other persons present started, “hand a chair; and you wait,” he shouted to a peasant woman who was stretching out a registered letter to him through the grating. “Don’t you see that I am busy? We will not remember the past,” he went on, affectionately addressing Andrey Yefimitch; “sit down, I beg you, my dear fellow.”
For a minute he stroked his knees in silence, and then said:
“I have never had a thought of taking offence. Illness is no joke, I understand. Your attack frightened the doctor and me yesterday, and we had a long talk about you afterwards. My dear friend, why won’t you treat your illness seriously? You can’t go on like this . . . . Excuse me speaking openly as a friend,” whispered Mihail Averyanitch. “You live in the most unfavourable surroundings, in a crowd, in uncleanliness, no one to look after you, no money for proper treatment. . . . My dear friend, the doctor and I implore379 you with all our hearts, listen to our advice: go into the hospital! There you will have wholesome food and attendance and treatment. Though, between ourselves, Yevgeny Fyodoritch is mauvais ton, yet he does understand his work, you can fully119 rely upon him. He has promised me he will look after you.”
Andrey Yefimitch was touched by the postmaster’s genuine sympathy and the tears which suddenly glittered on his cheeks.
“My honoured friend, don’t believe it!” he whispered, laying his hand on his heart; “don’t believe them. It’s all a sham357. My illness is only that in twenty years I have only found one intelligent man in the whole town, and he is mad. I am not ill at all, it’s simply that I have got into an enchanted380 circle which there is no getting out of. I don’t care; I am ready for anything.”
“Go into the hospital, my dear fellow.”
“I don’t care if it were into the pit.”
“Give me your word, my dear man, that you will obey Yevgeny Fyodoritch in everything.”
“Certainly I will give you my word. But I repeat, my honoured friend, I have got into an enchanted circle. Now everything, even the genuine sympathy of my friends, leads to the same thing—to my ruin. I am going to my ruin, and I have the manliness381 to recognize it.”
“My dear fellow, you will recover.”
“What’s the use of saying that?” said Andrey Yefimitch, with irritation. “There are few men who at the end of their lives do not experience what I am experiencing now. When you are told that you have something such as diseased kidneys or enlarged heart, and you begin being treated for it, or are told you are mad or a criminal —that is, in fact, when people suddenly turn their attention to you—you may be sure you have got into an enchanted circle from which you will not escape. You will try to escape and make things worse. You had better give in, for no human efforts can save you. So it seems to me.”
Meanwhile the public was crowding at the grating. That he might not be in their way, Andrey Yefimitch got up and began to take leave. Mihail Averyanitch made him promise on his honour once more, and escorted him to the outer door.
Towards evening on the same day Hobotov, in his sheepskin and his high top-boots, suddenly made his appearance, and said to Andrey Yefimitch in a tone as though nothing had happened the day before:
“I have come on business, colleague. I have come to ask you whether you would not join me in a consultation382. Eh?”
Thinking that Hobotov wanted to distract his mind with an outing, or perhaps really to enable him to earn something, Andrey Yefimitch put on his coat and hat, and went out with him into the street. He was glad of the opportunity to smooth over his fault of the previous day and to be reconciled, and in his heart thanked Hobotov, who did not even allude383 to yesterday’s scene and was evidently sparing him. One would never have expected such delicacy from this uncultured man.
“Where is your invalid384?” asked Andrey Yefimitch.
“In the hospital. . . . I have long wanted to show him to you. A very interesting case.”
They went into the hospital yard, and going round the main building, turned towards the lodge where the mental cases were kept, and all this, for some reason, in silence. When they went into the lodge Nikita as usual jumped up and stood at attention.
“One of the patients here has a lung complication.” Hobotov said in an undertone, going into the yard with Andrey Yefimitch. “You wait here, I’ll be back directly. I am going for a stethoscope.”
And he went away.
xvii
It was getting dusk. Ivan Dmitritch was lying on his bed with his face thrust unto his pillow; the paralytic was sitting motionless, crying quietly and moving his lips. The fat peasant and the former sorter were asleep. It was quiet.
Andrey Yefimitch sat down on Ivan Dmitritch’s bed and waited. But half an hour passed, and instead of Hobotov, Nikita came into the ward with a dressing-gown, some underlinen, and a pair of slippers in a heap on his arm.
“Please change your things, your honour,” he said softly. “Here is your bed; come this way,” he added, pointing to an empty bedstead which had obviously recently been brought into the ward. “It’s all right; please God, you will recover.”
Andrey Yefimitch understood it all. Without saying a word he crossed to the bed to which Nikita pointed and sat down; seeing that Nikita was standing waiting, he undressed entirely and he felt ashamed. Then he put on the hospital clothes; the drawers were very short, the shirt was long, and the dressing-gown smelt385 of smoked fish.
“Please God, you will recover,” repeated Nikita, and he gathered up Andrey Yefimitch’s clothes into his arms, went out, and shut the door after him.
“No matter . . .” thought Andrey Yefimitch, wrapping himself in his dressing-gown in a shamefaced way and feeling that he looked like a convict in his new costume. “It’s no matter. . . . It does not matter whether it’s a dress-coat or a uniform or this dressing-gown.”
