That afternoon we had a scene, and late that night another. The memory of the former is a little blotted1 out. Things began to move so quickly that, try as I will to arrange their sequence in my mind, I cannot. I cannot even very distinctly remember what she told me at that first explanation. I must have attacked her fiercely—on the score of de Mersch, in the old vein2; must have told her that I would not in the interest of the name allow her to see the man again. She told me things, too, rather abominable3 things, about the way in which she had got Halderschrodt into her power and was pressing him down. Halderschrodt was de Mersch’s banker-inchief; his fall would mean de Mersch’s, and so on. The “so on” in this case meant a great deal more. Halderschrodt, apparently4, was the “somebody who was up to something” of the American paper—that is to say the allied5 firms that Halderschrodt represented. I can’t remember the details. They were too huge and too unfamiliar6, and I was too agitated7 by my own share in the humanity of it. But, in sum, it seemed that the fall of Halderschrodt would mean a sort of incredibly vast Black Monday—a frightful8 thing in the existing state of public confidence, but one which did not mean much to me. I forget how she said she had been able to put the screw on him. Halderschrodt, as you must remember, was the third of his colossal9 name, a man without much genius and conscious of the lack, obsessed10 with the idea of operating some enormous coup11, like the founder12 of his dynasty, something in which foresight13 in international occurrence played a chief part. That idea was his weakness, the defect of his mind, and she had played on that weakness. I forget, I say, the details, if I ever heard them; they concerned themselves with a dynastic revolution somewhere, a revolution that was to cause a slump14 all over the world, and that had been engineered in our Salon15. And she had burked the revolution—betrayed it, I suppose—and the consequences did not ensue, and Halderschrodt and all the rest of them were left high and dry.
The whole thing was a matter of under-currents that never came to the surface, a matter of shifting sands from which only those with the clearest heads could come forth16.
“And we . . . we have clear heads,” she said. It was impossible to listen to her without shuddering17. For me, if he stood for anything, Halderschrodt stood for stability; there was the tremendous name, and there was the person I had just seen, the person on whom a habit of mind approaching almost to the royal had conferred a presence that had some of the divinity that hedges a king. It seemed frightful merely to imagine his ignominious18 collapse19; as frightful as if she had pointed20 out a splendid-limbed man and said: “That man will be dead in five minutes.” That, indeed, was what she said of Halderschrodt. . . . The man had saluted21 her, going to his death; the austere22 inclination23 that I had seen had been the salutation of such a man.
I was so moved by one thing and another that I hardly noticed that Gurnard had come into the room. I had not seen him since the night when he had dined with the Duc de Mersch at Churchill’s, but he seemed so part of the emotion, of the frame of mind, that he slid noiselessly into the scene and hardly surprised me. I was called out of the room—someone desired to see me, and I passed, without any transition of feeling, into the presence of an entire stranger—a man who remains24 a voice to me. He began to talk to me about the state of my aunt’s health. He said she was breaking up; that he begged respectfully to urge that I would use my influence to take her back to London to consult Sir James—I, perhaps, living in the house and not having known my aunt for very long, might not see; but he . . . He was my aunt’s solicitor25. He was quite right; my aunt was breaking up, she had declined visibly in the few hours that I had been away from her. She had been doing business with this man, had altered her will, had seen Mr. Gurnard; and, in some way had received a shock that seemed to have deprived her of all volition26. She sat with her head leaning back, her eyes closed, the lines of her face all seeming to run downward.
“It is obvious to me that arrangements ought to be made for your return to England,” the lawyer said, “whatever engagements Miss Granger or Mr. Etchingham Granger or even Mr. Gurnard may have made.”
I wondered vaguely27 what the devil Mr. Gurnard could have to say in the matter, and then Miss Granger herself came into the room.
“They want me,” my aunt said in a low voice, “they have been persuading me . . . to go back . . . to Etchingham, I think you said, Meredith.”
I became conscious that I wanted to return to England, wanted it very much, wanted to be out of this; to get somewhere where there was stability and things that one could understand. Everything here seemed to be in a mist, with the ground trembling underfoot.
