It was bright day when our travellers awoke, but only a dim light penetrated1 into their dungeon-like dormitory, for, besides being very small, the three windows, or loop-holes, had been so filled up with snow as to shut out much of the light that would naturally have entered.
That the gale2 still raged outside was evident enough to the sense of hearing, and sometimes the gusts3 were so sudden and strong that the little building trembled, stout4 though it was. Indeed, Lawrence at first thought they must be experiencing the shocks of an earthquake, a mistake not unnatural5 in one who, besides having had but little experience in regard to such catastrophes6, knew well that he was at the time almost in the centre of a region celebrated7 for earthquakes.
It was with mingled8 feelings of interest, anxiety, and solemnity that he surveyed the scene outside through a hole in the door. It seemed as if an Arctic winter had suddenly descended9 on them. Snow completely covered hill and gorge10 as far as the vision could range but they could not see far, for at every fresh burst of the furious wind the restless wreaths were gathered up and whirled madly to the sky, or swept wildly down the valleys, or dashed with fury against black precipices11 and beetling12 cliffs, to which they would sometimes cling for a few seconds, then, falling away, would be caught up again by the tormenting13 gale, and driven along in some new direction with intensified14 violence.
“No prospect15 of quitting the hut to-day,” observed Lawrence, turning away from the bewildering scene.
“None,” said Pedro, stretching himself, and rising sleepily on one elbow, as men are wont16 to do when unwilling17 to get up.
“Nebber mind, massa; lots o’ grub!” cried Quashy, awaking at that moment, leaping up like an acrobat18, and instantly setting about the kindling19 of the fire.
Having, as Quashy truly said, lots of grub, possessing a superabundance of animal vigour20, and being gifted with untried as well as unknown depths of intellectual power, also with inexhaustible stores of youthful hope, our travellers had no difficulty in passing that day in considerable enjoyment21, despite adverse22 circumstances; but when they awoke on the second morning and found the gale still howling, and the snow still madly whirling, all except Pedro began to express in word and countenance23 feelings of despondency. Manuela did not speak much, it is true, but she naturally looked somewhat anxious. Lawrence began to recall the fate of previous travellers in that very hut, and his countenance became unusually grave, whereupon Quashy—whose nature it was to conform to the lead of those whom he loved, and, in conforming, outrageously24 to overdo25 his part—looked in his young master’s face and assumed such an aspect of woeful depression that his visage became distinctly oval, though naturally round.
Observing this, Lawrence could not restrain a short laugh, whereupon, true as the compass to the Pole, the facile Quashy went right round; his chin came up, his cheeks went out, his eyes opened with hopeful sheen, and his thick lips expanded into a placid26 grin.
“There is no cause for alarm,” observed Pedro, who had risen to assist in preparing breakfast. “No doubt it is the worst storm I ever met with, or even heard of, at this season of the year, but it cannot last much longer; and whatever happens, it can’t run into winter just now.”
As if to justify27 the guide’s words, the hurricane began to diminish in violence, and the pauses between blasts were more frequent and prolonged. When breakfast was over, appearances became much more hopeful, and before noon the storm had ceased to rage.
Taking advantage of the change, without delay they loaded the pack-mules28, saddled, mounted, and set forth30.
To many travellers it would have been death to have ventured out on such a trackless waste, but Pedro knew the road and the landmarks31 so thoroughly32 that he advanced with his wonted confidence. At first the snow was very deep, and, despite their utmost care, they once or twice strayed from the road, and were not far from destruction. As they descended, however, the intense cold abated33; and when they came out upon occasional table-lands, they found that the snow-fall there had been much less than in the higher regions, also that it had drifted off the road so much that travelling became more easy.
That night they came to a second hut-of-refuge, and next day had descended into a distinctly warmer region on the eastern slopes of the great range, over which they travelled from day to day with ever increasing comfort. Sometimes they put up at outlying mountain farms, and were always hospitably34 received; sometimes at small hamlets or villages, where they could exchange or purchase mules, and, not unfrequently, they encamped on the wild mountain slopes, with the green trees or an overhanging cliff, or the open sky to curtain them, and the voices of the puma35 and the jaguar36 for their lullaby.
Strange to say, in crossing the higher parts of the Andes not one of the party suffered from the rarity of the air. Many travellers experience sickness, giddiness, and extreme exhaustion37 from this cause in those regions. Some have even died of the effects experienced at the greater heights, yet neither Manuela, nor Lawrence, nor Quashy was affected38 in the slightest degree. We can assign no reason for their exemption—can only state the fact. As for the guide, he was in this matter—as, indeed, he seemed to be in everything—invulnerable.