But how about his watch? And the notebook that was in the side-pocket? And his cigarettes? Where had Nikita taken his clothes? Now perhaps to the day of his death he would not put on trousers, a waistcoat, and high boots. It was all somehow strange and even incomprehensible at first. Andrey Yefimitch was even now convinced that there was no difference between his landlady’s house and Ward No. 6, that everything in this world was nonsense and vanity of vanities. And yet his hands were trembling, his feet were cold, and he was filled with dread at the thought that soon Ivan Dmitritch would get up and see that he was in a dressing-gown. He got up and walked across the room and sat down again.
Here he had been sitting already half an hour, an hour, and he was miserably386 sick of it: was it really possible to live here a day, a week, and even years like these people? Why, he had been sitting here, had walked about and sat down again; he could get up and look out of window and walk from corner to corner again, and then what? Sit so all the time, like a post, and think? No, that was scarcely possible.
Andrey Yefimitch lay down, but at once got up, wiped the cold sweat from his brow with his sleeve and felt that his whole face smelt of smoked fish. He walked about again.
“It’s some misunderstanding . . .” he said, turning out the palms of his hands in perplexity. “It must be cleared up. There is a misunderstanding.”
Meanwhile Ivan Dmitritch woke up; he sat up and propped his cheeks on his fists. He spat387. Then he glanced lazily at the doctor, and apparently for the first minute did not understand; but soon his sleepy face grew malicious388 and mocking.
“Aha! so they have put you in here, too, old fellow?” he said in a voice husky from sleepiness, screwing up one eye. “Very glad to see you. You sucked the blood of others, and now they will suck yours. Excellent!”
“It’s a misunderstanding . . .” Andrey Yefimitch brought out, frightened by Ivan Dmitritch’s words; he shrugged his shoulders and repeated: “It’s some misunderstanding.”
Ivan Dmitritch spat again and lay down.
“Cursed life,” he grumbled389, “and what’s bitter and insulting, this life will not end in compensation for our sufferings, it will not end with apotheosis390 as it would in an opera, but with death; peasants will come and drag one’s dead body by the arms and the legs to the cellar. Ugh! Well, it does not matter. . . . We shall have our good time in the other world. . . . I shall come here as a ghost from the other world and frighten these reptiles391. I’ll turn their hair grey.”
Moiseika returned, and, seeing the doctor, held out his hand.
“Give me one little kopeck,” he said.
xviii
Andrey Yefimitch walked away to the window and looked out into the open country. It was getting dark, and on the horizon to the right a cold crimson moon was mounting upwards. Not far from the hospital fence, not much more than two hundred yards away, stood a tall white house shut in by a stone wall. This was the prison.
“So this is real life,” thought Andrey Yefimitch, and he felt frightened.
The moon and the prison, and the nails on the fence, and the far-away flames at the bone-charring factory were all terrible. Behind him there was the sound of a sigh. Andrey Yefimitch looked round and saw a man with glittering stars and orders on his breast, who was smiling and slyly winking392. And this, too, seemed terrible.
Andrey Yefimitch assured himself that there was nothing special about the moon or the prison, that even sane persons wear orders, and that everything in time will decay and turn to earth, but he was suddenly overcome with desire; he clutched at the grating with both hands and shook it with all his might. The strong grating did not yield.
Then that it might not be so dreadful he went to Ivan Dmitritch’s bed and sat down.
“I have lost heart, my dear fellow,” he muttered, trembling and wiping away the cold sweat, “I have lost heart.”
“You should be philosophical,” said Ivan Dmitritch ironically.
“My God, my God. . . . Yes, yes. . . . You were pleased to say once that there was no philosophy in Russia, but that all people, even the paltriest393, talk philosophy. But you know the philosophizing of the paltriest does not harm anyone,” said Andrey Yefimitch in a tone as if he wanted to cry and complain. “Why, then, that malignant394 laugh, my friend, and how can these paltry395 creatures help philosophizing if they are not satisfied? For an intelligent, educated man, made in God’s image, proud and loving freedom, to have no alternative but to be a doctor in a filthy396, stupid, wretched little town, and to spend his whole life among bottles, leeches397, mustard plasters! Quackery, narrowness, vulgarity! Oh, my God!”
“You are talking nonsense. If you don’t like being a doctor you should have gone in for being a statesman.”
“I could not, I could not do anything. We are weak, my dear friend . . . . I used to be indifferent. I reasoned boldly and soundly, but at the first coarse touch of life upon me I have lost heart. . . . Prostration398. . . . . We are weak, we are poor creatures . . . and you, too, my dear friend, you are intelligent, generous, you drew in good impulses with your mother’s milk, but you had hardly entered upon life when you were exhausted and fell ill. . . . Weak, weak!”
Andrey Yefimitch was all the while at the approach of evening tormented by another persistent399 sensation besides terror and the feeling of resentment400. At last he realized that he was longing for a smoke and for beer.
“I am going out, my friend,” he said. “I will tell them to bring a light; I can’t put up with this. . . . I am not equal to it. . . .”
