I couldn’t get to sleep that night, but lay and tossed, lit my candle and read, and so on, for ever and ever—for an eternity1. I was confoundedly excited; there were a hundred things to be thought about; clamouring to be thought about; out-clamouring the recurrent chimes of some near clock. I began to read the article by Radet in the Revue Rouge2—the one I had bought of the old woman in the kiosque. It upset me a good deal—that article. It gave away the whole Greenland show so completely that the ecstatic bosh I had just despatched to the Hour seemed impossible. I suppose the good Radet had his axe3 to grind—just as I had had to grind the State Founder4’s, but Radet’s axe didn’t show. I was reading about an inland valley, a broad, shadowy, grey thing; immensely broad, immensely shadowy, winding5 away between immense, half-invisible mountains into the silence of an unknown country. A little band of men, microscopic6 figures in that immensity, in those mists, crept slowly up it. A man among them was speaking; I seemed to hear his voice, low, monotonous7, overpowered by the wan8 light and the silence and the vastness.
And how well it was done—how the man could write; how skilfully9 he made his points. There was no slosh about it, no sentiment. The touch was light, in places even gay. He saw so well the romance of that dun band that had cast remorse10 behind; that had no return, no future, that spread desolation desolately11. This was merely a review article—a thing that in England would have been unreadable; the narrative12 of a nomad13 of some genius. I could never have written like that—I should have spoilt it somehow. It set me tingling14 with desire, with the desire that transcends15 the sexual; the desire for the fine phrase, for the right word—for all the other intangibles. And I had been wasting all this time; had been writing my inanities16. I must go away; must get back, right back to the old road, must work. There was so little time. It was unpleasant, too, to have been mixed up in this affair, to have been trepanned into doing my best to help it on its foul17 way. God knows I had little of the humanitarian18 in me. If people must murder in the by-ways of an immense world they must do murder and pay the price. But that I should have been mixed up in such was not what I had wanted. I must have dine with it all; with all this sort of thing, must get back to my old self, must get back. I seemed to hear the slow words of the Duc de Mersch.
“We have increased exports by so much; the imports by so much. We have protected the natives, have kept their higher interests ever present in our minds. And through it all we have never forgotten the mission entrusted19 to us by Europe—to remove the evil of darkness from the earth—to root out barbarism with its nameless horrors, whose existence has been a blot20 on our consciences. Men of good-will and self-sacrifice are doing it now—are laying down their priceless lives to root out . . . to root our. . . . ”
Of course they were rooting them out.
It didn’t matter to me. One supposes that that sort of native exists for that sort of thing—to be rooted out by men of good-will, with careers to make. The point was that that was what they were really doing out there—rooting out the barbarians21 as well as the barbarism, and proving themselves worthy22 of their hire. And I had been writing them up and was no better than the farcical governor of a department who would write on the morrow to protest that that was what they did not do. You see I had a sort of personal pride in those days; and preferred to think of myself as a decent person. I knew that people would say the same sort of thing about me that they said about all the rest of them. I couldn’t very well protest. I had been scratching the backs of all sorts of creatures; out of friendship, out of love—for all sorts of reasons. This was only a sort of last straw—or perhaps it was the sight of her that had been the last straw. It seemed na?vely futile23 to have been wasting my time over Mrs. Hartly and those she stood for, when there was something so different in the world—something so like a current of east wind.
That vein24 of thought kept me awake, and a worse came to keep it company. The men from the next room came home—students, I suppose. They talked gaily25 enough, their remarks interspersed26 by the thuds of falling boots and the other incomprehensible noises of the night. Through the flimsy partition I caught half sentences in that sort of French intonation27 that is so impossible to attain28. It reminded me of the voices of the two men at the Opera. I began to wonder what they had been saying—what they could have been saying that concerned me and affected29 the little correspondent to interfere30. Suddenly the thing dawned upon me with the startling clearness of a figure in a complicated pattern—a clearness from which one cannot take one’s eyes.
It threw everything—the whole world—into more unpleasant relations with me than even the Greenland affair. They had not been talking about my aunt and her Salon31, but about my . . . my sister. She was De Mersch’s “Anglaise.” I did not believe it, but probably all Paris—the whole world—said she was. And to the whole world I was her brother! Those two men who had looked at me over their shoulders had shrugged32 and said, “Oh, he’s . . . ” And the whole world wherever I went would whisper in asides, “Don’t you know Granger? He’s the brother. De Mersch employs him.”
