His dazed condition, however, soon passed away after Honore’s removal from the Vendome school. He was required to take long walks and play outdoor games, in consequence of which his cheeks filled out and regained1 their natural healthy colour. In appearance he was now a big lad, naive2 and contented3, who laughingly submitted to his sisters’ teasing. But he had put his ideas in order: the new and troubled wine of books, to the intoxication4 of which he had succumbed5, had clarified itself; his intellect was now exceptionally profound and mature. But his family was not willing to perceive this, and when by chance some remark of his revealed it his mother would answer:
“Honore, you do not understand what you are saying!”
He did not try to dissuade6 her from this opinion, but consoled himself by turning to Laure and Laurence and confiding7 his plans to them:
“You shall see! I am going to be a great man!”
The girls laughed at this somewhat heavy-witted brother, who was so behind-hand in his studies, that although in the second form when he left Vendome, he had to be put back into the third at Tours, in the institution conducted by a M. Chretien. They greeted him with profound bows and mock reverence8, and, while he responded with a good-natured smile, there was a certain pride mingled10 with it and an indefinable secret certainty as to the future.
In 1814 Francois Balzac was appointed Director of the Commissary Department of the First Military District, and the whole family removed to Paris, settling in the Marais quarter. Honore continued his studies at two different schools successively, first at the Lepitre school, in the Rue11 Saint-Louis, and then at the establishment of Sganzer and Bauzelin, in the Rue de Thorigny, where he continued to display the same mediocrity and the same indifference12 regarding the tasks required of him. Having finished the prescribed courses, he returned to his family, which at this time was living at No. 40, Rue du Temple, and his father decided13 that he should study law, supplementing the theoretical instruction of the law school with practical lessons from an attorney and notary14. Honore was enrolled15 in the law school November 4, 1816, and at the same time was intrusted to a certain M. de Merville, who undertook to teach him procedure. He spent eighteen months in these studies, and was then transferred to the office of M. Passez, where the same lapse16 of time initiated17 him into the secrets of a notary’s duties. In the month of January, 1819, he passed his examinations in law.
During these three years the life of Honore de Balzac had been extremely laborious18. He faithfully attended the law school courses and copied legal and notarial19 documents. Yet all this did not prevent him from satisfying his literary tastes by attending the lectures given at the Sorbonne by Villemain, Guizot and Cousin. Nor had he given up his ambition to write and to become a great man, as he had predicted to his sisters, Laure and Laurence. Mme de Balzac, severe mother that she was, had regulated the employment of his time in such a way that he could never be at liberty. His bed-chamber20 adjoined his father’s study, and he was required to go to bed at nine o’clock and rise at five, under such strict surveillance that he could later write, in The Magic Skin, “Up to the age of twenty-one I was bent21 beneath the yoke22 of a despotism as cold as that of a monastic order.” In the evening, after dinner, he rendered an account of his day, and was then permitted to take a hand at Boston or whist, at the card-table of his grandmother Mme. Sallambier. The latter, sympathising with her grandson, who was so strictly23 limited in money that he hardly had, from day to day, two crowns that he could call his own, allowed herself to be beaten to the extent of moderate sums, which Honore afterwards spent in the purchase of new books.
In spite of this strict family discipline, Honore was at this time a congenial companion, full of high spirits and eager to please. He was delightfully24 ingenuous25, and laughed heartily26 at jests at his own expense, frankly27 admitting his own blunders. But at times he would draw himself up in a haughty28 manner, half in fun and half in earnest: “Oh! I have not forgotten that I am destined29 to be a great man!”
Between the copying of two writs30 Honore de Balzac feverishly32 continued his literary efforts. He did not yet know how to make use of the material he had already amassed33, ideas drawn34 from books and observations drawn from life; and he tried to measure his strength with that of the classic writers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In overhauling35 Balzac’s youthful papers, Champfleury has recovered the greater part of these essays. They show the greatest variety of interests. Here are five stanzas36 of wretched verse concerning the book of Job, two stanzas on Robert-le-Diable, a projected poem entitled, Saint Louis, the rough drafts of several novels, Stenie or Philosophic37 Errors, Falthurne: the Manuscript of the Abbe Savonati, translated from Italian by M. Matricante, Primary School Principal, The Accursed Child, The Two Friends, a satiric38 sketch39, The Day’s Work of a Man of Letters, Some Fools, and, furthermore, fragments of a work on idolatry, theism and natural religion, a historic monograph40 on the Vaudois, some outlined letters on Paris, literature, and the general police system of the realm of letters. In his youthful enthusiasms, Honore de Balzac shifted from Beaumarchais to Moliere, from Voltaire to Rousseau, from Racine to Corneille, and, contrary to his temperament41, he drew up plans for violent and pathetic dramas, suited to the taste of the day.