One afternoon, as they rode along a mountain track enjoying the sunshine, which at that hour was not too warm, Lawrence pushed up alongside of the guide.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that we are wandering wonderfully far out of our way just now. We have been going due north for several days; at least so my pocket compass tells me, and if my geography is not greatly at fault, our backs instead of our faces are turned at present towards Buenos Ayres. I do not wish to pry39 into your secrets, Senhor Pedro, but if it is not presuming too much I should like to know when we shall begin to move in the direction of our journey’s end.”
“There is neither presumption40 nor impropriety in your wish,” returned the guide. “I told you at starting that we should pursue a devious41 route, for reasons which are immaterial to you, but there is no reason why I should not explain that at present I am diverging42 for only a few miles from our track to visit a locality—a cottage—which is sacred to me. After that we will turn eastward43 until we reach the head-waters of streams that will conduct us towards our journey’s end.”
With this explanation he was obliged to rest content, for Pedro spoke44 like one who did not care to be questioned. Indeed there was an unusually absent air about him, seeing which Lawrence drew rein45 and fell back until he found himself alongside of Quashy.
Always ready—nay, eager—for sympathetic discourse46, the negro received his young master with a bland47, expansive, we might almost say effusive48, smile.
“Well, massa, how’s you gittin’ along now?”
“Pretty well, Quashy. How do you?”
“Oh! fuss-rate, massa—only consid’rable obercome wid surprise.”
“What surprises you?”
“De way we’s agwine, to be sure. Look dar.” He pointed49 towards the towering mountain peaks and wild precipices that closed in the narrow glen or gorge up which they were slowly proceeding50.
“In all our trabels we’s nebber come to a place like dat. It looks like de fag end ob creation. You couldn’t git ober de mountain-tops ’cept you had wings, an’ you couldn’t climb ober de pres’pisses ’cep you was a monkey or a skirl—though it am bery lubly, no doubt.”
The negro’s comments were strictly51 correct, though somewhat uncouthly52 expressed. The valley was apparently53 surrounded in all directions by inaccessible54 precipices, and the white peaks of the Andes towered into the skies at its head. Within rugged55 setting lay a fine stretch of undulating land, diversified56 by crag and hillock, lake and rivulet57, with clustering shrubs58 and trees clinging to the cliffs, and clothing the mountain slopes in rich, and, in many places, soft luxuriance. It was one of those scenes of grandeur59 and loveliness in profound solitude60 which tend to raise in the thoughtful mind the perplexing but not irreverent question, “Why did the good and bountiful Creator form such places of surpassing beauty to remain for thousands of years almost, if not quite, unknown to man?”
For, as far as could be seen, no human habitation graced the mountain-sides, no sign of cultivation61 appeared in the valley, though myriads62 of the lower animals sported on and in the waters, among the trees and on the ground.
Perchance man over-estimates his own importance—at least underrates that of the animal kingdom below him—and is too apt to deem everything in nature wasted that cannot be directly or indirectly63 connected with himself! Is all that glows in beauty in the wilderness64 doomed65 to “blush unseen”? Is all the sweetness expended67 on the desert air “wasted?”
As the guide rode slowly forward, he glanced from side to side with thoughtful yet mournful looks, as if his mind were engaged in meditating68 on some such insoluble problems. As he neared the head of the valley, however, he seemed to awake from a trance, suddenly put spurs to his mule29, and went off at a canter. The rest of the party followed at some distance behind, but at so slow a pace, compared with that of the guide, that the latter was soon lost to sight among the trees.
Somewhat surprised at his unusual state of mind Lawrence pushed on and soon reached an open glade69 which showed some signs of having been cultivated. At the end of it stood a pretty little cottage, in front of which Pedro was standing70 motionless, with clasped hands and drooping71 head.
Lawrence hesitated to disturb him, but as Quashy had no such hesitations73, and rode smartly forward, his companions followed.
Pedro turned with a grave look as they came up, and said—
“My home. I bid you welcome.”
“Your home!” echoed Lawrence, in surprise.
“Ay, a happy home it once was—but—desolate enough now. Come, we will sleep here to-night. Unload the mules, Quashy, and kindle74 a fire. Go into the room on the right, Manuela. You will find a couch and other civilised comforts there. Senhor Armstrong, will you come with me?”
Without even awaiting a reply, the guide walked smartly into the bushes in rear of his lonely dwelling75, followed by our hero. In a few minutes they reached a mound76 or hillock, which had been cleared of trees and underwood, and from the summit of which one could see over the tree-tops and the cottage roof away down the valley to the horizon of the table-lands beyond. It was a lovely spot, and, as Lawrence saw it that quiet sunny afternoon, was suggestive only of peace and happiness.
There was a rustic77 bower78 on the mound, in which a roughly-constructed seat was fixed79 firmly to the ground. In front of the bower was a grave with a headstone, on which was carved the single word “Mariquita.”
