Section 1
IN the end my mother died rather suddenly, and her death came as a shock to me. Diagnosis1 was still very inadequate2 at that time. The doctors were, of course, fully3 alive to the incredible defects of their common training and were doing all they could to supply its deficiencies, but they were still extraordinarily4 ignorant. Some unintelligently observed factor of her illness came into play with her, and she became feverish5 and sank and died very quickly. I do not know what remedial measures were attempted. I hardly knew what was happening until the whole thing was over.
At that time my attention was much engaged by the stir of the great Beltane festival that was held on May-day in the Year of Scaffolding. It was the first of the ten great rubbish burnings that opened the new age. Young people nowadays can scarcely hope to imagine the enormous quantities of pure litter and useless accumulation with which we had to deal; had we not set aside a special day and season, the whole world would have been an incessant6 reek7 of small fires; and it was, I think, a happy idea to revive this ancient festival of the May and November burnings. It was inevitable8 that the old idea of purification should revive with the name, it was felt to be a burning of other than material encumbrances9, innumerable quasi-spiritual things, deeds, documents, debts, vindictive10 records, went up on those great flares11. People passed praying between the fires, and it was a fine symbol of the new and wiser tolerance12 that had come to men, that those who still found their comfort in the orthodox faiths came hither unpersuaded, to pray that all hate might be burnt out of their professions. For even in the fires of Baal, now that men have done with base hatred13, one may find the living God.
Endless were the things we had to destroy in those great purgings. First, there were nearly all the houses and buildings of the old time. In the end we did not save in England one building in five thousand that was standing14 when the comet came. Year by year, as we made our homes afresh in accordance with the saner15 needs of our new social families, we swept away more and more of those horrible structures, the ancient residential16 houses, hastily built, without imagination, without beauty, without common honesty, without even comfort or convenience, in which the early twentieth century had sheltered until scarcely one remained; we saved nothing but what was beautiful or interesting out of all their gaunt and melancholy17 abundance. The actual houses, of course, we could not drag to our fires, but we brought all their ill-fitting deal doors, their dreadful window sashes, their servant-tormenting staircases, their dank, dark cupboards, the verminous papers from their scaly18 walls, their dust and dirt-sodden carpets, their ill-designed and yet pretentious19 tables and chairs, sideboards and chests of drawers, the old dirt-saturated books, their ornaments20 — their dirty, decayed, and altogether painful ornaments — amidst which I remember there were sometimes even STUFFED DEAD BIRDS!— we burnt them all. The paint-plastered woodwork, with coat above coat of nasty paint, that in particular blazed finely. I have already tried to give you an impression of old-world furniture, of Parload’s bedroom, my mother’s room, Mr. Gabbitas’s sitting-room21, but, thank Heaven! there is nothing in life now to convey the peculiar22 dinginess23 of it all. For one thing, there is no more imperfect combustion24 of coal going on everywhere, and no roadways like grassless open scars along the earth from which dust pours out perpetually. We burnt and destroyed most of our private buildings and all the woodwork, all our furniture, except a few score thousand pieces of distinct and intentional25 beauty, from which our present forms have developed, nearly all our hangings and carpets, and also we destroyed almost every scrap26 of old-world clothing. Only a few carefully disinfected types and vestiges27 of that remain now in our museums.
One writes now with a peculiar horror of the dress of the old world. The men’s clothes were worn without any cleansing28 process at all, except an occasional superficial brushing, for periods of a year or so; they were made of dark obscurely mixed patterns to conceal29 the stage of defilement30 they had reached, and they were of a felted and porous31 texture32 admirably calculated to accumulate drifting matter. Many women wore skirts of similar substances, and of so long and inconvenient33 a form that they inevitably34 trailed among all the abomination of our horse-frequented roads. It was our boast in England that the whole of our population was booted — their feet were for the most part ugly enough to need it,— but it becomes now inconceivable how they could have imprisoned35 their feet in the amazing cases of leather and imitations of leather they used. I have heard it said that a large part of the physical decline that was apparent in our people during the closing years of the nineteenth century, though no doubt due in part to the miscellaneous badness of the food they ate, was in the main attributable to the vileness36 of the common footwear. They shirked open-air exercise altogether because their boots wore out ruinously and pinched and hurt them if they took it. I have mentioned, I think, the part my own boots played in the squalid drama of my adolescence37. I had a sense of unholy triumph over a fallen enemy when at last I found myself steering38 truck after truck of cheap boots and shoes (unsold stock from Swathinglea) to the run-off by the top of the Glanville blast furnaces.
“Plup!” they would drop into the cone39 when Beltane came, and the roar of their burning would fill the air. Never a cold would come from the saturation40 of their brown paper soles, never a corn from their foolish shapes, never a nail in them get home at last in suffering flesh . . . .
Most of our public buildings we destroyed and burnt as we reshaped our plan of habitation, our theater sheds, our banks, and inconvenient business warrens, our factories (these in the first year of all), and all the “unmeaning repetition” of silly little sham41 Gothic churches and meeting-houses, mean looking shells of stone and mortar42 without love, invention, or any beauty at all in them, that men had thrust into the face of their sweated God, even as they thrust cheap food into the mouths of their sweated workers; all these we also swept away in the course of that first decade. Then we had the whole of the superseded44 steam-railway system to scrap and get rid of, stations, signals, fences, rolling stock; a plant of ill-planned, smoke-distributing nuisance apparatus45, that would, under former conditions, have maintained an offensive dwindling46 obstructive life for perhaps half a century. Then also there was a great harvest of fences, notice boards, hoardings, ugly sheds, all the corrugated47 iron in the world, and everything that was smeared48 with tar43, all our gas works and petroleum49 stores, all our horse vehicles and vans and lorries had to be erased50. . . . But I have said enough now perhaps to give some idea of the bulk and quality of our great bonfires, our burnings up, our meltings down, our toil51 of sheer wreckage52, over and above the constructive53 effort, in those early years.
But these were the coarse material bases of the Phoenix54 fires of the world. These were but the outward and visible signs of the innumerable claims, rights, adhesions, debts, bills, deeds, and charters that were cast upon the fires; a vast accumulation of insignia and uniforms neither curious enough nor beautiful enough to preserve, went to swell55 the blaze, and all (saving a few truly glorious trophies56 and memories) of our symbols, our apparatus and material of war. Then innumerable triumphs of our old, bastard57, half-commercial, fine-art were presently condemned58, great oil paintings, done to please the half-educated middle-class, glared for a moment and were gone, Academy marbles crumbled59 to useful lime, a gross multitude of silly statuettes and decorative60 crockery, and hangings, and embroideries61, and bad music, and musical instruments shared this fate. And books, countless62 books, too, and bales of newspapers went also to these pyres. From the private houses in Swathinglea alone — which I had deemed, perhaps not unjustly, altogether illiterate63 — we gathered a whole dust-cart full of cheap ill-printed editions of the minor64 English classics — for the most part very dull stuff indeed and still clean — and about a truckload of thumbed and dog-eared penny fiction, watery65 base stuff, the dropsy of our nation’s mind. . . . And it seemed to me that when we gathered those books and papers together, we gathered together something more than print and paper, we gathered warped66 and crippled ideas and contagious67 base suggestions, the formulae of dull tolerances68 and stupid impatiences, the mean defensive69 ingenuities70 of sluggish71 habits of thinking and timid and indolent evasions72. There was more than a touch of malignant73 satisfaction for me in helping74 gather it all together.
I was so busy, I say, with my share in this dustman’s work that I did not notice, as I should otherwise have done, the little indications of change in my mother’s state. Indeed, I thought her a little stronger; she was slightly flushed, slightly more talkative . . . .
On Beltane Eve, and our Lowchester rummage75 being finished, I went along the valley to the far end of Swathinglea to help sort the stock of the detached group of potbanks there — their chief output had been mantel ornaments in imitation of marble, and there was very little sorting, I found, to be done — and there it was nurse Anna found me at last by telephone, and told me my mother had died in the morning suddenly and very shortly after my departure.
