Early next morning he got up and walked about outside. Kanga Creek4 lay among the spurs branching out from the central range. Beyond Carroll’s farm the valley, with the little creek threading a path along its centre, seemed to run up into a gully against the side of Mount Bambaroo which stood at the head far away, with its dense5 mysterious cedar6 forests. There were hills on every side except where the valley opened out to the south.
After breakfast the young schoolmaster made his way to the other two homesteads, at one or other of which he hoped to find lodging8. The three little farms that occupied the valley formed the three angles of an isosceles triangle; Carroll’s was the apex9; the little schoolhouse came nearly in the middle; from apex to base was about two miles. The two farms forming the base he was now nearing belonged to two brothers, Thomas and Robert Quick. Old Quick had come out from England with Carroll long years ago and settled in the valley to till the soil, breed a few cattle and sheep, and beget10 many sons and daughters who had overflowed12 into neighboring valleys. Now he was dead, and a little wooden cross and a great heap of stones marked his lonely hillside grave. Thomas Quick, who had been out ring-barking on the hillside since early morning, had returned for breakfast. He received the schoolmaster shyly and respectfully, and he spoke13 slowly and with difficulty, as one who was seldom called upon to express himself in words. While his wife stood in the background smiling out of her large pleasant brown eyes, he tried to explain that they had no empty rooms. Then the young schoolmaster went across to Robert Quick’s farm; he came forward still more shily than his brother, and his hands nervously14 clutched and worked round the verandah post as he stammered15 an answer to the teacher’s few questions and remarks. From round the corner a little boy with merry black eyes peeped at the new schoolmaster.
The young schoolmaster walked slowly back to the schoolhouse. He went through the ill-made gate and stood on the verandah; he looked at the place more carefully than at first. It was built of great rough-hewn slabs17, some of which were loose and could be moved with slight effort. Inside it had once been papered over, but the paper had mostly fallen away, and here and there were great chinks between the slabs. The place was divided into four compartments18, for the two at the back could scarcely be called rooms though one contained some shelves and a box that held the schoolbooks and registers. The two rooms each opened on to the little verandah. The schoolroom contained a table, and such desks and forms as were necessary for twelve or eighteen children; here was the fireplace; it was clear the room had served also as his predecessor’s kitchen. The other had been his bedroom; it contained two pieces of furniture only, a four-legged stool and, for a bedstead, eight pieces of wood put together so as to sling19 a couple of flour sacks, forming a kind of hammock; there were also two sacks on the floor. After he had noticed these things and had seen also the extent of the property he had bought of Gray — an axe20, a bucket, a broom, a saucepan, a frying-pan, a plate, a cup, a knife, a fork and two spoons — he sat down at the table with his head on his hands gazing vacantly at the opposite wall. He sat so still that at last three lean mice appeared on the floor and hopped21 cautiously about. Then he got up and went out. He walked slowly across the stony22 creek down by the grim shea-oaks, and along the narrow track, past a boulder23 of red lichen-covered sandstone, that led to Carroll’s farm. The little man saw him at the gate of the paddock, and came forward with his leisurely24 but business-like walk, and the little clay pipe thrust carelessly in the corner of his mouth. After a few remarks he said suddenly, with an outburst of decision: “I can’t have you staying here any longer; you must clear out. I have got a sick daughter in there and my wife has to go about of nights. Me and my son Jim built yon schoolhouse and there you must bide25.” Then he closed his mouth and pressed his thin lips together with an air of determination, holding the little clay pipe in his hand. The young schoolmaster looked for a second at his scrubby grey chin and then said quietly: “Very well.” Soon he had taken up the small black bag and was going, at first slowly, then very swiftly, along the little track past the red sandstone boulder towards the schoolhouse. He had been about to tell his resolve to live at the schoolhouse and he instinctively26 resented the little man’s petulant27 outburst. It seemed like the climax28 to the series of petty miseries29 that had been descending30 upon him; he felt tired of this new strange life that he could not retreat from, even before it had begun. He walked still faster, and, as he went down by the gaunt black shea-oaks and stumbled over the smooth grey stones in the creek bed, his eyes were pricking31 and stinging as though they would burst. He thought it would be sweet to be a child to lie down and cry.