Andrey Yefimitch went to the door and opened it, but at once Nikita jumped up and barred his way.
“Where are you going? You can’t, you can’t!” he said. “It’s bedtime.”
“But I’m only going out for a minute to walk about the yard,” said Andrey Yefimitch.
“You can’t, you can’t; it’s forbidden. You know that yourself.”
“But what difference will it make to anyone if I do go out?” asked Andrey Yefimitch, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t understand. Nikita, I must go out!” he said in a trembling voice. “I must.”
“Don’t be disorderly, it’s not right,” Nikita said peremptorily401.
“This is beyond everything,” Ivan Dmitritch cried suddenly, and he jumped up. “What right has he not to let you out? How dare they keep us here? I believe it is clearly laid down in the law that no one can be deprived of freedom without trial! It’s an outrage402! It’s tyranny!”
“Of course it’s tyranny,” said Andrey Yefimitch, encouraged by Ivan Dmitritch’s outburst. “I must go out, I want to. He has no right! Open, I tell you.”
“Do you hear, you dull-witted brute403?” cried Ivan Dmitritch, and he banged on the door with his fist. “Open the door, or I will break it open! Torturer!”
“Open the door,” cried Andrey Yefimitch, trembling all over; “I insist!”
“Talk away!” Nikita answered through the door, “talk away. . . .”
“Anyhow, go and call Yevgeny Fyodoritch! Say that I beg him to come for a minute!”
“His honour will come of himself tomorrow.”
“They will never let us out,” Ivan Dmitritch was going on meanwhile. “They will leave us to rot here! Oh, Lord, can there really be no hell in the next world, and will these wretches be forgiven? Where is justice? Open the door, you wretch27! I am choking!” he cried in a hoarse404 voice, and flung himself upon the door. “I’ll dash out my brains, murderers!”
Nikita opened the door quickly, and roughly with both his hands and his knee shoved Andrey Yefimitch back, then swung his arm and punched him in the face with his fist. It seemed to Andrey Yefimitch as though a huge salt wave enveloped405 him from his head downwards406 and dragged him to the bed; there really was a salt taste in his mouth: most likely the blood was running from his teeth. He waved his arms as though he were trying to swim out and clutched at a bedstead, and at the same moment felt Nikita hit him twice on the back.
Ivan Dmitritch gave a loud scream. He must have been beaten too.
Then all was still, the faint moonlight came through the grating, and a shadow like a net lay on the floor. It was terrible. Andrey Yefimitch lay and held his breath: he was expecting with horror to be struck again. He felt as though someone had taken a sickle407, thrust it into him, and turned it round several times in his breast and bowels408. He bit the pillow from pain and clenched his teeth, and all at once through the chaos409 in his brain there flashed the terrible unbearable thought that these people, who seemed now like black shadows in the moonlight, had to endure such pain day by day for years. How could it have happened that for more than twenty years he had not known it and had refused to know it? He knew nothing of pain, had no conception of it, so he was not to blame, but his conscience, as inexorable and as rough as Nikita, made him turn cold from the crown of his head to his heels. He leaped up, tried to cry out with all his might, and to run in haste to kill Nikita, and then Hobotov, the superintendent and the assistant, and then himself; but no sound came from his chest, and his legs would not obey him. Gasping410 for breath, he tore at the dressing-gown and the shirt on his breast, rent them, and fell senseless on the bed.
xix
Next morning his head ached, there was a droning in his ears and a feeling of utter weakness all over. He was not ashamed at recalling his weakness the day before. He had been cowardly, had even been afraid of the moon, had openly expressed thoughts and feelings such as he had not expected in himself before; for instance, the thought that the paltry people who philosophized were really dissatisfied. But now nothing mattered to him.
He ate nothing; he drank nothing. He lay motionless and silent.
“It is all the same to me,” he thought when they asked him questions. “I am not going to answer. . . . It’s all the same to me.”
After dinner Mihail Averyanitch brought him a quarter pound of tea and a pound of fruit pastilles. Daryushka came too and stood for a whole hour by the bed with an expression of dull grief on her face. Dr. Hobotov visited him. He brought a bottle of bromide and told Nikita to fumigate411 the ward with something.
Towards evening Andrey Yefimitch died of an apoplectic412 stroke. At first he had a violent shivering fit and a feeling of sickness; something revolting as it seemed, penetrating413 through his whole body, even to his finger-tips, strained from his stomach to his head and flooded his eyes and ears. There was a greenness before his eyes. Andrey Yefimitch understood that his end had come, and remembered that Ivan Dmitritch, Mihail Averyanitch, and millions of people believed in immortality. And what if it really existed? But he did not want immortality—and he thought of it only for one instant. A herd414 of deer, extraordinarily beautiful and graceful415, of which he had been reading the day before, ran by him; then a peasant woman stretched out her hand to him with a registered letter . . . . Mihail Averyanitch said something, then it all vanished, and Andrey Yefimitch sank into oblivion for ever.
The hospital porters came, took him by his arms and legs, and carried him away to the chapel416.