After he had passed his examinations in law, and the question arose of a choice of career, his father announced to him the one which he had decided Honore should adopt: he should be a notary. One of their friends was willing to turn over his practice to him after a few years of apprenticeship42. It was an honourable43 position, remunerative44 and much sought after. Honore de Balzac had arrived at the turning point of his existence. Here were two avenues before him, the first that of a notary, paved with gold, where he might reap honour, profit and esteem45, a straight and easy route, restful and without unknown dangers; the second, lying outside of all the paths traced by society, and offering to those who entered upon it only a nebulous future, full of perils46, uncertain combats, care, privation and want. It is a road which one must hew47 out for oneself, through the obscure forest of art and ideas, and many are the imprudent who have over-estimated their strength and perished there in the midst of indifference and contempt.
Everything urged Balzac towards a notary’s career. The family fortune had diminished; the father had been placed upon the retired48 list, he had lost money in investments, it was absolutely necessary to cut down expenses, and Honore, as the oldest son, was expected to make a position for himself rapidly. Why did he hesitate to come to a decision and gratefully accept the proposition made by his father? The family brought pressure to bear, yet Honore continued to say, “No, I will not be a notary.” It was considered nothing less than scandalous. His mother reproached him for his ingratitude49 and warned him that he was driving her to despair. She was ashamed of a son who repaid the sacrifices they had made to educate him with such a want of proper feeling. Yet Honore persisted in his attitude of revolt, Honore, who throughout his childhood and youth had hitherto always submitted docilely50 to all the rules and commands of the family. “No, I will not be a notary — I wish to become an author — a celebrated51 author.” They laughed at him. What promise of talent had he ever given to justify52 such absurd pretensions53? Was it those wretched scribblings which had formerly54 caused so much merriment that now inspired him with such pride? Very well! he must simply get over it. His little absurdities55 were all very funny, when he was at the age of frivolity56 and nonsense, but now that he had come to years of discretion57, it was time he learned that life was not play: “So, my boy, you will be a notary.” “No,” repeats Honore, “I shall not.” His black eyes flash, his thick lips tremble, and he pleads his cause before the family tribunal, the cause of his genius which no one else has recognised and which he himself perceives only confusedly within him.
“From childhood I looked upon myself as foreordained to be a great man,” he wrote in The Magic Skin, “I struck my brow like Andre Chenier, ‘There is something inside there!’ I seemed to feel within me a thought to be expressed, a system to be established, a science to be expounded58. I often thought of myself as a general, or an emperor. Sometimes I was Byron, and then again I was nothing. After having sported upon the pinnacle59 of human affairs, I discovered that all the mountains, all the real difficulties still remained to be surmounted60. The measureless self-esteem which seethed61 within me, the sublime62 belief in destiny, which perhaps evolves into genius if a man does not allow his soul to be torn to tatters by contact with business interests, as easily as a sheep leaves its wool on the thorns of the thicket63 through which it passes — all this was my salvation64. I wished only to work in silence, to crown myself with glory, the one mistress whom I hoped some day to attain65.”