For a while I did not seem to believe it; this obviously imminent76 event stunned77 me when it came, as though I had never had an anticipatory78 moment. For a while I went on working, and then almost apathetically79, in a mood of half-reluctant curiosity, I started for Lowchester.
When I got there the last offices were over, and I was shown my old mother’s peaceful white face, very still, but a little cold and stern to me, a little unfamiliar80, lying among white flowers.
I went in alone to her, into that quiet room, and stood for a long time by her bedside. I sat down then and thought . . . .
Then at last, strangely hushed, and with the deeps of my loneliness opening beneath me, I came out of that room and down into the world again, a bright-eyed, active world, very noisy, happy, and busy with its last preparations for the mighty81 cremation82 of past and superseded things.
Section 2
I remember that first Beltane festival as the most terribly lonely night in my life. It stands in my mind in fragments, fragments of intense feeling with forgotten gaps between.
I recall very distinctly being upon the great staircase of Lowchester House (though I don’t remember getting there from the room in which my mother lay), and how upon the landing I met Anna ascending83 as I came down. She had but just heard of my return, and she was hurrying upstairs to me. She stopped and so did I, and we stood and clasped hands, and she scrutinized84 my face in the way women sometimes do. So we remained for a second or so. I could say nothing to her at all, but I could feel the wave of her emotion. I halted, answered the earnest pressure of her hand, relinquished85 it, and after a queer second of hesitation86 went on down, returning to my own preoccupations. It did not occur to me at all then to ask myself what she might be thinking or feeling.
I remember the corridor full of mellow87 evening light, and how I went mechanically some paces toward the dining-room. Then at the sight of the little tables, and a gusty88 outburst of talking voices as some one in front of me swung the door open and to, I remembered that I did not want to eat. . . . After that comes an impression of myself walking across the open grass in front of the house, and the purpose I had of getting alone upon the moors89, and how somebody passing me said something about a hat. I had come out without my hat.
A fragment of thought has linked itself with an effect of long shadows upon turf golden with the light of the sinking sun. The world was singularly empty, I thought, without either Nettie or my mother. There wasn’t any sense in it any more. Nettie was already back in my mind then . . . .
Then I am out on the moors. I avoided the crests91 where the bonfires were being piled, and sought the lonely places . . . .
I remember very clearly sitting on a gate beyond the park, in a fold just below the crest90, that hid the Beacon92 Hill bonfire and its crowd, and I was looking at and admiring the sunset. The golden earth and sky seemed like a little bubble that floated in the globe of human futility93. . . . Then in the twilight94 I walked along an unknown, bat-haunted road between high hedges.
I did not sleep under a roof that night. But I hungered and ate. I ate near midnight at a little inn over toward Birmingham, and miles away from my home. Instinctively95 I had avoided the crests where the bonfire crowds gathered, but here there were many people, and I had to share a table with a man who had some useless mortgage deeds to burn. I talked to him about them — but my soul stood at a great distance behind my lips . . . .
Soon each hilltop bore a little tulip-shaped flame flower. Little black figures clustered round and dotted the base of its petals96, and as for the rest of the multitude abroad, the kindly97 night swallowed them up. By leaving the roads and clear paths and wandering in the fields I contrived98 to keep alone, though the confused noise of voices and the roaring and crackling of great fires was always near me.
I wandered into a lonely meadow, and presently in a hollow of deep shadows I lay down to stare at the stars. I lay hidden in the darkness, and ever and again the sough and uproar99 of the Beltane fires that were burning up the sere100 follies101 of a vanished age, and the shouting of the people passing through the fires and praying to be delivered from the prison of themselves, reached my ears . . . .
And I thought of my mother, and then of my new loneliness and the hunger of my heart for Nettie.