While he was unpacking32 the black bag to see what it contained besides books, and making preparations for the night, he heard a gentle tap at the door. A little girl, with large brown motherly-looking eyes, delivered a neat message and handed him several dishes, round which a great striped blue and white handkerchief was knotted. They contained some cooked mutton and a peach pie. This little attention was pleasant to the schoolmaster, and by and by, after he had eaten a slice of the pie, and it began to grow dark, he lay down very cautiously on Gray’s bedstead. It was not so uncomfortable as it looked, but he could get no sleep. He was oppressed by a dreary34 and profound loneliness; all his senses were abnormally awake; the bare and unaccustomed walls seemed to press fiercely towards him through the gloom. At intervals35 he heard the curlew’s melancholy36 monotonous37 cry; a great moth33 sailed in through the open space over the door and flung itself noisily against the walls; he watched occasional stars pass slowly over some chink in the shingled38 roof; he was startled by a rapid and excited clambering of feet in the schoolroom chimney and for a few minutes some animal seemed to be dashing about the next room with almost supernatural energy; then after more clambering, there was silence. These new and unexpected phenomena39 kept his senses in a state of tension. He began to feel cool, too; it was summer, but Kanga Creek was in the hills. And once, as he tossed restlessly over, Gray’s hammock came to the floor. Here he lay, and as the pale dawn light slowly filled the room there came to him a soothing40 sense of rest. After that he went outside in trousers and shirt and stood on the verandah and felt the sweet warm silent sunlight that flooded all the land; then into the schoolroom where everything looked the same as the day before except that his silk hat was rough and there was fluff in it as if some small marsupial41 had found a nest there.
It was Sunday, and he occupied himself with preparations for the schoolwork that was to begin next day. On Monday two little troops of girls came toddling42 gravely towards the schoolhouse with their slates43 and bags of books and lunch, all chattering44 earnestly together in womanly fashion; and then, a little later, shrieking45 and shouting, came four or five boys. They all belonged to the three neighboring homesteads; only one pale sickly girl rode over from an adjoining valley, and fastened her pony46 to the fence. Then the schoolmaster rang the dull-toned old cattle bell that at other times served to keep the schoolroom door open, and the children formed in double line, to ‘show hands’ and march into school. So began the daily routine of the youth’s life in this quiet valley. He had arranged that Thomas Quick should take his spring-cart into Ayr to bring out his box and some provisions that he had carefully made a list of, with a pair of blankets and another bucket from Trogg, the Chinese storekeeper. Mrs. Carroll had undertaken to send what bread he required on her baking days twice a week, if he supplied the flour, and he began to gain a pleasant sense of independence. He made no further additions to his household furniture, perhaps unconsciously arguing that in a life so remote from that he had been used to it was scarcely worth while to attempt any outside reconciliation47. Beside, Gray seemed to have lived in some such way; why should not he? He realised, too, for the first time, with a delightful48 sense of freedom, that mere16 everyday life could become a far simpler and easier thing than he had ever before imagined. The school routine ran like a connecting thread of commonplace through his life; it gave equability and poise49, while it was for the most part too slight to put any strain on the free play of his emotional and intellectual life. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday he was at Kanga Creek; Thursday and Friday he walked over the range to the neighboring valley of Blair’s Creek, where six or eight children awaited him in a rough little schoolroom. Next week it was Monday and Tuesday at Kanga Creek; Wednesday, Thursday and Friday at Blair’s Creek, and all the hours out of schooltime were his own. The Carrolls or Quicks seldom came near him; he seldom went near them. So it went on.