“Why . . . ” Miss Granger’s verdict came, “we can go when you like. To-morrow.”
Things immediately began to shape themselves on these unexpected lines, a sort of bustle28 of departure to be in the air. I was employed to conduct the lawyer as far as the porter’s lodge29, a longish traverse. He beguiled30 the way by excusing himself for hurrying back to London.
“I might have been of use; in these hurried departures there are generally things. But, you will understand, Mr.—Mr. Etchingham; at a time like this I could hardly spare the hours that it cost me to come over. You would be astonished what a deal of extra work it gives and how far-spreading the evil is. People seem to have gone mad. Even I have been astonished.”
“I had no idea,” I said.
“Of course not, of course not—no one had. But, unless I am much mistaken—much—there will have to be an enquiry, and people will be very lucky who have had nothing to do with it . . . ”
I gathered that things were in a bad way, over there as over here; that there were scandals and a tremendous outcry for purification in the highest places. I saw the man get into his fiacre and took my way back across the court-yard rather slowly, pondering over the part I was to fill in the emigration, wondering how far events had conferred on me a partnership32 in the family affairs.
I found that my tacitly acknowledged function was that of supervising nurse-tender, the sort of thing that made for personal tenderness in the aridity33 of profuse34 hired help. I was expected to arrange a rug just a little more comfortably than the lady’s maid who would travel in the compartment—to give the finishing touches.
It was astonishing how well the thing was engineered; the removal, I mean. It gave me an even better idea of the woman my aunt had been than even the panic of her solicitor. The thing went as smoothly35 as the disappearance36 of a caravan37 of gypsies, camped for the night on a heath beside gorse bushes. We went to the ball that night as if from a household that had its roots deep in the solid rock, and in the morning we had disappeared.
The ball itself was a finishing touch—the finishing touch of my sister’s affairs and the end of my patience. I spent an interminable night, one of those nights that never end and that remain quivering and raw in the memory. I seemed to be in a blaze of light, watching, through a shifting screen of shimmering38 dresses—her and the Duc de Mersch. I don’t know whether the thing was really noticeable, but it seemed that everyone was—that everyone must be-remarking it. I thought I caught women making smile-punctuated remarks behind fans, men answering inaudibly with eyes discreetly39 on the ground. It was a mixed assembly, somebody’s liquidation40 of social obligations, and there was a sprinkling of the kind of people who do make remarks. It was not the noticeability for its own sake that I hated, but the fact that their relations by their noticeability made me impossible, whilst the notice itself confirmed my own fears. I hung, glowering41 in corners, noticeable enough myself, I suppose.
The thing reached a crisis late in the evening. There was a kind of winter-garden that one strolled in, a place of giant palms stretching up into a darkness of intense shadow. I was prowling about in the shadows of great metallic42 leaves, cursing under my breath, in a fury of nervous irritation43; quivering like a horse martyrised by a stupidly merciless driver. I happened to stand back for a moment in the narrowest of paths, with the touch of spiky44 leaves on my hand and on my face. In front of me was the glaring perspective of one of the longer alleys45, and, stepping into it, a great band of blue ribbon cutting across his chest, came de Mersch with her upon his arm. De Mersch himself hardly counted. He had a way of glowing, but he paled ineffectual fires beside her m?nadic glow. There was something overpowering in the sight of her, in the fire of her eyes, in the glow of her coils of hair, in the poise46 of her head. She wore some kind of early nineteenth-century dress, sweeping47 low from the waist with a tenderness of fold that affected48 one with delicate pathos49, that had a virgin50 quality of almost poignant51 intensity52. And beneath it she stepped with the buoyancy—the long steps—of a triumphing Diana.
It was more than terrible for me to stand there longing53 with a black, baffled longing, with some of the base quality of an eavesdropper54 and all the baseness of the unsuccessful.