What he actually said lacked the precision and the form of these phrases, but he was eloquent66, and his father, who had no reason to suppose that he had an imbecile for a son, was the first to yield, in a measure, to his arguments. His mother still resisted, frightened at the risks he must run, far from convinced by his words, and without confidence in the future. Nevertheless, she was forced to yield. It was decided to try an experiment — but it was to be kept a close secret, because their friends would never have finished laughing at such parental67 weakness. Two years were accorded to Honore, within which to give some real proof of his talent. Hereupon he became joyously69 expansive, he was sure that he would triumph, that he would bring back a masterpiece to submit to the judgment70 of his assembled family and friends. But, since a failure was possible and they wished to guard themselves from such a mortification71, his acquaintances were to be told that Honore was at Albi, visiting a cousin. Furthermore, in the hope of bringing him back to the straight path, through the pinch of poverty, his mother insisted that nothing more should be granted him than an annual allowance of fifteen hundred francs (less than 300 dollars), and that he should meet all his needs out of this sum. Honore would have accepted a bare and penniless liberty with equal fervour and enthusiasm.
For the sake of economy, the Balzac family decided upon a provincial72 life, and removed to Villeparisis, in the department of Seine-et-Oise, where they secured a small yet comfortable bourgeois73 house. This was in the early months of 1819; Honore, at the age of twenty-one, was left alone in Paris.
They had installed him in a garret, high up under a mansarde roof, in the Rue Lesdiguieres, No. 9, and it was he himself who chose this lodging74 because of the ease with which he could reach the Arsenal75 library during the daytime, while at night he would stay at home and work.
Ah, what a long, deep breath he drew, and how heartily he laughed his silent, inward laugh, as he stood with crossed arms and let his black eyes make inspection76 of his cramped77 and miserable78 dwelling79. He was free, free! Here was his desk, covered with brown leather, his ink and pens, here were four chairs and a cupboard in which to hang his clothes and store away a few plates and his precious coffee pot, there was his monastic bed, and beyond it some shelves nailed to the wall to hold his books. He sat down and dreamed, for he had just won his first victory, he was no longer accountable to anyone in the world for each and every hour of his life.
“I rejoiced,” he has written in The Magic Skin, “at the thought that I was going to live upon bread and milk, like a hermit80 in the Thebiade, plunged81 in the world of books and ideas, in an inaccessible82 sphere, in the midst of all the tumult83 of Paris, the sphere of work and of silence, in which, after the manner of a chrysalis, I was about to build myself a tomb, in order to emerge again brilliant and glorious.” Next, he calculates what his expenses were during this studious retreat: “Three cents’ worth of bread, two of milk, three of sausage prevented me from dying of hunger and kept my mind in a lucid84 condition . . . My lodgings85 cost me three cents a day, I burned three cents’ worth of oil per night, I did my own housework, I wore flannel86 night-shirts, in order to cut down my laundry bill to two cents a day. I warmed my room with coal instead of wood, for I found that the cost divided by the number of days in the year never exceeded two cents. I had a supply of suits, underclothing and shoes sufficient to last a year, and I did not need to dress excepting to go to the libraries and do a few errands. The sum total of these expenses amounted to only eighteen cents, which left me two cents over for emergencies.” Balzac somewhat exaggerates his poverty and reduces his expenses to suit the pleasure of his poetic87 fantasy, but undoubtedly88 it was a brusque transition from the bourgeois comfort of family life to the austerity of his garret.
Nevertheless, he was exuberant89 and joyous68 — as irresponsible as a young colt freshly turned out to pasture. His sister Laure, now living at Villeparisis with her parents, continued to receive his confidences. He wrote her the most minute details of his solitary90 existence — jesting and burlesquing91 in a vein92 of frank and familiar humour.
“You ask, my dear sister, for details of my domestic arrangements and manner of living; well, here they are:
“I wrote directly to mamma, in regard to the cost of my purchases — a little subterfuge93 to get an increased allowance — but now you are going to tremble: it is much worse than a purchase — I have acquired a servant!
“‘A servant! What are you thinking of, my brother?’
“Yes, a servant. He has as odd a name as the servant of Dr. Nacquart (Balzac’s physician); his is called Tranquil94; mine is called Myself. A bad bargain, beyond question! Myself is lazy, awkward, and improvident95. When his master is hungry or thirsty, he sometimes has neither bread nor water to offer him; he does not even know how to protect him from the wind which blows in through door and window, as Tulou blows upon his flute96, but less agreeably.
“As soon as I am awake, I ring for Myself, and he makes up my bed. Then he starts in sweeping97, but he is far from expert in that line of exercise.
“‘Myself!’
“‘What do you wish, sir?’