In that far valley the life of men was as the life of cattle or trees. There was little gladness there and little sorrow. It seemed even, sometimes, as if life stood still, and the old recurrence50 of birth and death ceased. Man had come to that new strange corner of the earth, and struggled strongly with Nature, as with Atlanta her lovers struggled of old, and now, in seeming, he had conquerred, and they lived together silent and content. Early in the morning the measured music of a distant axe might sometimes float down the hillside; a remote cattle bell tinkled51 lazily all day long; between school hours the children shouted down among the stones and the shea-oaks in the creek’s bed, or perhaps chanted in their play the old rhyme of Oranges and Lemons — the old rhyme that had been born under the shadow of City churches and had wandered around the world into this valley of great myrtles — and at night the low monotonous cry of the curlew or the sudden scream of an animal in pain echoed along the creek. There was little sound there beside. No flocks of cockatoos rose into the air with shrill52 discordant53 yell; it was seldom that any gorgeous family of parrots alighted there, to adjust their noisy quarrels or to play at making love. Only at night sometimes the wind roared in long paroxysms among the hills, as though an ocean had broken loose, and with slowly gathering55 force swept at last through the gorge54 and down the valley, and once or twice the manifold crash of an uprooted56 tree came to startle the young schoolmaster as he sat reading at the little brown table, with two empty packing cases set to guard the candle from the blast.
No strangers ever came to that valley. One evening the schoolmaster heard a knock at the door and found a woman outside who asked the way to the town beyond the hills. “I and another lady’s camped under yonder tree,” she explained, jerking her hand towards a delicate curl of smoke. That was the only stranger he saw. No Chinaman made his way there with the inevitable57 baskets hanging from his shoulders. No great drays laden58 with bales of cotton or some small and weighty fragment of mineral wealth ever crawled past there with long team of bullocks. Only, at intervals of three or four months, he heard of the hawker’s visit to the Carrolls or Quicks. On Sundays the elder Carroll girls, with their brothers, would sometimes ride into Ayr early the morning, and the schoolmaster heard their laughter and the clatter59 of their horses’ hoofs60 on the stones as they crossed the creek, and again when they came back late in the moonlight. Thomas Quick sat on his verandah and read some old numbers of the “Sunday at Home;” and in the afternoon, when her husband, with his little clay pipe stuck carelessly into the corner of his mouth, had started on a walk round his land, and the children were away, Mrs. Carroll put on a clean dress and sat down on the verandah with an open Prayer Book laid on her knees. No religious service had ever been held in that remote valley; and she read little in the Prayer Book, but this reminiscence was soothing to her. She sat there in her print dress, and her worn anxious face became peaceful; as she looked into the soft bright sky and the dusky green hillside she dreamed of the time, long years ago, when she was with Mrs. Thompson, at what was now Burton’s farm, and the days still farther away when she was a child playing in old Kentish hop7 fields.
The drought broke up soon after the schoolmaster’s arrival, a swift tawny61 red flood came foaming62 down the creek among the shea-oaks to become afterwards a quiet streamlet. Every morning now, as he had arranged with the Carrolls, Bessie — who was one of his pupils, a pale-faced girl with loose-looking lips and a quick-toned voice wavering between impertinence and coquetry — brought him a large bottle of milk, and he began the day by going down to the creek and bringing up two buckets of water and then made himself some porridge. After that, if it was the day for going to Blair’s Creek across the hills, he put a book — Heine or Montaigne or “Wilhelm Meister”— into one pocket of his alpaca jacket, and some biscuits for lunch and a flask64 of cold tea into the other, and started over the eastern ridge63. Sometimes the exhilaration of the fresh air and soft distant sky, the silence and isolation65 of that strange land, wrought66 in the young schoolmaster’s veins67 to an ecstacy of abandonment. Once he flung himself down beneath a gum-tree with excess of joy in the presence of that glad warm earth, as though he would kiss the whole world. Sometimes, as he stood looking into the creek or walking along the hillside, he would sing over to himself some fragment of verse. One day it would be Prinzessin Ilse, and uplifted by the emotional reverberations of the lyric68 and the intoxication69 of the strong bright air he would walk on, scarcely feeling how the track here and there became steep and rough, till he shouted aloud:
Es bleiben todt die Todten
Und nur der lebendige lebt!