Then Gurnard loomed55 in the distance, moving insensibly down the long, glaring corridor, a sinister56 figure, suggesting in the silence of his oncoming the motionless flight of a vulture. Well within my field of sight he overtook them and, with a lack of preliminary greeting that suggested supreme57 intimacy58, walked beside them. I stood for some moments—for some minutes, and then hastened after them. I was going to do something. After a time I found de Mersch and Gurnard standing59 facing each other in one of the doorways60 of the place—Gurnard, a small, dark, impassive column; de Mersch, bulky, overwhelming, florid, standing with his legs well apart and speaking vociferously61 with a good deal of gesture. I approached them from the side, standing rather insistently62 at his elbow.
“I want,” I said, “I would be extremely glad if you would give me a minute, monsieur.” I was conscious that I spoke63 with a tremour of the voice, a sort of throaty eagerness. I was unaware64 of what course I was to pursue, but I was confident of calmness, of self-control—I was equal to that. They had a pause of surprised silence. Gurnard wheeled and fixed65 me critically with his eye-glass. I took de Mersch a little apart, into a solitude66 of palm branches, and began to speak before he had asked me my errand.
“You must understand that I would not interfere67 without a good deal of provocation,” I was saying, when he cut me short, speaking in a thick, jovial68 voice.
“Oh, we will understand that, my good Granger, and then . . . ”
“It is about my sister,” I said—“you—you go too far. I must ask you, as a gentleman, to cease persecuting69 her.”
He answered “The devil!” and then: “If I do not——?”
It was evident in his voice, in his manner, that the man was a little—well, gris. “If you do not,” I said, “I shall forbid her to see you and I shall . . . ”
“Oh, oh!” he interjected with the intonation70 of a reveller71 at a farce72. “We are at that—we are the excellent brother.” He paused, and then added: “Well, go to the devil, you and your forbidding.” He spoke with the greatest good humour.
“I am in earnest,” I said; “very much in earnest. The thing has gone too far, and even for your own sake, you had better . . . ”
He said “Ah, ah!” in the tone of his “Oh, oh!”
“She is no friend to you,” I struggled on, “she is playing with you for her own purposes; you will . . . ”
He swayed a little on his feet and said: “Bravo . . . bravissimo. If we can’t forbid him, we will frighten him. Go on, my good fellow . . . ” and then, “Come, go on . . . ”
I looked at his great bulk of a body. It came into my head dimly that I wanted him to strike me, to give me an excuse—anything to end the scene violently, with a crash and exclamations73 of fury.
“You absolutely refuse to pay any attention?” I said.
“Oh, absolutely,” he answered.
“You know that I can do something, that I can expose you.” I had a vague idea that I could, that the number of small things that I knew to his discredit74 and the mass of my hatred75 could be welded into a damning whole. He laughed a high-pitched, hysterical76 laugh. The dawn was beginning to spread pallidly78 above us, gleaming mournfully through the glass of the palm-house. People began to pass, muffled79 up, on their way out of the place.
“You may go . . . ” he was beginning. But the expression of his face altered. Miss Granger, muffled up like all the rest of the world, was coming out of the inner door. “We have been having a charming . . . ” he began to her. She touched me gently on the arm.
“Come, Arthur,” she said, and then to him, “You have heard the news?”
He looked at her rather muzzily.
“Baron Halderschrodt has committed suicide,” she said. “Come, Arthur.”
We passed on slowly, but de Mersch followed.
“You—you aren’t in earnest?” he said, catching80 at her arm so that we swung round and faced him. There was a sort of mad entreaty81 in his eyes, as if he hoped that by unsaying she could remedy an irremediable disaster, and there was nothing left of him but those panic-stricken, beseeching82 eyes.
“Monsieur de Sabran told me,” she answered; “he had just come from making the constatation. Besides, you can hear . . . ”
Half-sentences came to our ears from groups that passed us. A very old man with a nose that almost touched his thick lips, was saying to another of the same type:
“Shot himself . . . through the left temple . . . Mon Dieu!”
De Mersch walked slowly down the long corridor away from us. There was an extraordinary stiffness in his gait, as if he were trying to emulate83 the goose step of his days in the Prussian Guard. My companion looked after him as though she wished to gauge84 the extent of his despair.