I thought of many things that night, but chiefly of the overflowing102 personal love and tenderness that had come to me in the wake of the Change, of the greater need, the unsatisfied need in which I stood, for this one person who could fulfil all my desires. So long as my mother had lived, she had in a measure held my heart, given me a food these emotions could live upon, and mitigated103 that emptiness of spirit, but now suddenly that one possible comfort had left me. There had been many at the season of the Change who had thought that this great enlargement of mankind would abolish personal love; but indeed it had only made it finer, fuller, more vitally necessary. They had thought that, seeing men now were all full of the joyful104 passion to make and do, and glad and loving and of willing service to all their fellows, there would be no need of the one intimate trusting communion that had been the finest thing of the former life. And indeed, so far as this was a matter of advantage and the struggle for existence, they were right. But so far as it was a matter of the spirit and the fine perceptions of life, it was altogether wrong.
We had indeed not eliminated personal love, we had but stripped it of its base wrappings, of its pride, its suspicions, its mercenary and competitive elements, until at last it stood up in our minds stark105, shining and invincible106. Through all the fine, divaricating ways of the new life, it grew ever more evident, there were for every one certain persons, mysteriously and indescribably in the key of one’s self, whose mere107 presence gave pleasure, whose mere existence was interest, whose idiosyncrasy blended with accident to make a completing and predominant harmony for their predestined lovers. They were the essential thing in life. Without them the fine brave show of the rejuvenated108 world was a caparisoned steed without a rider, a bowl without a flower, a theater without a play. . . . And to me that night of Beltane, it was as clear as white flames that Nettie, and Nettie alone, roused those harmonies in me. And she had gone! I had sent her from me; I knew not whither she had gone. I had in my first virtuous109 foolishness cut her out of my life for ever!
So I saw it then, and I lay unseen in the darkness and called upon Nettie, and wept for her, lay upon my face and wept for her, while the glad people went to and fro, and the smoke streamed thick across the distant stars, and the red reflections, the shadows and the fluctuating glares, danced over the face of the world.
No! the Change had freed us from our baser passions indeed, from habitual110 and mechanical concupiscence and mean issues and coarse imaginings, but from the passions of love it had not freed us. It had but brought the lord of life, Eros, to his own. All through the long sorrow of that night I, who had rejected him, confessed his sway with tears and inappeasable regrets . . . .
I cannot give the remotest guess of when I rose up, nor of my tortuous111 wanderings in the valleys between the midnight fires, nor how I evaded112 the laughing and rejoicing multitudes who went streaming home between three and four, to resume their lives, swept and garnished113, stripped and clean. But at dawn, when the ashes of the world’s gladness were ceasing to glow — it was a bleak114 dawn that made me shiver in my thin summer clothes — I came across a field to a little copse full of dim blue hyacinths. A queer sense of familiarity arrested my steps, and I stood puzzled. Then I was moved to go a dozen paces from the path, and at once a singularly misshapen tree hitched115 itself into a notch116 in my memory. This was the place! Here I had stood, there I had placed my old kite, and shot with my revolver, learning to use it, against the day when I should encounter Verrall.
Kite and revolver had gone now, and all my hot and narrow past, its last vestiges had shriveled and vanished in the whirling gusts117 of the Beltane fires. So I walked through a world of gray ashes at last, back to the great house in which the dead, deserted118 image of my dear lost mother lay.
Section 3
I came back to Lowchester House very tired, very wretched; exhausted119 by my fruitless longing120 for Nettie. I had no thought of what lay before me.
A miserable121 attraction drew me into the great house to look again on the stillness that had been my mother’s face, and as I came into that room, Anna, who had been sitting by the open window, rose to meet me. She had the air of one who waits. She, too, was pale with watching; all night she had watched between the dead within and the Beltane fires abroad, and longed for my coming. I stood mute between her and the bedside . . . .
“Willie,” she whispered, and eyes and body seemed incarnate122 pity.
An unseen presence drew us together. My mother’s face became resolute123, commanding. I turned to Anna as a child may turn to its nurse. I put my hands about her strong shoulders, she folded me to her, and my heart gave way. I buried my face in her breast and clung to her weakly, and burst into a passion of weeping . . . .
She held me with hungry arms. She whispered to me, “There, there!” as one whispers comfort to a child. . . . Suddenly she was kissing me. She kissed me with a hungry intensity124 of passion, on my cheeks, on my lips. She kissed me on my lips with lips that were salt with tears. And I returned her kisses . . . .
Then abruptly125 we desisted and stood apart — looking at one another.
Section 4
It seems to me as if the intense memory of Nettie vanished utterly126 out of my mind at the touch of Anna’s lips. I loved Anna.
We went to the council of our group — commune it was then called — and she was given me in marriage, and within a year she had borne me a son. We saw much of one another, and talked ourselves very close together. My faithful friend she became and has been always, and for a time we were passionate127 lovers. Always she has loved me and kept my soul full of tender gratitude128 and love for her; always when we met our hands and eyes clasped in friendly greeting, all through our lives from that hour we have been each other’s secure help and refuge, each other’s ungrudging fastness of help and sweetly frank and open speech. . . . And after a little while my love and desire for Nettie returned as though it had never faded away.
No one will have a difficulty now in understanding how that could be, but in the evil days of the world malaria129, that would have been held to be the most impossible thing. I should have had to crush that second love out of my thoughts, to have kept it secret from Anna, to have lied about it to all the world. The old-world theory was there was only one love — we who float upon a sea of love find that hard to understand. The whole nature of a man was supposed to go out to the one girl or woman who possessed130 him, her whole nature to go out to him. Nothing was left over — it was a discreditable thing to have any overplus at all. They formed a secret secluded131 system of two, two and such children as she bore him. All other women he was held bound to find no beauty in, no sweetness, no interest; and she likewise, in no other man. The old-time men and women went apart in couples, into defensive little houses, like beasts into little pits, and in these “homes” they sat down purposing to love, but really coming very soon to jealous watching of this extravagant132 mutual133 proprietorship134. All freshness passed very speedily out of their love, out of their conversation, all pride out of their common life. To permit each other freedom was blank dishonor. That I and Anna should love, and after our love-journey together, go about our separate lives and dine at the public tables, until the advent135 of her motherhood, would have seemed a terrible strain upon our unmitigable loyalty136. And that I should have it in me to go on loving Nettie — who loved in different manner both Verrall and me — would have outraged137 the very quintessence of the old convention.
In the old days love was a cruel proprietary138 thing. But now Anna could let Nettie live in the world of my mind, as freely as a rose will suffer the presence of white lilies. If I could hear notes that were not in her compass, she was glad, because she loved me, that I should listen to other music than hers. And she, too, could see the beauty of Nettie. Life is so rich and generous now, giving friendship, and a thousand tender interests and helps and comforts, that no one stints139 another of the full realization140 of all possibilities of beauty. For me from the beginning Nettie was the figure of beauty, the shape and color of the divine principle that lights the world. For every one there are certain types, certain faces and forms, gestures, voices and intonations141 that have that inexplicable142 unanalyzable quality. These come through the crowd of kindly friendly fellow-men and women — one’s own. These touch one mysteriously, stir deeps that must otherwise slumber143, pierce and interpret the world. To refuse this interpretation144 is to refuse the sun, to darken and deaden all life. . . . I loved Nettie, I loved all who were like her, in the measure that they were like her, in voice, or eyes, or form, or smile. And between my wife and me there was no bitterness that the great goddess, the life-giver, Aphrodite, Queen of the living Seas, came to my imagination so. It qualified145 our mutual love not at all, since now in our changed world love is unstinted; it is a golden net about our globe that nets all humanity together.