Then he stood still, hot and out of breath, on the summit of a little stony hill. A few spotted70 thistles grew on its sides with their glossy71 white-veined leaves, while a little way off on the stout72 branch of a dead tree a huge jew-lizard basked73 stolidly74 in the sun. As he stood there he was only conscious of the dusky green hills, with the bright mysterious peace as of Beulah resting on them, that stretched, range after range, as far as his eye could reach, that no man had touched, that were still clothed in their infinite robe of sunlight and silence.
At that time it seemed as if he had reached a finely touched moment of life. The simplicity75 to which he had from taste and indolence reduced the process of living, the strenuous76 walks across the hills to Blair’s Creek, the brief monotony of schoolhours, left open all the highest springs of enjoyment77. His young mind, set free by the books he was reading by day and by night, went tracking in all directions the problems of the universe. How many times the dreary heat of that path across the hills, or the toilsome slime of the descent after rain, was made sweet and easy by this inner life which rendered him unconscious of the things around him. But yet in spite of himself the things around him formed an inseparable part of his mental process, and some indifferent or unnoticed object, some mere bush or hillock, became linked to an idea and for ever recalled it with persistent78 iteration; and he grew irritated that the free pearls of his thought should be strung and confined by the commonplace line of his path across the hills. Yet, sometimes, under the stress of some peculiarly soft and exhilarating flood of light and air, of some wider pulse of blood, he was called out of such concentrated and abstract moods by more concrete appeals from the large nature around him. Sometimes it was the apple-gums that grew on a slope at one part of his way and were lost in the valley; they soothed79 him with their large gracious limbs and soft cinnamon bark; and for that day his journey would be swifter. At another time it might be the great slow elastic80 bounds of a large kangaroo across his path and down into the gully below. On one evening, as he came down the ridge, he caught a sudden glimpse of the red roses half hidden in green leaves that grew up the schoolhouse verandah posts and a quick thrill of delight ran through his body. Often after that as he came down from the crest81 of the ridge he looked wistfully at the roses, but no pulse of joy was stirred. It is only at rare and subtly poised82 moments that some vast electric touch of Nature’s finger can overflow11 brain and body with so sudden a spasm83 of delight. It was by the development of these new channels of sensational84 and mental activity that the youth lived gladly without human companionship. He united a strong longing85 for sympathy with an equally strong distrust of his own power to evoke86 sympathy.
This morbid87 self-scepticism, while it was mistaken for proud reserve, had rendered all approach to the human beings whose love he longed for little more than a prolonged agony on the threshold of intimacy88. At this point of his life he was lifted above the struggles that ended in self-contempt to a new and joyous89 sphere of freedom. Books absorbed him chiefly. Often he read, sometimes aloud, till long past midnight, and when the Carrolls rode home over the creek one Sunday night they heard him and said to one another that the schoolmaster was frightened at being alone. No passion came to disturb him; his emotional nature seemed mostly dormant90 during those peaceful days. The year before, a woman’s face and form and voice had strung his imagination with a strange, half bitter sweetness; now that desire had passed into a tender dream which seemed to him as the embodiment of a phase he had passed through, and he wrote some verses addressed to ‘Ada’ with the motto:
Wenn ich dich liebe was gehts dich an?
On his path over the range at the highest point before the descent into Blair’s Creek distant twin hills came into view whose large swelling91 curves seemed the vast breasts of the goddess of that land lying recumbent across the earth. Whenever he reached the crest that brought those montains breasts suddenly to his sight a faint pulse of pleasure, half emotional, half intellectual, went through the young schoolmaster, and if he had grown tired he was tired no longer. On one evening, during the occasional half hour that he spent with the Carrolls, as he sat on the settle and replied briefly while the old man talked in his downright way of German aggrandizement92 and the Congress and the unnecessary expense of maintaining a royal family, and lamented93 that he had never learned to read and had to depend on his daughter for the news in the “Mercury”, the schoolmaster’s eyes casually94 fell on the figure of one of the elder girls at the point where her breasts swelled95 out beneath the brown stuff dress. A sudden giddiness seized him; in the person of that coarse unlovely girl the whole unrealised power of womanhood smote96 him.