There he lay on the table, with open eyes, and the moon shed its light upon him at night. In the morning Sergey Sergeyitch came, prayed piously417 before the crucifix, and closed his former chief’s eyes.
Next day Andrey Yefimitch was buried. Mihail Averyanitch and Daryushka were the only people at the funeral.
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lodge
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v.临时住宿,寄宿,寄存,容纳;n.传达室,小旅馆 | |
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nettles
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n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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3
hemp
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n.大麻;纤维 | |
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rusty
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adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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5
upwards
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adv.向上,在更高处...以上 | |
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6
wards
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区( ward的名词复数 ); 病房; 受监护的未成年者; 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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7
ward
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n.守卫,监护,病房,行政区,由监护人或法院保护的人(尤指儿童);vt.守护,躲开 | |
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8
peculiar
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adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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9
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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10
footpath
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n.小路,人行道 | |
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11
mattresses
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褥垫,床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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12
mattress
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n.床垫,床褥 | |
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13
tattered
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adj.破旧的,衣衫破的 | |
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14
crumpled
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adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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15
mouldering
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v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 );腐烂,崩塌 | |
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16
eyebrows
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眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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17
imposing
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adj.使人难忘的,壮丽的,堂皇的,雄伟的 | |
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18
spacious
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adj.广阔的,宽敞的 | |
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19
fumes
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n.(强烈而刺激的)气味,气体 | |
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20
bugs
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adj.疯狂的,发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 );病菌;虫子;[计算机](制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的)错误 | |
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21
propped
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支撑,支持,维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
akin
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adj.同族的,类似的 | |
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23
agonizing
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adj.痛苦难忍的;使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦;折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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24
throbbing
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a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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pointed
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adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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buffoon
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n.演出时的丑角 | |
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27
wretch
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n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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28
slippers
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n. 拖鞋 | |
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29
copper
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n.铜;铜币;铜器;adj.铜(制)的;(紫)铜色的 | |
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30
breach
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n.违反,不履行;破裂;vt.冲破,攻破 | |
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31
compassion
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n.同情,怜悯 | |
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32
humane
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adj.人道的,富有同情心的 | |
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33
usher
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n.带位员,招待员;vt.引导,护送;vi.做招待,担任引座员 | |
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provincial
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adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
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35
mania
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n.疯狂;躁狂症,狂热,癖好 | |
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36
persecution
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n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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37
agitated
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adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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38
rustle
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v.沙沙作响;偷盗(牛、马等);n.沙沙声声 | |
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39
tormented
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饱受折磨的 | |
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40
grimaces
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n.(表蔑视、厌恶等)面部扭曲,鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相,做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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41
courteous
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adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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42
extraordinarily
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adv.格外地;极端地 | |
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43
chattering
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n. (机器振动发出的)咔嗒声,(鸟等)鸣,啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的,啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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44
chatter
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vi./n.喋喋不休;短促尖叫;(牙齿)打战 | |
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45
longing
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n.(for)渴望 | |
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46
apparently
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adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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47
fervently
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adv.热烈地,热情地,强烈地 | |
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48
passionately
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ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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49
feverish
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adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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50
delirium
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n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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51
intelligible
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adj.可理解的,明白易懂的,清楚的 | |
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52
sane
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adj.心智健全的,神志清醒的,明智的,稳健的 | |
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53
trampling
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踩( trample的现在分词 ); 践踏; 无视; 侵犯 | |
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54
potpourri
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n.混合之事物;百花香 | |
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55
galloping
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adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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56
calamities
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n.灾祸,灾难( calamity的名词复数 );不幸之事 | |
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57
belongings
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n.私人物品,私人财物 | |
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58
auction
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n.拍卖;拍卖会;vt.拍卖 | |
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59
entirely
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ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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60
abrupt
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adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
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61
earnings
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n.工资收人;利润,利益,所得 | |
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62
perfectly
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adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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63
catching
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adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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64
hysterical
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adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
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65
craving
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n.渴望,热望 | |
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66
irritable
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adj.急躁的;过敏的;易怒的 | |
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67
temperament
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n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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68
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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69
loathsome
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adj.讨厌的,令人厌恶的 | |
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70
tenor
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n.男高音(歌手),次中音(乐器),要旨,大意 | |
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71
sincerity
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n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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72
stifling
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a.令人窒息的 | |
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73
dingy
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adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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74
diversified
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adj.多样化的,多种经营的v.使多样化,多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 );进入新的商业领域 | |
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75
profligacy
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n.放荡,不检点,肆意挥霍 | |
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76
hypocrisy
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n.伪善,虚伪 | |
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77
coordination
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n.协调,协作 | |
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78
horrified
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a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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79
judgments
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判断( judgment的名词复数 ); 鉴定; 评价; 审判 | |
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80
innate
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adj.天生的,固有的,天赋的 | |
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81
refinement
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n.文雅;高尚;精美;精制;精炼 | |