I thought of Nettie much, and always movingly beautiful things restored me to her, all fine music, all pure deep color, all tender and solemn things. The stars were hers, and the mystery of moonlight; the sun she wore in her hair, powdered finely, beaten into gleams and threads of sunlight in the wisps and strands146 of her hair. . . . Then suddenly one day a letter came to me from her, in her unaltered clear handwriting, but in a new language of expression, telling me many things. She had learnt of my mother’s death, and the thought of me had grown so strong as to pierce the silence I had imposed on her. We wrote to one another — like common friends with a certain restraint between us at first, and with a great longing to see her once more arising in my heart. For a time I left that hunger unexpressed, and then I was moved to tell it to her. And so on New Year’s Day in the Year Four, she came to Lowchester and me. How I remember that coming, across the gulf147 of fifty years! I went out across the park to meet her, so that we should meet alone. The windless morning was clear and cold, the ground new carpeted with snow, and all the trees motionless lace and glitter of frosty crystals. The rising sun had touched the white with a spirit of gold, and my heart beat and sang within me. I remember now the snowy shoulder of the down, sunlit against the bright blue sky. And presently I saw the woman I loved coming through the white still trees . . . .
I had made a goddess of Nettie, and behold148 she was a fellow-creature! She came, warm-wrapped and tremulous, to me, with the tender promise of tears in her eyes, with her hands outstretched and that dear smile quivering upon her lips. She stepped out of the dream I had made of her, a thing of needs and regrets and human kindliness149. Her hands as I took them were a little cold. The goddess shone through her indeed, glowed in all her body, she was a worshipful temple of love for me — yes. But I could feel, like a thing new discovered, the texture and sinews of her living, her dear personal and mortal hands . . . .
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diagnosis
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inadequate
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fully
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extraordinarily
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feverish
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incessant
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reek
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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encumbrances
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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flares
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| n.喇叭裤v.（使）闪耀( flare的第三人称单数 )；（使）（船舷）外倾；（使）鼻孔张大；（使）（衣裙、酒杯等）呈喇叭形展开 | |
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tolerance
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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standing
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saner
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residential
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melancholy
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scaly
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pretentious
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ornaments
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sitting-room
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peculiar
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dinginess
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combustion
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intentional
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scrap
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vestiges
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cleansing
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conceal
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defilement
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porous
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texture
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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35
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
vileness
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| n.讨厌，卑劣 | |
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37
adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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38
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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39
cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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40
saturation
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| n.饱和(状态)；浸透 | |
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41
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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42
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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43
tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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44
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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45
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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46
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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47
corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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48
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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49
petroleum
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| n.原油，石油 | |
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50
erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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51
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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52
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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53
constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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54
phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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55
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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56
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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57
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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58
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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59
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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60
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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61
embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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62
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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63
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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64
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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65
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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66
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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67
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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68
tolerances
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| n.宽容( tolerance的名词复数 )；容忍；忍耐力；偏差 | |
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69
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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70
ingenuities
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| 足智多谋，心灵手巧( ingenuity的名词复数 ) | |
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71
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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72
evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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73
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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74
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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75
rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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76
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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77
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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78
anticipatory
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| adj.预想的，预期的 | |
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79
apathetically
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| adv.不露感情地；无动于衷地；不感兴趣地；冷淡地 | |
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80
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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81
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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82
cremation
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| n.火葬，火化 | |
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83
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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84
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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86
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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87
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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88
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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89
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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90
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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91
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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92
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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93
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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94
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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95
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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96
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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97
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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98
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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99
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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100
sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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101
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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102
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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103
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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105
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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106
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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107
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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108
rejuvenated
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| 更生的 | |
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109
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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110
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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111
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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112
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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113
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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115
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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116
notch
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| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
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117
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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118
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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119
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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120
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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121
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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122
incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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123
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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124
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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125
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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126
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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127
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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128
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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129
malaria
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| n.疟疾 | |
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130
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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131
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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132
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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133
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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134
proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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135
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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136
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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137
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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138
proprietary
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| n.所有权，所有的；独占的；业主 | |
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139
stints
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| n.定额工作( stint的名词复数 )；定量；限额；慷慨地做某事 | |
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140
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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141
intonations
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| n.语调，说话的抑扬顿挫( intonation的名词复数 )；（演奏或唱歌中的）音准 | |
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142
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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143
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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144
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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145
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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146
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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147
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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148
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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149
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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