Lawrence looked at his companion, but refrained from speech on observing that he seemed to be struggling with strong emotion. In a few seconds Pedro, having mastered his feelings, turned and said, in a tone that betrayed nothing save profound sadness—
Lawrence’s power of sympathy was so great that he hesitated to reply, fearing to hurt the feelings of one for whom, by that time, he had come to entertain sincere regard. He was about to speak, when Pedro raised his head gently, as if to check him.
“Sit beside me, senhor,” he said, seating himself on the rustic seat already referred to. “You have from our first meeting given me your confidence so frankly81 and freely that the least I can do is to give you mine in return—as far, at least, as that is possible. You are the first human being I have invited to sit there since Mariquita left me. Shall I tell you something of my history, Senhor Armstrong?”
“Well, then,” said Pedro, “it may perhaps surprise you to learn that I am an Irishman.”
To this Lawrence replied, with a slight smile, that he was not very greatly surprised, seeing that the perplexing character of that race was such as to justify him in expecting almost anything of them.
“I’m not sure whether to take that remark as complimentary83 or otherwise,” returned Pedro; “however, the fighting tendency with which my countrymen are credited has departed from me. I won’t quarrel with you on the point. At the age of sixteen I was sent to America to seek my fortune. My mother I never knew. She died when I was a child. My father died the year after I left home. How I came to drift here it would be difficult, as well as tedious, to explain. Many of the men with whom I have chummed in years gone by would have said that it was chance which led me to South America. I never could agree with them on this point. The word ‘chance’ fitly describes the conditions sometimes existing between man and man, and is used in Scripture84 in the parable85 of the Good Samaritan, but there can be no such thing as chance with the Almighty86. I must have been led or guided here.
“At all events, hither I came, and wandered about for some years, with that aimless indifference87 to the future which is but too characteristic of youth—content to eat and sleep and toil88, so that I might enjoy life, and get plenty of excitement! I went to Peru first, and of course I joined in the fights that were so frequently stirred up between that country and its neighbour, Chili89. A very little of that, however, sufficed. The brutal90 ferocity of the soldiery with whom I was mixed up, and their fearful disregard of age, sex, infirmity, or helpless childhood during war disgusted me so much that I finally cut the army, and took to hunting and doing a little trade between the countries lying on the east and west sides of the Andes. It was while thus engaged that I became acquainted with your good father, Senhor Armstrong, who has more than once helped me over financial difficulties and set me on my legs.
“At last came the grand crisis of my life. One evening when travelling over the pampas of La Plata, I, with a dozen Gauchos91, arrived at a post-house where we meant to put up for the night. On coming in sight of it we saw that something was wrong, for there were a number of Indians fighting about the door. On seeing us they made off; but one, who was in the house struggling with the postmaster, did not observe the flight of his comrades, or could not get clear of his enemy. We all went madly after the savages92. As I was about to pass the door of the house, I heard a woman shriek94. The Gauchos paid no attention, but passed on. I glanced inside, and saw the Indian in the act of cutting a man’s throat, while a girl strove wildly to prevent him. You may be sure I was inside in a moment, and I brained the savage93 with the butt95 of a pistol. But it was too late. The knife had already done its work, and the poor man only lived long enough to bless his daughter, who, covered with her father’s blood, sank fainting on the floor. It was my first meeting with Mariquita!
“Around her,” continued Pedro, in deepening tones, “lay her mother and two brothers—all slaughtered96. I will not describe the harrowing scene. I tried to comfort the poor girl, and we took her on with us to the next post, where the postmaster’s wife attended to her.
“On seeing her next morning I felt that my life’s happiness or sorrow lay in her hands. She was innocence97, simplicity98, beauty, combined. With artless gratitude99 she grasped and kissed my hand, regarding me, she said, as her deliverer, and one who would have saved her father if he had been in time.
“Often before had my comrades twitted me with my indifference to the female sex. To say truth, I had myself become impressed with the feeling that I was born to be one of the old bachelors of the world—and I cannot say that the doom66 gave me much concern. But now—well, if you understand me, senhor, I need not explain, and if you don’t understand, explanation is useless! Mariquita was left alone in the wide world. I would not, for all the gold and silver of Peru, have spoken of love to her at that time; but I made arrangements with the postmaster and his wife to take care of the poor girl till I should return. In time I did return. She accepted me. We were married, and I brought her up here, for I wanted no society but hers. I was content to live in absolute solitude with her. She was much of the same mind, dear girl, but God had touched her heart, and in her sweet talk—without intending it, or dreaming of it—she showed me how selfish I was in thinking only of our own happiness, and caring nothing for the woes100 or the joys of our fellow-men.