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82
frail
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adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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83
encyclopedia
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n.百科全书 | |
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84
nervously
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adv.神情激动地,不安地 | |
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85
devouring
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吞没( devour的现在分词 ); 耗尽; 津津有味地看; 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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86
morbid
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adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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87
fetters
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n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 );束缚v.给…上脚镣,束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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88
discomfort
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n.不舒服,不安,难过,困难,不方便 | |
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89
superintendent
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n.监督人,主管,总监;(英国)警务长 | |
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90
agitation
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n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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91
arson
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n.纵火,放火 | |
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92
miscarriage
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n.失败,未达到预期的结果;流产 | |
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93
judicial
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adj.司法的,法庭的,审判的,明断的,公正的 | |
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94
proceedings
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n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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95
callous
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adj.无情的,冷淡的,硬结的,起老茧的 | |
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96
slaughters
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v.屠杀,杀戮,屠宰( slaughter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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97
calves
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n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子,腓;腿肚子( calf的名词复数 );牛犊;腓;小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 );(冰川)崩解;生(小牛等),产(犊);使(冰川)崩解 | |
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98
condemn
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vt.谴责,指责;宣判(罪犯),判刑 | |
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99
penal
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adj.刑罚的;刑法上的 | |
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100
forth
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adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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101
perspiration
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n.汗水;出汗 | |
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102
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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103
landlady
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n.女房东,女地主 | |
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104
gendarmes
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n.宪兵,警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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105
morbidity
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n.病态;不健全;发病;发病率 | |
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106
logic
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n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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107
distress
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n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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108
hermit
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n.隐士,修道者;隐居 | |
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109
virgin
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n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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110
zealously
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adv.热心地;热情地;积极地;狂热地 | |
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111
axe
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n.斧子;v.用斧头砍,削减 | |
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112
solitude
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n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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113
unbearable
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adj.不能容忍的;忍受不住的 | |
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114
bribe
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n.贿赂;v.向…行贿,买通 | |
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115
agile
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adj.敏捷的,灵活的 | |
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116
cemetery
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n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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117
exhausted
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adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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118
decided
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adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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119
fully
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adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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120
interfere
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v.(in)干涉,干预;(with)妨碍,打扰 | |
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121
WHIMS
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虚妄,禅病 | |
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122
sledge
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n.雪橇,大锤;v.用雪橇搬运,坐雪橇往 | |
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123
spherical
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adj.球形的;球面的 | |
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124
utterly
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adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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125
devoid
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adj.全无的,缺乏的 | |
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126
gluttonous
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adj.贪吃的,贪婪的 | |
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127
acrid
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adj.辛辣的,尖刻的,刻薄的 | |
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128
dread
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vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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129
modesty
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n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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130
morosely
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adv.愁眉苦脸地,忧郁地 | |
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131
attain
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vt.达到,获得,完成 | |
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132
monotonous
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adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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133
paralytic
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adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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134
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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135
interval
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n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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136
asylums
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n.避难所( asylum的名词复数 );庇护;政治避难;精神病院 | |
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137
trepidation
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n.惊恐,惶恐 | |
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138
condemned
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adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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139
rumour
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n.谣言,谣传,传闻 | |
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140
rumoured
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adj.谣传的;传说的;风 | |
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141
jeered
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v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
bent
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n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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143
faculty
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n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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144
devoutness
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朝拜 | |
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145
exterior
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adj.外部的,外在的;表面的 | |
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146
intemperate
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adj.无节制的,放纵的 | |
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147
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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148
insinuating
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adj.曲意巴结的,暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 );巧妙或迂回地潜入;(使)缓慢进入;慢慢伸入 | |
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149
sage
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n.圣人,哲人;adj.贤明的,明智的 | |
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150
bass
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n.男低音(歌手);低音乐器;低音大提琴 | |
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151
swelling
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n.肿胀 | |
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152
starched
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adj.浆硬的,硬挺的,拘泥刻板的v.把(衣服、床单等)浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
linen
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n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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154
niggardliness
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155
beetles
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n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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156
surgical
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adj.外科的,外科医生的,手术上的 | |
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157
housekeeper
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n.管理家务的主妇,女管家 | |
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158
predecessor
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n.前辈,前任 | |
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159
justified
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a.正当的,有理的 | |
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160
immoral
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adj.不道德的,淫荡的,荒淫的,有伤风化的 | |
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161
impurity
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n.不洁,不纯,杂质 | |
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162
wither
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vt.使凋谢,使衰退,(用眼神气势等)使畏缩;vi.枯萎,衰退,消亡 | |
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163
superstition
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n.迷信,迷信行为 | |
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164
manure
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n.粪,肥,肥粒;vt.施肥 | |
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165
vow
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n.誓(言),誓约;v.起誓,立誓 | |
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166
imperative
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n.命令,需要;规则;祈使语气;adj.强制的;紧急的 | |
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167
parasitic
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adj.寄生的 | |