“‘Look at that spider’s-web, where that big fly is buzzing loud enough to deafen98 me! Look at the sweepings99 scattered100 under the bed! Look at the dust on the window-panes, so thick that I can hardly see!’
“‘But Monsieur, I do not see . . . ’
“‘Come, hold your tongue! No answering back!’
“Accordingly, he holds his tongue.
“He brushes my coat and he sweeps my room while he sings, and he sings while he sweeps, laughs while he talks, and talks while he laughs. All things considered, he is a good lad. He has carefully put away my linen101 in the wardrobe beside the chimney, after first lining102 it with white paper; out of six cents’ worth of blue paper, with the border thrown in, he has made me a screen. He has painted the room white, from the book-shelves to the chimney. When he ceases to be satisfied — a thing which has not yet occurred — I shall send him to Villeparisis, to get some fruit, or else to Albi to see how my cousin is.” (April 12, 1819.)
Honore de Balzac was intoxicated103 with his liberty, and revelled104 in it to his heart’s content. He could dream, idle, read or work, according to his mood. Ideas swarmed105 in his brain, and every day he drafted projects for tragedies, comedies, novels and operas. He did not know which of all these to work out to a finish, for every one of them seemed to him capable of being developed into a masterpiece. He brooded over a possible novel which was to be called Coquecigrue, but he doubted whether he had the ability to carry it out according to his conception; so, after long hesitation106, he decided in favour of a classic drama in verse, Cromwell, which he considered the finest subject in modern history. Honore de Balzac rhymed ahead desperately107, laboriously108, for versification was not his strong point, and he had infinite trouble in expressing, with the required dignity, the lamentations of the Queen of England. His study of the great masters hampered109 him: “I devour110 our four tragic111 authors. Crebillon reassures112 me, Voltaire fills me with terror, Corneille transports me, and Racine makes me throw down my pen.” Nevertheless, he refused to renounce113 his hopes. He had promised to produce a masterpiece, he was pledged to achieve a masterpiece, and the price of it was to be a blessed independence.
In the silence of his mansarde garret he worked, with his brow congested, his head enveloped114 in a Dantesque cap, his legs wrapped in a venerable Touraine great-coat, his shoulders guaranteed against the cold, thanks to an old family shawl. He toiled116 over his alexandrian lines, he sent fragments of his tragedy to Laure, asking her for advice: “Don’t flatter me, be severe.” Yet he had high ambitions: “I want my tragedy to be the breviary of peoples and kings!” he wrote. “I must make my debut117 with a masterpiece, or wring118 my neck.”
Meanwhile Cromwell did not wholly absorb him. Honore de Balzac was already a fluent writer, full of clamorous119 ideas and schemes that each day were born anew. Between two speeches of his play, he would sketch a brief romance of the old-fashioned type, draft the rhymes of a comic opera, which he would later decide to give up, because of the difficulty of finding a composer, hampered as he was by his isolation120. In addition to his literary occupations, he took an anxious interest in politics. “I am more than ever attached to my career,” he wrote to his sister Laure, “for a host of reasons, of which I will give you only those that you would not be likely to guess of your own accord. Our revolutions are very far from being ended; considering the way that things are going, I foresee many a coming storm. Good or bad, the representative system demands immense talent; big writers will necessarily be sought after in political crises, for do they not supplement their other knowledge with the spirit of observation and a profound understanding of the human heart?
“If I should become a shining light (which, of course, is precisely121 the thing that we do not yet know), I may some day achieve something besides a literary reputation, and add to the title of ‘great writer’ that of great citizen. That is an ambition which is also tempting122! Nothing, nothing but love and glory can ever fill the vast recesses123 of my heart, within which you are cherished as you deserve to be.”
In order to enlighten himself in regard to the legislative124 elections, he appealed to one of his correspondents, M. Dablin, a rich hardware merchant and friend of the family, who had often come to the aid of his slender purse. He asked him for a list of the deputies, and inquired what their political opinions were and how the parties would be divided in the new Chamber, and when he did not receive as prompt an answer as he had expected, he repeated his questions with a certain show of impatience125. At this period of isolation, M. Dablin was also his factotum126 and his mentor127. Balzac commissioned him to buy a Bible, carefully specifying128 that the text must be in French as well as Latin; he wished to read the Sicilian Vespers; he felt it his duty, as a simple soldier in the ranks of literature, to attend a performance of Cinna, by the great General Corneille, from the safe seclusion129 of a screened box, and he would be glad to see Girodet’s Endymion at the Exposition, “some morning when there is no one else there,” in order not to betray his incognito130!
How happy he was during those hours of liberty that were never to return and which he was destined to remember with unparalleled emotion, in his subsequent inferno131 of ceaseless toil115! He was utterly132 irresponsible, he made an orgy out of a melon or a jar of preserves sent him from Villeparisis, and he decorated his garret with flowers, which were the gift of Laure, his beloved confidante. He had his dreams and his hours of exultation133, when he listened to the mingled sounds of Paris, which rose faintly to his dormer window during the beautiful golden evenings of springtime, evenings that seemed to young and ambitious hearts so heavy-laden with ardent134 melancholy135 and hope; and he would cry aloud: “I realised today that wealth does not make happiness, and that the time that I am spending here will be a source of sweet memories! To live according to my fantasy, to work according to my taste and convenience, to do nothing at all if I so choose, to build beautiful air-castles for the future, to think of you and know that you are happy, to have Rousseau’s Julie for my mistress, La Fontaine and Moliere for my friends, Racine for my master and the cemetery136 of Pere Lachaise for my promenade137! . . . Oh! if all this could last forever!”
And his twenty years, burning with the fever of vast desires, betray themselves in a single exclamation138: “To be celebrated and to be loved!”
But there were times when he left his garret at nightfall, mingled with the crowd and there exercised those marvellous faculties139 of his which verged140 upon prodigy141. He has described them in a short tale, Facino Cano, and they appear to have been an exceptional gift. “I lived frugally,” he writes; “I had accepted all the conditions of monastic life, so essential to those who toil. Even when the weather was fine, I rarely allowed myself a short walk along the Boulevard Bourdon. One passion alone drew me away from my studious habits; yet was not this itself a form of study? I used to go to observe the manners and customs of suburban142 Paris, its inhabitants and their characteristics. Being as ill-clad and as careless of appearances as the labourers themselves, I was not mistrusted by them, I was able to mingle9 with groups of them, to watch them concluding their bargains and quarrelling together at the hour when they quit their work. In my case, observation had already become intuitive, it penetrated143 the soul without neglecting the body, or rather it grasped so well the exterior144 details that it straightway passed above and beyond them; it gave me the faculty145 of living the life of the individual on whom it was exerted, by permitting me to substitute myself for him, just as the dervish in the Thousand and One Nights took the body and soul of those persons over whom he pronounced certain words.
“To throw off my own habits, to become some one else than myself, through an intoxication of the moral faculties, and to play this game at will, such was my way of amusing myself. To what do I owe this gift? Is it a form of second sight? Is it one of those qualities, the abuse of which might lead to madness? I have never sought the sources of this power; I possess it and make use of it, that is all.”
Some evenings he would not go out, because ideas were surging in his brain; but if the rebellious146 rhymes refused to come he would descend147 to the second floor and play some harmless games with certain “persons,” or it might be a hand at boston, for small stakes, at which he sometimes won as much as three francs. His resounding148 laughter could be heard, echoing down the staircase as he remounted to his garret, exulting149 over his extensive winnings. Nothing, however, could turn him aside from his project of writing Cromwell, and he set himself a date on which he should present his tragedy to the members of his family gathered together for the purpose of hearing him read it. After idling away long days at the Jardin des Plantes or in Pere-Lachaise, he shut himself in, and wrote with that feverish31 zeal150 which later on he himself christened “Balzacian”; revising, erasing151, condensing, expanding, alternating between despair and enthusiasm, believing himself a genius, and yet within the same hour, in the face of a phrase that refused to come right, lamenting152 that he was utterly destitute153 of talent; yet throughout this ardent and painful effort of creation, over which he groaned154, his strength of purpose never abandoned him, and in spite of everything he inflexibly155 pursued his ungoverned course towards the goal which he had set himself. At last he triumphed, the tragedy was finished, and, his heart swelling156 with hope, Honore de Balzac presented to his family the Cromwell on which he relied to assure his liberty.