I began to understand everything; the woman in de Mersch’s room with her “Eschingan–Grangeur-r-r”; the deference33 of the little Jew—the man who knew. He knew that I—that I, who patronised him, was a person to stand well with because of my—my sister’s hold over de Mersch. I wasn’t, of course, but you can’t understand how the whole thing maddened me all the same. I hated the world—this world of people who whispered and were whispered to, of men who knew and men who wanted to know—the shadowy world of people who didn’t matter, but whose eyes and voices were all round one and did somehow matter. I knew well enough how it had come about. It was de Mersch—the State Founder, with his shamed face and his pallid34 hands. She had been attracted by his air of greatness, by his elective grand-dukedom, by his protestations. Women are like that. She had been attracted and didn’t know what she was doing, didn’t know what the world was over here—how people talked. She had been excited by the whirl and flutter of it, and perhaps she didn’t care. The thing must come to an end, however. She had said that I should go to her on the morrow. Well, I would go, and I would put a stop to this. I had suddenly discovered how very much I was a Granger of Etchingham, after all I had family traditions and graves behind me. And for the sake of all these people whose one achievement had been the making of a good name I had to intervene now. After all—“Bon sang ne” —does not get itself talked about in that way.
The early afternoon of the morrow found me in a great room—a faded, sombre salon of the house my aunt had taken in the Faubourg Saint Germain. Numbers of strong-featured people were talking in groups among the tables and chairs of a time before the Revolution. I rather forget how I had got there, and what had gone before. I must have arisen late and passed the intervening hours in a state of trepidation35. I was going to see her, and I was like a cub36 in love, with a man’s place to fill. It was a preposterous37 state of things that set the solid world in a whirl. Once there, my eyes suddenly took in things.
I had a sense of her standing38 by my side. She had just introduced me to my aunt—a heavy-featured, tired-eyed village tyrant39. She was so obviously worn out, so obviously “not what she had been,” that her face would have been pitiful but for its immovable expression of class pride. The Grangers of Etchingham, you see, were so absolutely at the top of their own particular kind of tree that it was impossible for them to meet anyone who was not an inferior. A man might be a cabinet minister, might even be a prince, but he couldn’t be a Granger of Etchingham, couldn’t have such an assortment40 of graves, each containing a Granger, behind his back. The expression didn’t even lift for me who had. It couldn’t, it was fixed41 there. One wondered what she was doing in this galère. It seemed impossible that she should interest herself in the restoration of the Bourbons—they were all very well, but they weren’t even English, let alone a county family. I figured it out that she must have set her own village so much in order that there remained nothing but the setting in order of the rest of the world. Her bored eyes wandered sleepily over the assemblage. They seemed to have no preferences for any of them. They rested on the vacuously42 Bonaparte prince, on the moribund43 German Jesuit to whom he was listening, on the darkly supple44 young Spanish priest, on the rosy-gilled English Passionist, on Radet, the writer of that article in the Revue Rouge, who was talking to a compatriot in one of the tall windows. She seemed to accept the saturnine-looking men, the political women, who all spoke45 a language not their own, with an accent and a fluency46, and a dangerous far-away smile and a display of questionable47 teeth all their own. She seemed to class the political with the pious48, the obvious adventurer with the seeming fanatic49. It was amazing to me to see her there, standing with her county family self-possession in the midst of so much that was questionable. She offered me no explanation; I had to find one for myself.
We stood and talked in the centre of the room. It did not seem a place in which one could sit.
“Why have you never been to see me?” she asked languidly. “I might never have known of your existence if it had not been for your sister.” My sister was standing at my side, you must remember. I don’t suppose that I started, but I made my aunt no answer.
“Indeed,” she went on, “I should never have known that you had a sister. Your father was so very peculiar50. From the day he married, my husband never heard a word from him.”
“They were so very different,” I said, listlessly.
“Ah, yes,” she answered, “brothers so often are.” She sighed, apropos51 of nothing. She continued to utter disjointed sentences from which I gathered a skeleton history of my soi distant sister’s introduction of herself and of her pretensions52. She had, it seemed, casually53 introduced herself at some garden-party or function of the sort, had represented herself as a sister of my own to whom a maternal54 uncle had left a fabulous55 fortune. She herself had suggested her being sheltered under my aunt’s roof as a singularly welcome “paying guest.” She herself, too, had suggested the visit to Paris and had hired the house from a degenerate56 Duc de Luynes who preferred the delights of an appartement in the less lugubrious57 Avenue Marceau.
“We have tastes so much in common,” my aunt explained, as she moved away to welcome a new arrival. I was left alone with the woman who called herself my sister.
We stood a little apart. Each little group of talkers in the vast room seemed to stand just without earshot of the next. I had my back to the door, my face to her.
“And so you have come,” she said, maliciously58 it seemed to me.