“My conscience reproached me, and I began to think how I could manage to live a less selfish life, but before I could make up my mind what course to follow an event occurred which caused delay. A little girl was sent to us. I called her Mariquita, of course, and thought no more of leaving our happy home in the mountains. For five years we remained here, and the little Mariquita grew to be an angel of light and beauty—like her mother in all respects, except that she was very fair, with curly golden hair.
“About that time war broke out—doubly accursed war! One night a band of deserters came and attacked my cottage. It had always been well prepared for anything of the sort with bolts, and bars and shutters101, and even flanking loop-holes, as well as plenty of fire-arms and ammunition102. But the party was too numerous. The villains103 forced the door in spite of me, and fired a volley before making a rush. From that moment I remembered nothing more until I recovered and found my head supported on the knee of an old man. I knew him at once to be a poor lonely old hunter who ranged about in the mountains here, and had paid us occasional visits. When he saw I was able to understand him, he told me that he had come suddenly on the villains and shot two of them, and that the others, perhaps thinking him the advance-guard of a larger party, had taken fright and made off. ‘But,’ he said, in a low, hesitating tone, ‘Mariquita is dead!’
“I sprang up as if I had been shot, but instantly fell again, for my leg had been broken. I had seen enough, however. My beloved one lay dead on the floor, not far from me, with a bullet through her brain. And now,” added Pedro, pointing in deep despondency to the little mound at their feet—“she lies there!”
“Not so, my friend,” said Lawrence, in a low but earnest tone, as he grasped the man’s hand, “it is only her dust that lies there, and even that is precious in the sight of her Lord.”
“Thank you, senhor, for reminding me,” returned Pedro; “but when the memory of that awful night is strong upon me, my faith almost fails.”
“No wonder,” rejoined Lawrence, “but what of the child?”
“Ah! that is what I asked the old hunter,” returned Pedro. “He started up, and searched high and low, but could not find her. Then he went out, calling her by name loudly, and searched the bushes. Then he returned with a wild look and said the robbers must have taken her away—he would pursue! I knew it would be useless, for the scoundrels were mounted and the old hunter was on foot; but I let him go, and was not surprised when, two hours later, he returned quite exhausted104. ‘It is in vain,’ he said. ‘Yet if I could have come up with them, I would have died for her.’
“I was long ill after that. A good while, they say, I was out of my mind, but old Ignacio nursed me through. He also buried Mariquita where she now lies.”
The guide paused.
“And the child?” asked Lawrence, anxiously.
“I have sought her far and wide, year after year, over mountain and plain. She may be dead—she may be alive—but I have never seen her nor heard of her from that day to this.”
“Your story is a very, very sad one,” said Lawrence, his face expressing the genuine sympathy which he felt. “May I ask—are your wanderings mere105 haphazard106? Have you no idea who they were that stole your little one, or where they went to?”
“None whatever. The broken leg, you know, prevented my commencing the search at once, and when I was able to go about I found that all trace of the band was gone. No wonder, for the country was at war at the time, and many marauding parties had traversed the land since then.”
“I—I shrink,” said Lawrence, with some hesitation72, “from even the appearance of unkindness, but I cannot help expressing the fear that this vague, undirected wandering will be useless.”
“It would be so,” returned Pedro, “if God did not direct all human affairs. If it be His will, I shall yet find my child on earth. If not, I shall find her above—with her mother. In our intercourse107, senhor, I have observed in you a respect for God’s Word. Is it not written, ‘Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him, and He will bring it to pass?’”
“Most true,” replied Lawrence, feeling the reproof108, “yet God works by means. If we do not take the right means, we cannot expect to attain109 our end, however much we may trust.”
“Right, senhor, and I have taken the only means open to me. Since I cannot give direction to my search, I search everywhere. Fortunately my business permits of this, and also of doing a little service to my fellow-men as I go on my way. Periodically I return here to rest,”—(he pointed to the little mound,)—“and when my powers begin to wane110, either through disease or age, it is my purpose, if God permit, to return and die beside Mariquita’s grave.”
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1
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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2
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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6
catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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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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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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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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precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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14
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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acrobat
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| n.特技演员，杂技演员 | |
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kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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overdo
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| vt.把...做得过头，演得过火 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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puma
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| 美洲豹 | |
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jaguar
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| n.美洲虎 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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42
diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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43
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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44
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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45
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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46
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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49
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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50
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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51
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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uncouthly
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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54
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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57
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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58
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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59
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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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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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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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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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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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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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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chili
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| n.辣椒 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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gauchos
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| n.南美牧人( gaucho的名词复数 ) | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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93
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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98
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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99
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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100
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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102
ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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103
villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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104
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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105
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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106
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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107
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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108
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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109
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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110
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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