The members of the family were gathered together in the parlour at Villeparisis, for the purpose of judging the masterpiece and deciding whether the rebel who had refused to be a notary had not squandered157 the time accorded him in which to give proof of his future prospects158 as an author. The father and mother were there, both anxious, the one slightly sceptical, yet hoping that his son would reveal himself as a man of talent; the other as mistrustful as ever, but at the same time much distressed159 to see her son so thin and sallow, for during those fifteen months of exile he had lost his high colour and his eyes were feverish and his lips trembling, in spite of his fine air of assurance. Laurence was there, young, lively and self-willed; and Laure also, sharing the secret of the tragedy and sighing and trembling on behalf of Honore, her favourite brother. It was a difficult audience to conquer, for they had also invited for that evening such friends as knew of the test imposed upon the oldest son; and these same friends, while perhaps regarding it as a piece of parental weakness, nevertheless now played the role of judges.
“At the end of April, 1820,” relates Mme Surville, “he arrived at my father’s home with his finished tragedy. He was much elated, for he counted upon scoring a triumph. Accordingly, he desired that a few friends should be present at the reading. And he did not forget the one who had so strangely underestimated him. (A friend, who judged him solely160 on the strength of his excellent handwriting, declared, when the question arose of choosing a position for him, that he would never make anything better than a good shipping161 clerk.)
“The friends arrived, and the solemn test began. But the reader’s enthusiasm rapidly died out as he discovered how little impression he was making and noted162 the coldness or the consternation163 on the faces before him. I was one of those who shared in the consternation. What I suffered during that reading was a foretaste of the terrors I was destined to experience at the opening performances of Vautrin and Quinola.
“With Cromwell he had not yet avenged164 himself upon M. — (the friend of whom mention has just been made); for, blunt as ever, the latter pronounced his opinion of the tragedy in the most uncompromising terms. Honore protested, and declined to accept his judgment; but his other auditors165, though in milder terms, all agreed that the work was extremely faulty.
“My father voiced the consensus166 of opinion when he proposed that they should have Cromwell read by some competent and impartial167 authority. M. Surville, engineer of the Ourcq Canal, who was later to become Honore’s brother-in-law, suggested a former professor of his at the Polytechnic168 School. (Mlle. Laure de Balzac was married in May, 1820, one month after the reading of Cromwell, to M. Midy de Greneraye Surville, engineer of Bridges and Highways.)
“My father accepted this dean of literature as decisive judge.
“After a conscientious169 reading, the good old man declared that the author of Cromwell had better follow any other career in the world than that of literature.”
Such was the judgment passed upon this masterpiece which had been intended to be “the breviary of peoples and of kings!” Yet these successive condemnations in no way shook Balzac’s confidence in his own genius. He wished to be a great man, and in spite of all predictions to the contrary he was going to be a great man. No doubt he re-read his tragedy in cold blood and laughed at it, realising all its emphatic170 and bombastic171 mediocrity. But it was a dead issue, and now with a new tensity of purpose he looked forward to the works which he previsioned in the nebulous and ardent future; no setback172 could turn him aside from the path which he had traced for himself.
1 regained | |
复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 ); 赢回; 重回; 复至某地 | |
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2 naive | |
adj.幼稚的,轻信的;天真的 | |
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3 contented | |
adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
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4 intoxication | |
n.wild excitement;drunkenness;poisoning | |
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5 succumbed | |
不再抵抗(诱惑、疾病、攻击等)( succumb的过去式和过去分词 ); 屈从; 被压垮; 死 | |
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6 dissuade | |
v.劝阻,阻止 | |
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7 confiding | |
adj.相信人的,易于相信的v.吐露(秘密,心事等)( confide的现在分词 );(向某人)吐露(隐私、秘密等) | |
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8 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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9 mingle | |
vt.使混合,使相混;vi.混合起来;相交往 | |
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10 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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11 rue | |
n.懊悔,芸香,后悔;v.后悔,悲伤,懊悔 | |
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12 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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13 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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14 notary | |
n.公证人,公证员 | |
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15 enrolled | |
adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 );登记,招收,使入伍(或入会、入学等),参加,成为成员;记入名册;卷起,包起 | |
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16 lapse | |
n.过失,流逝,失效,抛弃信仰,间隔;vi.堕落,停止,失效,流逝;vt.使失效 | |
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17 initiated | |
n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始,创始,启蒙,介绍加入 | |
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18 laborious | |
adj.吃力的,努力的,不流畅 | |
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19 notarial | |
adj.公证人的,公证的 | |
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20 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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21 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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22 yoke | |
n.轭;支配;v.给...上轭,连接,使成配偶 | |
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23 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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24 delightfully | |
大喜,欣然 | |
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25 ingenuous | |
adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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26 heartily | |
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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27 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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28 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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29 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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30 writs | |
n.书面命令,令状( writ的名词复数 ) | |
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31 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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32 feverishly | |
adv. 兴奋地 | |
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33 amassed | |
v.积累,积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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35 overhauling | |
n.大修;拆修;卸修;翻修v.彻底检查( overhaul的现在分词 );大修;赶上;超越 | |
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36 stanzas | |
节,段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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37 philosophic | |
adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
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38 satiric | |
adj.讽刺的,挖苦的 | |
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39 sketch | |
n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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40 monograph | |
n.专题文章,专题著作 | |
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41 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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42 apprenticeship | |
n.学徒身份;学徒期 | |
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43 honourable | |
adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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44 remunerative | |
adj.有报酬的 | |
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45 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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46 perils | |
极大危险( peril的名词复数 ); 危险的事(或环境) | |
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47 hew | |
v.砍;伐;削 | |
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48 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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49 ingratitude | |
n.忘恩负义 | |
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50 docilely | |
adv.容易教地,易驾驶地,驯服地 | |
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51 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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52 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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53 pretensions | |
自称( pretension的名词复数 ); 自命不凡; 要求; 权力 | |
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54 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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55 absurdities | |
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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56 frivolity | |
n.轻松的乐事,兴高采烈;轻浮的举止 | |
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57 discretion | |
n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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58 expounded | |
论述,详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59 pinnacle | |
n.尖塔,尖顶,山峰;(喻)顶峰 | |
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60 surmounted | |
战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 ); 克服(困难); 居于…之上; 在…顶上 | |
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61 seethed | |
(液体)沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 ); 激动,大怒; 强压怒火; 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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62 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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63 thicket | |
n.灌木丛,树林 | |
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64 salvation | |
n.(尤指基督)救世,超度,拯救,解困 | |
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65 attain | |
vt.达到,获得,完成 | |
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66 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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67 parental | |
adj.父母的;父的;母的 | |
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68 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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69 joyously | |
ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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70 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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71 mortification | |
n.耻辱,屈辱 | |
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72 provincial | |
adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
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73 bourgeois | |
adj./n.追求物质享受的(人);中产阶级分子 | |
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74 lodging | |
n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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75 arsenal | |
n.兵工厂,军械库 | |
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76 inspection | |
n.检查,审查,检阅 | |
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77 cramped | |
a.狭窄的 | |
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78 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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79 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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80 hermit | |
n.隐士,修道者;隐居 | |
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81 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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82 inaccessible | |
adj.达不到的,难接近的 | |
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83 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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84 lucid | |
adj.明白易懂的,清晰的,头脑清楚的 | |
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85 lodgings | |
n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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86 flannel | |
n.法兰绒;法兰绒衣服 | |
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87 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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88 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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89 exuberant | |
adj.充满活力的;(植物)繁茂的 | |
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90 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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91 burlesquing | |
v.(嘲弄地)模仿,(通过模仿)取笑( burlesque的现在分词 ) | |
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92 vein | |
n.血管,静脉;叶脉,纹理;情绪;vt.使成脉络 | |
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93 subterfuge | |
n.诡计;藉口 | |
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94 tranquil | |
adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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95 improvident | |
adj.不顾将来的,不节俭的,无远见的 | |
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96 flute | |
n.长笛;v.吹笛 | |
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97 sweeping | |
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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98 deafen | |
vt.震耳欲聋;使听不清楚 | |
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99 sweepings | |
n.笼统的( sweeping的名词复数 );(在投票等中的)大胜;影响广泛的;包罗万象的 | |
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100 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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101 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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102 lining | |
n.衬里,衬料 | |
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103 intoxicated | |
喝醉的,极其兴奋的 | |
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104 revelled | |
v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 );狂欢;着迷;陶醉 | |
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105 swarmed | |
密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 ); 云集; 成群地移动; 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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106 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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107 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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108 laboriously | |
adv.艰苦地;费力地;辛勤地;(文体等)佶屈聱牙地 | |
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109 hampered | |
妨碍,束缚,限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110 devour | |
v.吞没;贪婪地注视或谛听,贪读;使着迷 | |
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111 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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112 reassures | |
v.消除恐惧或疑虑,恢复信心( reassure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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113 renounce | |
v.放弃;拒绝承认,宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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114 enveloped | |
v.包围,笼罩,包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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116 toiled | |
长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 ); 艰难缓慢地移动,跋涉 | |
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117 debut | |
n.首次演出,初次露面 | |
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118 wring | |
n.扭绞;v.拧,绞出,扭 | |
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119 clamorous | |
adj.吵闹的,喧哗的 | |
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120 isolation | |
n.隔离,孤立,分解,分离 | |
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121 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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122 tempting | |
a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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123 recesses | |
n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 );(工作或业务活动的)中止或暂停期间;学校的课间休息;某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 );将(墙)做成凹形,在(墙)上做壁龛;休息,休会,休庭 | |
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124 legislative | |
n.立法机构,立法权;adj.立法的,有立法权的 | |
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125 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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126 factotum | |
n.杂役;听差 | |
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127 mentor | |
n.指导者,良师益友;v.指导 | |
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128 specifying | |
v.指定( specify的现在分词 );详述;提出…的条件;使具有特性 | |
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129 seclusion | |
n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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130 incognito | |
adv.匿名地;n.隐姓埋名;adj.化装的,用假名的,隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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131 inferno | |
n.火海;地狱般的场所 | |
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132 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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133 exultation | |
n.狂喜,得意 | |
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134 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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135 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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136 cemetery | |
n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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137 promenade | |
n./v.散步 | |
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138 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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139 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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140 verged | |
接近,逼近(verge的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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141 prodigy | |
n.惊人的事物,奇迹,神童,天才,预兆 | |
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142 suburban | |
adj.城郊的,在郊区的 | |
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143 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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144 exterior | |
adj.外部的,外在的;表面的 | |
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145 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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146 rebellious | |
adj.造反的,反抗的,难控制的 | |
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147 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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148 resounding | |
adj. 响亮的 | |
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149 exulting | |
vi. 欢欣鼓舞,狂喜 | |
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150 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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151 erasing | |
v.擦掉( erase的现在分词 );抹去;清除 | |
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152 lamenting | |
adj.悲伤的,悲哀的v.(为…)哀悼,痛哭,悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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153 destitute | |
adj.缺乏的;穷困的 | |
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154 groaned | |
v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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155 inflexibly | |
adv.不屈曲地,不屈地 | |
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156 swelling | |
n.肿胀 | |
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157 squandered | |
v.(指钱,财产等)浪费,乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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159 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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160 solely | |
adv.仅仅,唯一地 | |
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161 shipping | |
n.船运(发货,运输,乘船) | |
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162 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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163 consternation | |
n.大为吃惊,惊骇 | |
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164 avenged | |
v.为…复仇,报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 );为…报复 | |
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165 auditors | |
n.审计员,稽核员( auditor的名词复数 );(大学课程的)旁听生 | |
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166 consensus | |
n.(意见等的)一致,一致同意,共识 | |
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167 impartial | |
adj.(in,to)公正的,无偏见的 | |
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168 polytechnic | |
adj.各种工艺的,综合技术的;n.工艺(专科)学校;理工(专科)学校 | |
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169 conscientious | |
adj.审慎正直的,认真的,本着良心的 | |
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170 emphatic | |
adj.强调的,着重的;无可置疑的,明显的 | |
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171 bombastic | |
adj.夸夸其谈的,言过其实的 | |
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172 setback | |
n.退步,挫折,挫败 | |
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