It was impossible to speak in such a position; in such a place; impossible to hold a discussion on family affairs when a diminutive59 Irishwoman with too mobile eyebrows60, and a couple of gigantic, raw-boned, lugubrious Spaniards, were in a position to hear anything that one uttered above a whisper. One might want to raise one’s voice. Besides, she was so—so terrible; there was no knowing what she might not say. She so obviously did not care what the Irish or the Spaniards or the Jesuits heard or thought, that I was forced to the mortifying61 conclusion that I did.
“Oh, I’ve come,” I answered. I felt as outrageously62 out of it as one does at a suburban63 hop64 where one does not know one animal of the menagerie. I did not know what to do or what to say, or what to do with my hands. I was pervaded65 by the unpleasant idea that all those furtive66 eyes were upon me; gauging67 me because I was the brother of a personality. I was concerned about the fit of my coat and my boots, and all the while I was in a furious temper; my errand was important.
She stood looking at me, a sinuous68, brilliant thing, with a light in the eyes half challenging, half openly victorious69.
“You have come,” she said, “and . . . ”
I became singularly afraid of her; and wanted to stop her mouth. She might be going to say anything. She overpowered me so that I actually dwindled—into the gawkiness of extreme youth. I became a goggle-eyed, splay-footed boy again and made a boy’s desperate effort after a recovery at one stroke of an ideal standard of dignity.
“I must have a word with you,” I said, remembering. She made a little gesture with her hands, signifying “I am here.” “But in private,” I added.
“Oh, everything’s in private here,” she said. I was silent.
“I must,” I added after a time.
“I can’t retire with you,” she said; “‘it would look odd,’ you’d say, wouldn’t you?” I shrugged my shoulders in intense irritation70. I didn’t want to be burlesqued71. A flood of fresh people came into the room. I heard a throaty “ahem” behind me. The Duc de Mersch was introducing himself to notice. It was as I had thought—the man was an habitue, with his well-cut clothes, his air of protestation, and his tremendous golden poll. He was the only sunlight that the gloomy place rejoiced in. He bowed low over my oppressor’s hand, smiled upon me, and began to utter platitudes72 in English.
“Oh, you may speak French,” she said carelessly.
“But your brother. . . . ” he answered.
“I understand French very well,” I said. I was in no mood to spare him embarrassments73; wanted to show him that I had a hold over him, and knew he wasn’t the proper person to talk to a young lady. He glared at me haughtily74.
“But yesterday . . . ” he began in a tone that burlesqued august displeasure. I was wondering what he had looked like on the other side of the door—whilst that lady had been explaining his nature to me.
“Yesterday I wished to avoid embarrassments,” I said; “I was to represent your views about Greenland. I might have misunderstood you in some important matter.”
“I see, I see,” he said conciliatorily. “Yesterday we spoke English for the benefit of the British public. When we speak French we are not in public, I hope.” He had a semi-supplicating manner.
“Everything’s rather too much in public here,” I answered. My part as I imagined it was that of a British brother defending his sister from questionable attentions—the person who “tries to show the man he isn’t wanted.” But de Mersch didn’t see the matter in that light at all. He could not, of course. He was as much used to being purred to as my aunt to looking down on non-county persons. He seemed to think I was making an incomprehensible insular75 joke, and laughed non-committally. It wouldn’t have been possible to let him know he wasn’t wanted.
“Oh, you needn’t be afraid of my brother,” she said suddenly. “He is quite harmless. He is even going to give up writing for the papers except when we want him.”
The Duc turned from me to her, smiled and bowed. His smile was inane76, but he bowed very well; he had been groomed77 into that sort of thing or had it in the blood.
“We work together still?” he asked.
“Why not?” she answered.
A hubbub78 of angry voices raised itself behind my back. It was one of the contretemps that made the Salon Grangeur famous throughout the city.
“You forced yourself upon me. Did I say anywhere that you were responsible? If it resembles your particular hell upon earth, what is that to me? You do worse things; you, yourself, monsieur. Haven’t I seen . . . haven’t I seen it?”
The Duc de Mersch looked swiftly over his shoulder toward the window.
“They seem to be angry there,” he said nervously79. “Had not something better be done, Miss Granger?”
Miss Granger followed the direction of his eyes.
“Why,” she said, “we’re used to these differences of opinion. Besides, it’s only Monsieur Radet; he’s forever at war with someone or other.”
“He ought to be shown the door,” the Duc grumbled80.
“Oh, as for that,” she answered, “we couldn’t. My aunt would be desolated81 by such a necessity. He is very influential82 in certain quarters. My aunt wants to catch him for the—He’s going to write an article.”
“He writes too many articles,” the Duc said, with heavy displeasure.
“Oh, he has written one too many,” she answered, “but that can be traversed. . . . ”
“But no one believes,” the Duc objected . . . Radet’s voice intermittently83 broke in upon his sotto-voce, coming to our ears in gusts84.