“You would say ‘Habet,’ wouldn’t you?” she asked me.
I thought we had seen the last of him, but as in the twilight85 of the dawn we waited for the lodge gates to open, a furious clatter86 of hoofs87 came down the long street, and a carriage drew level with ours. A moment after, de Mersch was knocking at our window.
“You will . . . you will . . . ” he stuttered, “speak . . . to Mr. Gurnard. That is our only chance . . . now.” His voice came in mingled88 with the cold air of the morning. I shivered. “You have so much power . . . with him and. . . . ”
“Oh, I . . . ” she answered.
“The thing must go through,” he said again, “or else . . . ” He paused. The great gates in front of us swung noiselessly open, one saw into the court-yard. The light was growing stronger. She did not answer.
“I tell you,” he asseverated89 insistently, “if the British Government abandons my railway all our plans . . . ”
“Oh, the Government won’t abandon it,” she said, with a little emphasis on the verb. He stepped back out of range of the wheels, and we turned in and left him standing there.
In the great room which was usually given up to the political plotters stood a table covered with eatables and lit by a pair of candles in tall silver sticks. I was conscious of a raging hunger and of a fierce excitement that made the thought of sleep part of a past of phantoms90. I began to eat unconsciously, pacing up and down the while. She was standing beside the table in the glow of the transparent91 light. Pallid77 blue lines showed in the long windows. It was very cold and hideously93 late; away in those endless small hours when the pulse drags, when the clock-beat drags, when time is effaced94.
“You see?” she said suddenly.
“Oh, I see,” I answered—“and . . . and now?”
“Now we are almost done with each other,” she answered.
I felt a sudden mental falling away. I had never looked at things in that way, had never really looked things in the face. I had grown so used to the idea that she was to parcel out the remainder of my life, had grown so used to the feeling that I was the integral portion of her life . . . “But I—” I said, “What is to become of me?”
She stood looking down at the ground . . . for a long time. At last she said in a low monotone:
“Oh, you must try to forget.”
A new idea struck me—luminously, overwhelming. I grew reckless. “You—you are growing considerate,” I taunted95. “You are not so sure, not so cold. I notice a change in you. Upon my soul . . . ”
Her eyes dilated96 suddenly, and as suddenly closed again. She said nothing. I grew conscious of unbearable97 pain, the pain of returning life. She was going away. I should be alone. The future began to exist again, looming98 up like a vessel99 through thick mist, silent, phantasmal, overwhelming—a hideous92 future of irremediable remorse100, of solitude, of craving101.
“You are going back to work with Churchill,” she said suddenly.
“How did you know?” I asked breathlessly. My despair of a sort found vent31 in violent interjecting of an immaterial query102.
“You leave your letters about,” she said, “and. . . . It will be best for you.”
“It will not,” I said bitterly. “It could never be the same. I don’t want to see Churchill. I want. . . . ”
“You want?” she asked, in a low monotone.
“You,” I answered.
She spoke at last, very slowly:
“Oh, as for me, I am going to marry Gurnard.”
I don’t know just what I said then, but I remember that I found myself repeating over and over again, the phrases running metrically up and down my mind: “You couldn’t marry Gurnard; you don’t know what he is. You couldn’t marry Gurnard; you don’t know what he is.” I don’t suppose that I knew anything to the discredit of Gurnard—but he struck me in that way at that moment; struck me convincingly—more than any array of facts could have done.
“Oh—as for what he is—” she said, and paused. “I know. . . . ” and then suddenly she began to speak very fast.
“Don’t you see?—can’t you see?—that I don’t marry Gurnard for what he is in that sense, but for what he is in the other. It isn’t a marriage in your sense at all. And . . . and it doesn’t affect you . . . don’t you see? We have to have done with one another, because . . . because. . . . ”
I had an inspiration.
“I believe,” I said, very slowly, “I believe . . . you do care. . . . ”
She said nothing.
“You care,” I repeated.