It was not long after this that he sat one evening in the schoolroom reading Middlemarch on the bench at the little brown table in the corner by the fire. It was August, the evenings were still cool. He had dragged in a young sapling that the creek had washed down, one end reached to the back of the deep fireplace, the other was outside the door; he was burning it up into pieces of two feet long, instead of using the axe. By and by, as he read on, from the midst of the narrative’s solemn elaborate texture97 the figure of Dorothea began to clothe itself with intense, quivering, strangely vivid life. It seemed to become the embodiment of all the latent instincts of his heart, of the old vague longing for love, the fierce hidden yearning98 of unviolated youth for some larger human thing to reveal its own immense mysteries of freedom and life. All these profound sexual instincts were at the moment stirred within this youth with a power born of his isolation and became incarnated99 in Dorothea. He read on, steadily100 and fiercely, hour after hour, to the end. But this Dorothea that he had created, this symbol of the loveliness of love, haunted and tormented101 him with its unattainable sweetness. At intervals he had seen to the burning sapling and now it lay in pieces of two feet long in a heap on one side of the hearth102. He walked fevereshly across the little room, diagonally from the little brown table to the back door. At intervals, as was usual with him, he spoke aloud; they were short, bitter, despairing words. With the world-weariness of youth it seemed to him that life had no more possibilities. In all the world there was no sweet-bodied, sweet-souled woman to bring to such a creature as he that chalice103 of love that he was thirsting for with the old elemental thirst that was first born with the dim far birth of life itself. Only scorn could the ideal Dorothea, it seemed, have of him. He flung himself on the floor before the fire, maddened at the thought, and clenched104 his hands, while now and then a low moan came from him, as he tossed round at each convulsive throb105 of that tortured nerve of his heart in which alone at that moment he seemed to live. “There is no one in the world anywhere who can love, who can give me the love I want.” Then for some time he sobbed106. He got up at last; the fire was out; only a faint red stump107 lay in a heap of white ashes between the bricks. He lifted the latch108 and went out on to the verandah. It was starlight; the moon had not risen yet, but the eastern sky was pale. He walked down and pushed open the little ill-constructed gate, and stumbled slowly and aimlessly over the uneven109 ground. As he passed he tore convulsively the leaves of a gum-bush; the strong camphoraceous odor that clung to his hands sickened and irritated him; no flood of thought came to carry him out of himself and to make his step quick and elastic.
He walked back and leant against the fence. Bambaroo stood out with its great rounded summit and awful gloom. Then the top of the highest gum-tree became bright; an illumination crept slowly over all the gum-trees and at last the moon heaved itself over the ridge. He felt the unreal of an animal in pain; he came into the dark schoolroom again, and walked up and down, the same torture fermenting110 in him, till he grew weary. Then, at dawn, without undressing, he lay down on his hammock.
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1
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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8
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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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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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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instinctively
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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shingled
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| adj.盖木瓦的；贴有墙面板的v.用木瓦盖(shingle的过去式和过去分词形式) | |
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phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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marsupial
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| adj.有袋的，袋状的 | |
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42
toddling
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的现在分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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43
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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45
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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46
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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47
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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48
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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49
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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50
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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51
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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52
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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53
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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54
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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55
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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56
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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57
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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58
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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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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60
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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61
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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68
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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73
basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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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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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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83
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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86
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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91
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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92
aggrandizement
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| n.增大，强化，扩大 | |
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93
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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95
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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99
incarnated
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| v.赋予（思想、精神等）以人的形体( incarnate的过去式和过去分词 )；使人格化；体现；使具体化 | |
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100
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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101
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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102
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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103
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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104
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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106
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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107
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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108
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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109
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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110
fermenting
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的现在分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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