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168
crab
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n.螃蟹,偏航,脾气乖戾的人,酸苹果;vi.捕蟹,偏航,发牢骚;vt.使偏航,发脾气 | |
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169
confinement
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n.幽禁,拘留,监禁;分娩;限制,局限 | |
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170
confinements
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限制,被监禁( confinement的名词复数 ); 分娩 | |
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171
attentive
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adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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172
physically
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adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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173
deception
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n.欺骗,欺诈;骗局,诡计 | |
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174
pedantically
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175
wholesome
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adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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176
nourishment
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n.食物,营养品;营养情况 | |
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177
broth
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n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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178
stinking
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adj.臭的,烂醉的,讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 );发臭味;名声臭;糟透 | |
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179
legitimate
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adj.合法的,合理的,合乎逻辑的;v.使合法 | |
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180
alleviate
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v.减轻,缓和,缓解(痛苦等) | |
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181
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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182
filth
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n.肮脏,污物,污秽;淫猥 | |
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183
draught
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n.拉,牵引,拖;一网(饮,吸,阵);顿服药量,通风;v.起草,设计 | |
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184
proficient
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adj.熟练的,精通的;n.能手,专家 | |
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185
shrine
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n.圣地,神龛,庙;v.将...置于神龛内,把...奉为神圣 | |
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186
bishops
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(基督教某些教派管辖大教区的)主教( bishop的名词复数 ); (国际象棋的)象 | |
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187
monastery
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n.修道院,僧院,寺院 | |
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188
hymns
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n.赞美诗,圣歌,颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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189
incense
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v.激怒;n.香,焚香时的烟,香气 | |
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190
volatile
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adj.反复无常的,挥发性的,稍纵即逝的,脾气火爆的;n.挥发性物质 | |
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191
ointment
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n.药膏,油膏,软膏 | |
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192
proximity
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n.接近,邻近 | |
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193
pious
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adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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194
enjoyment
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n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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195
abode
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n.住处,住所 | |
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196
subscribed
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v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 );签署,题词;订阅;同意 | |
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197
impulsively
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adv.冲动地 | |
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198
hearty
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adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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199
crimson
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n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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200
superciliously
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adv.高傲地;傲慢地 | |
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201
animated
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adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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202
deliberately
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adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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203
insignificant
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adj.无关紧要的,可忽略的,无意义的 | |
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204
manifestations
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n.表示,显示(manifestation的复数形式) | |
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205
immortal
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adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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206
immortality
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n.不死,不朽 | |
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207
converse
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vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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208
doorway
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n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
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209
helping
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n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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210
battalion
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n.营;部队;大队(的人) | |
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211
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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212
sipped
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v.小口喝,呷,抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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213
maturity
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n.成熟;完成;(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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214
attains
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(通常经过努力)实现( attain的第三人称单数 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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215
absurdities
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n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 );荒谬;谬论;荒谬的行为 | |
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216
generalization
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n.普遍性,一般性,概括 | |
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217
attentively
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adv.聚精会神地;周到地;谛;凝神 | |
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218
wilderness
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n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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219
destined
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adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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220
cowardice
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n.胆小,怯懦 | |
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221
toad
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n.蟾蜍,癞蛤蟆 | |
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222
prophesy
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v.预言;预示 | |
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223
quackery
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n.庸医的医术,骗子的行为 | |
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224
brilliance
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n.光辉,辉煌,壮丽,(卓越的)才华,才智 | |
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225
abdominal
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adj.腹(部)的,下腹的;n.腹肌 | |
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226
radical
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n.激进份子,原子团,根号;adj.根本的,激进的,彻底的 | |
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227
hygiene
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n.健康法,卫生学 (a.hygienic) | |
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228
psychiatry
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n.精神病学,精神病疗法 | |
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229
diagnosis
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n.诊断,诊断结果,调查分析,判断 | |
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230
oracle
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n.神谕,神谕处,预言 | |
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231
exhaustion
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n.耗尽枯竭,疲惫,筋疲力尽,竭尽,详尽无遗的论述 | |
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232
inevitable
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adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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233
forefathers
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n.祖先,先人;祖先,祖宗( forefather的名词复数 );列祖列宗;前人 | |
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234
treasurer
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n.司库,财务主管 | |
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235
aloof
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adj.远离的;冷淡的,漠不关心的 | |
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236
aristocrats
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n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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237
lodgings
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n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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238
prescriptions
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药( prescription的名词复数 ); 处方; 开处方; 计划 | |
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239
billiards
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n.台球 | |
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240
rascal
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n.流氓;不诚实的人 | |
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241
coppers
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铜( copper的名词复数 ); 铜币 | |
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242
unfamiliar
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adj.陌生的,不熟悉的 | |
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243
wrath
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n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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244
reptile
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n.爬行动物;两栖动物 | |
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245
shrieked
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v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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246
frenzy
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n.疯狂,狂热,极度的激动 | |
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247
incapable
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adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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248
wretches
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n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 );可怜的人;恶棍;坏蛋 | |
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249
scapegoats
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n.代人受过的人,替罪羊( scapegoat的名词复数 )v.使成为替罪羊( scapegoat的第三人称单数 ) | |
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250
rabble
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n.乌合之众,暴民;下等人 | |
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251
soothe
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v.安慰;使平静;使减轻;缓和;奉承 | |
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252
deranged
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adj.疯狂的 | |
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253
inconvenient
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adj.不方便的,令人感到麻烦的 | |
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254
invincible
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adj.不可征服的,难以制服的 | |
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255
onward
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adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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256
hurrah
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int.好哇,万岁,乌拉 | |
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257
theatrical
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adj.剧场的,演戏的;做戏似的,做作的 | |
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258
coffin
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n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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259
tranquillity
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n. 平静, 安静 | |
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260
bustle
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v.喧扰地忙乱,匆忙,奔忙;n.忙碌;喧闹 | |
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261
blessings
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n.(上帝的)祝福( blessing的名词复数 );好事;福分;因祸得福 | |
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262
phantoms
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n.鬼怪,幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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263
appalling
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adj.骇人听闻的,令人震惊的,可怕的 | |
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264
appallingly
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毛骨悚然地 | |
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265
stagnation
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n. 停滞 | |
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266
shrugged
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vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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267
awfully
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adv.可怕地,非常地,极端地 | |
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268
stuffy
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adj.不透气的,闷热的 | |
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269
determined
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adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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270
drawn
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v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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271
utterance
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n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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272
irony
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n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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273
treacherously
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背信弃义地; 背叛地; 靠不住地; 危险地 | |
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274
banished
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v.放逐,驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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275
snug
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adj.温暖舒适的,合身的,安全的;v.使整洁干净,舒适地依靠,紧贴;n.(英)酒吧里的私房 | |
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276
unwillingly
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adv.不情愿地 | |
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277
twitched
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vt.& vi.(使)抽动,(使)颤动(twitch的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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278
fragrant
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adj.芬香的,馥郁的,愉快的 | |
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279
scent
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n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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280
distinguished
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adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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281
precisely
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adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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282
contented
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adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
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283
agitates
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搅动( agitate的第三人称单数 ); 激怒; 使焦虑不安; (尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而)激烈争论 | |
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284
stimulus
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n.刺激,刺激物,促进因素,引起兴奋的事物 | |
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285
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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286
irritation
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n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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287
stoics
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禁欲主义者,恬淡寡欲的人,不以苦乐为意的人( stoic的名词复数 ) | |
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288
stoic
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n.坚忍克己之人,禁欲主义者 | |
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289
parodying
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v.滑稽地模仿,拙劣地模仿( parody的现在分词 ) | |
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290
remarkable
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adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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291
doctrine
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n.教义;主义;学说 | |
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292
ruminating
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v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 );反复考虑;反刍;倒嚼 | |
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293
indifference
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n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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294
unintelligible
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adj.无法了解的,难解的,莫明其妙的 | |
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295
redeem
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v.买回,赎回,挽回,恢复,履行(诺言等) | |
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296
misery
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n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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297
sinecure
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n.闲差事,挂名职务 | |
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298
lighting
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n.照明,光线的明暗,舞台灯光 | |
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299
sluggard
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n.懒人;adj.懒惰的 | |
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300
drowsy
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adj.昏昏欲睡的,令人发困的 | |
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301
paralysis
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n.麻痹(症);瘫痪(症) | |
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302
bully
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n.恃强欺弱者,小流氓;vt.威胁,欺侮 | |
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303
impunity
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n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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304
inclination
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n.倾斜;点头;弯腰;斜坡;倾度;倾向;爱好 | |
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305
generalizations
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一般化( generalization的名词复数 ); 普通化; 归纳; 概论 | |
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306
sketch
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n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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307
hostility
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n.敌对,敌意;抵制[pl.]交战,战争 | |
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308
condescending
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adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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309
perturbed
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adj.烦燥不安的v.使(某人)烦恼,不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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310
irritably
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ad.易生气地 | |
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311
leech
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n.水蛭,吸血鬼,榨取他人利益的人;vt.以水蛭吸血;vi.依附于别人 | |
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312
frankly
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adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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313
ineptitude
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n.不适当;愚笨,愚昧的言行 | |
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314
grimacing
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v.扮鬼相,做鬼脸( grimace的现在分词 ) | |
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315
twitching
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n.颤搐 | |
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316
scrupulously
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adv.一丝不苟地;小心翼翼地,多顾虑地 | |
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317
puddles
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n.水坑, (尤指道路上的)雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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318
inquisitively
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过分好奇地; 好问地 | |
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319
regiment
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n.团,多数,管理;v.组织,编成团,统制 | |
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320
regained
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复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 ); 赢回; 重回; 复至某地 | |
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321
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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322
lodges
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v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 );暂住;埋入;(权利、权威等)归属 | |
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323
expenditure
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n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出;使用,消耗 | |
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324
superfluous
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adj.过多的,过剩的,多余的 | |
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325
supervision
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n.监督,管理 | |
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326
assented
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同意,赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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327
apathetic
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adj.冷漠的,无动于衷的 | |
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328
lustreless
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adj.无光泽的,无光彩的,平淡乏味的 | |
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329
refreshment
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n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
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330
enjoyments
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愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 ); 令人愉快的事物; 享有; 享受 | |
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331
worthy
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adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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332
enquire
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v.打听,询问;调查,查问 | |
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333
crass
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adj.愚钝的,粗糙的;彻底的 | |
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334
conceal
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v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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335
blurt
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vt.突然说出,脱口说出 | |
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336
sniff
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vi.嗅…味道;抽鼻涕;对嗤之以鼻,蔑视 | |
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337
jaunt
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v.短程旅游;n.游览 | |
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338
abruptly
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adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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339
transparent
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adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
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340
motives
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n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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341
compartment
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n.卧车包房,隔间;分隔的空间 | |
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342
marshes
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n.沼泽,湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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343
expressive
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adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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344
saluted
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v.欢迎,致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 );赞扬,赞颂 | |
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345
possessed
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adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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346
gourmand
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n.嗜食者 | |
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347
annoyance
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n.恼怒,生气,烦恼 | |
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348
distractions
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n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 );娱乐,消遣;心烦意乱;精神错乱 | |
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349
clenching
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v.紧握,抓紧,咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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350
delicacy
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n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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351
vexed
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adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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352
attuning
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v.使协调( attune的现在分词 );调音 | |
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353
imploring
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恳求的,哀求的 | |
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354
entreat
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v.恳求,恳请 | |
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355
obstinately
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ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
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356
tragic
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adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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357
sham
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n./adj.假冒(的),虚伪(的) | |
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358
flopped
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v.(指书、戏剧等)彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 );(因疲惫而)猛然坐下;(笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地)移动或落下;砸锅 | |
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359
honourable
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adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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360
lodged
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v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 );暂住;埋入;(权利、权威等)归属 | |
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361
detailed
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adj.详细的,详尽的,极注意细节的,完全的 | |
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362
lulled
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vt.使镇静,使安静(lull的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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363
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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364
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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365
bestowal
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赠与,给与; 贮存 | |
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366
constrained
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adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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367
constrainedly
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不自然地,勉强地,强制地 | |
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368
anecdotes
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n.掌故,趣闻,轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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369
clenched
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v.紧握,抓紧,咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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370
rankling
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v.(使)痛苦不已,(使)怨恨不已( rankle的现在分词 ) | |
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371
stifle
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vt.使窒息;闷死;扼杀;抑止,阻止 | |
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372
reassuringly
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ad.安心,可靠 | |
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373
trot
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n.疾走,慢跑;n.老太婆;现成译本;(复数)trots:腹泻(与the 连用);v.小跑,快步走,赶紧 | |
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374
wink
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n.眨眼,使眼色,瞬间;v.眨眼,使眼色,闪烁 | |
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375
amazement
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n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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376
depressed
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adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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377
tact
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n.机敏,圆滑,得体 | |
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378
philosophical
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adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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379
implore
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vt.乞求,恳求,哀求 | |
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380
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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381
manliness
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刚毅 | |
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382
consultation
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n.咨询;商量;商议;会议 | |
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383
allude
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v.提及,暗指 | |
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384
invalid
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n.病人,伤残人;adj.有病的,伤残的;无效的 | |
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385
smelt
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v.熔解,熔炼;n.银白鱼,胡瓜鱼 | |
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386
miserably
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adv.痛苦地;悲惨地;糟糕地;极度地 | |
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387
spat
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n.口角,掌击;v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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388
malicious
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adj.有恶意的,心怀恶意的 | |
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389
grumbled
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抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 发牢骚; 咕哝; 发哼声 | |
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390
apotheosis
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n.神圣之理想;美化;颂扬 | |
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391
reptiles
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n.爬行动物,爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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392
winking
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n.瞬眼,目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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393
paltriest
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paltry(微小的)的最高级形式 | |
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394
malignant
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adj.恶性的,致命的;恶意的,恶毒的 | |
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395
paltry
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adj.无价值的,微不足道的 | |
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396
filthy
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adj.卑劣的;恶劣的,肮脏的 | |
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397
leeches
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n.水蛭( leech的名词复数 );蚂蟥;榨取他人脂膏者;医生 | |
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398
prostration
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n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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399
persistent
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adj.坚持不懈的,执意的;持续的 | |
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400
resentment
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n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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401
peremptorily
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adv.紧急地,不容分说地,专横地 | |
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402
outrage
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n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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403
brute
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n.野兽,兽性 | |
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404
hoarse
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adj.嘶哑的,沙哑的 | |
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405
enveloped
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v.包围,笼罩,包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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406
downwards
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adj./adv.向下的(地),下行的(地) | |
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407
sickle
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n.镰刀 | |
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408
bowels
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n.肠,内脏,内部;肠( bowel的名词复数 );内部,最深处 | |
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409
chaos
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n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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410
gasping
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adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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411
fumigate
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v.烟熏;用香薰 | |
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412
apoplectic
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adj.中风的;愤怒的;n.中风患者 | |
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413
penetrating
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adj.(声音)响亮的,尖锐的adj.(气味)刺激的adj.(思想)敏锐的,有洞察力的 | |
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414
herd
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n.兽群,牧群;vt.使集中,把…赶在一起 | |
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415
graceful
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adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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416
chapel
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n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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417
piously
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adv.虔诚地 | |
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