She spoke then with an energy that had something of a threat in it. “Do you think I would? Do you think I could? . . . or dare? Don’t you understand?” She faltered—“but then. . . . ” she added, and was silent for a long minute. I felt the throb103 of a thousand pulses in my head, on my temples. “Oh, yes, I care,” she said slowly, “but that—that makes it all the worse. Why, yes, I care—yes, yes. It hurts me to see you. I might. . . . It would draw me away. I have my allotted104 course. And you—Don’t you see, you would influence me; you would be-you are—a disease—for me.”
“But,” I said, “I could—I would—do anything.”
I had only the faintest of ideas of what I would do—for her sake.
“Ah, no,” she said, “you must not say that. You don’t understand. . . . Even that would mean misery105 for you—and I—I could not bear. Don’t you see? Even now, before you have done your allotted part, I am wanting—oh, wanting—to let you go. . . . But I must not; I must not. You must go on . . . and bear it for a little while more—and then. . . . ”
There was a tension somewhere, a string somewhere that was stretched tight and vibrating. I was tremulous with an excitement that overmastered my powers of speech, that surpassed my understanding.
“Don’t you see . . . ” she asked again, “you are the past—the passing. We could never meet. You are . . . for me . . . only the portrait of a man—of a man who has been dead—oh, a long time; and I, for you, only a possibility . . . a conception. . . . You work to bring me on—to make me possible.”
“But—” I said. The idea was so difficult to grasp. “I will—there must be a way—”
“No,” she answered, “there is no way—you must go back; must try. There will be Churchill and what he stands for—He won’t die, he won’t even care much for losing this game . . . not much. . . . And you will have to forget me. There is no other way—no bridge. We can’t meet, you and I. . . . ”
The words goaded106 me to fury. I began to pace furiously up and down. I wanted to tell her that I would throw away everything for her, would crush myself out, would be a lifeless tool, would do anything. But I could tear no words out of the stone that seemed to surround me.
“You may even tell him, if you like, what I and Gurnard are going to do. It will make no difference; he will fall. But you would like him to—to make a good fight for it, wouldn’t you? That is all I can do . . . for your sake.”
I began to speak—as if I had not spoken for years. The house seemed to be coming to life; there were noises of opening doors, of voices outside.
“I believe you care enough,” I said “to give it all up for me. I believe you do, and I want you.” I continued to pace up and down. The noises of returning day grew loud; frightfully loud. It was as if I must hasten, must get said what I had to say, as if I must raise my voice to make it heard amid the clamour of a world awakening107 to life.
“I believe you do . . . I believe you do. . . . ” I said again and again, “and I want you.” My voice rose higher and higher. She stood motionless, an inscrutable white figure, like some silent Greek statue, a harmony of falling folds of heavy drapery perfectly108 motionless.
“I want you,” I said—“I want you, I want you, I want you.” It was unbearable to myself.
“Oh, be quiet,” she said at last. “Be quiet! If you had wanted me I have been here. It is too late. All these days; all these—”
“But . . . ” I said.
From without someone opened the great shutters109 of the windows, and the light from the outside world burst in upon us.
收听单词发音 |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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slump
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| n.暴跌，意气消沉，（土地）下沉；vi.猛然掉落，坍塌，大幅度下跌 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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vaguely
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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aridity
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| n.干旱，乏味；干燥性；荒芜 | |
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profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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39
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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40
liquidation
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| n.清算，停止营业 | |
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41
glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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42
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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43
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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44
spiky
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| adj.长而尖的，大钉似的 | |
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45
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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46
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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47
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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48
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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49
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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50
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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51
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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52
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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53
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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54
eavesdropper
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| 偷听者 | |
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55
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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56
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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57
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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58
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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60
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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61
vociferously
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| adv.喊叫地，吵闹地 | |
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insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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63
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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reveller
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| n.摆设酒宴者，饮酒狂欢者 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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pallidly
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| adv.无光泽地，苍白无血色地 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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83
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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88
mingled
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| 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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asseverated
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| v.郑重声明，断言( asseverate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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91
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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92
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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93
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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94
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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95
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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98
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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99
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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100
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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101
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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102
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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103
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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104
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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106
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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107
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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108
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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109
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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