“Haven’t I seen you . . . and then . . . and you offer me the cross . . . to bribe85 me to silence . . . me. . . . ”
In the general turning of faces toward the window in which stood Radet and the other, mine turned too. Radet was a cadaverous, weatherworn, passion-worn individual, badger-grey, and worked up into a grotesquely86 attitudinised fury of injured self-esteem. The other was a denationalised, shifty-eyed, sallow, grey-bearded governor of one of the provinces of the Système Gro?nlandais; had a closely barbered head, a bull neck, and a great belly87. He cast furtive glances round him, uncertain whether to escape or to wait for his say. He looked at the ring that encircled the window at a little distance, and his face, which had betrayed a half-apparent shame, hardened at sight of the cynical88 masks of the cosmopolitan89 conspirators90. They were amused by the scene. The Holsteiner gained confidence, shrugged his shoulders.
“You have had the fever very badly since you came back,” he said, showing a level row of white teeth. “You did not talk like that out there.”
“No—pas si bête—you would have hanged me, perhaps, as you did that poor devil of a Swiss. What was his name? Now you offer me the cross. Because I had the fever, hein?”
I had been watching the Duc’s face; a first red flush had come creeping from under the roots of his beard, and had spread over the low forehead and the sides of the neck. The eye-glass fell from the eye, a signal for the colour to retreat. The full lips grew pallid, and began to mutter unspoken words. His eyes wandered appealingly from the woman beside him to me. I didn’t want to look him in the face. The man was a trafficker in human blood, an evil liver, and I hated him. He had to pay his price; would have to pay—but I didn’t want to see him pay it. There was a limit.
I began to excuse myself, and slid out between the groups of excellent plotters. As I was going, she said to me:
“You may come to me tomorrow in the morning.”
收听单词发音 |
1
eternity
|
|
| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
rouge
|
|
| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
axe
|
|
| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
Founder
|
|
| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
winding
|
|
| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
microscopic
|
|
| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
monotonous
|
|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
wan
|
|
| (wide area network)广域网 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
skilfully
|
|
| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
remorse
|
|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
desolately
|
|
| 荒凉地，寂寞地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
narrative
|
|
| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
nomad
|
|
| n.游牧部落的人，流浪者，游牧民 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
tingling
|
|
| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
transcends
|
|
| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的第三人称单数 )； 优于或胜过… | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
inanities
|
|
| n.空洞( inanity的名词复数 )；浅薄；愚蠢；空洞的言行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
17
foul
|
|
| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
humanitarian
|
|
| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
entrusted
|
|
| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
blot
|
|
| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
barbarians
|
|
| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
futile
|
|
| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
vein
|
|
| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
gaily
|
|
| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
interspersed
|
|
| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
intonation
|
|
| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
attain
|
|
| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
affected
|
|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
interfere
|
|
| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
salon
|
|
| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
shrugged
|
|
| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
deference
|
|
| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
pallid
|
|
| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
trepidation
|
|
| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
cub
|
|
| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
preposterous
|
|
| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
tyrant
|
|
| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
assortment
|
|
| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
vacuously
|
|
| adv.无意义地，茫然若失地，无所事事地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
moribund
|
|
| adj.即将结束的，垂死的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
supple
|
|
| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
fluency
|
|
| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
questionable
|
|
| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
pious
|
|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
fanatic
|
|
| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
apropos
|
|
| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
pretensions
|
|
| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
casually
|
|
| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
maternal
|
|
| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
fabulous
|
|
| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
degenerate
|
|
| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
lugubrious
|
|
| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
maliciously
|
|
| adv.有敌意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
diminutive
|
|
| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
eyebrows
|
|
| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
mortifying
|
|
| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
outrageously
|
|
| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
suburban
|
|
| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
hop
|
|
| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
pervaded
|
|
| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
furtive
|
|
| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
gauging
|
|
| n.测量[试]，测定，计量v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的现在分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
sinuous
|
|
| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
victorious
|
|
| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
irritation
|
|
| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
burlesqued
|
|
| v.（嘲弄地）模仿，（通过模仿）取笑( burlesque的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
platitudes
|
|
| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
embarrassments
|
|
| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
haughtily
|
|
| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
insular
|
|
| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
inane
|
|
| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
groomed
|
|
| v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的过去式和过去分词 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
hubbub
|
|
| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
nervously
|
|
| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
grumbled
|
|
| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
desolated
|
|
| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
influential
|
|
| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
intermittently
|
|
| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
gusts
|
|
| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
bribe
|
|
| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
grotesquely
|
|
| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
belly
|
|
| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
cynical
|
|
| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
cosmopolitan
|
|
| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
conspirators
|
|
| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |