Returning, now, to the moon-struck and Katie-smitten Queeker, we find that poetic2 individual walking disconsolately3 in front of Mr George Durant’s mansion4.
In a previous chapter it has been said that, after composing his celebrated5 lines to the lantern of the floating light, he resolved to drop in upon the Durants about tea-time—and well did Queeker know their tea-time, although, every time he went there uninvited, the miserable6 hypocrite expressed surprise at finding them engaged with that meal, and said he had supposed they must have finished tea by that time!
But, on arriving at the corner of the street, his fluttering heart failed him. The thought of the cousin was a stumbling-block which he could not surmount7. He had never met her before; he feared that she might be witty8, or sarcastic9, or sharp in some way or other, and would certainly make game of him in the presence of Katie. He had observed this cousin narrowly at the singing-class, and had been much impressed with her appearance; but whether this impression was favourable10 or unfavourable was to him, in the then confused state of his feelings, a matter of great uncertainty11. Now that he was about to face her, he felt convinced that she must be a cynic, who would poison the mind of Katie against him, and no power within his unfortunate body was capable of inducing him to advance and raise the knocker.
Thus he hung in torments12 of suspense13 until nine o’clock, when—in a fit of desperation, he rushed madly at the door and committed himself by hitting it with his fist.
His equanimity14 was not restored by its being opened by Mr Durant himself.
“Queeker!” exclaimed the old gentleman in surprise; “come in, my dear sir; did you stumble against the door? I hope you haven’t hurt yourself?”
“Not at all—a—no, not at all; the fact is, I ran up the steps rather hastily, and—how do you do, Miss Durant? I hope you are quite well?”
Poor Queeker said this and shook hands with as much earnestness as if he had not seen Katie for five years.
“Quite well, thank you. My cousin, Fanny Hennings—Mr Queeker.”
Fanny bowed and Mr Queeker bowed, and, with a flushed countenance15, asked her about the state of her health with unnatural16 anxiety.
“Thank you, Mr Squeeker, I am very well,” replied Fanny.
The unhappy youth would have corrected her in regard to his name, but hesitated and missed the opportunity, and when, shortly afterwards, while engaged in conversation with Mr Durant, he observed Fanny giggling17 violently in a corner by herself, he felt assured that Katie had kindly18 made the correction for him.
The announcement of supper relieved him slightly, and he was beginning to calm down over a piece of bread and cheese when the door-bell rang. Immediately after a heavy foot was heard in the passage, the parlour door was flung open, the maid announced Mr Hall, and a tall elegant young man entered the room. His figure was slender, but his chest was deep and his shoulders were broad and square. An incipient19 moustache of fair hair floated like a summer cloud on his upper lip, which expanded with a hearty20 smile as he advanced towards Mr Durant and held out his hand.
“You have forgotten me, I fear,” he said.
“Forgotten you!” exclaimed the old gentleman, starting up and seizing the young man’s hand, which he shook violently—“forgotten Stanley Hall—little Stanney, as I used to call you? Man, how you are grown, to be sure. What a wonderful change!”
“For the worse, I fear!” exclaimed the youth, laughing.
“Come, no fishing for compliments, sir. Let me introduce you to my daughter Katie, my niece Fanny Hennings, and my young friend Queeker. Now, then, sit down, and make yourself at home; you’re just in time; we’ve only just begun; ring the bell for another plate, Katie. How glad I am to see you, Stanney, my boy—I can’t call you by any other than the old name, you see. How did you leave your father, and what brings you here? Come, out with it all at once. I declare you have quite excited me.”
Well was it for poor Queeker that every one was too much occupied with the newcomer to pay any attention to him, for he could not prevent his visage from betraying something of the feelings which harrowed up his soul. The moment he set eyes on Stanley Hall, mortal jealousy—keen, rampant21, virulent22 jealousy of the worst type—penetrated every fibre of his being, and turned his heart to stone! We cannot afford space to detail the various shades of agony, the degrees of despair, through which this unfortunate young man passed during that evening. A thick volume would not suffice to contain it all. Language is powerless to express it. Only those who have similarly suffered can conceive it.
Of course, we need scarcely add that there was no occasion for jealousy. Nothing was further from the mind of Stanley than the idea of falling in love with Katie. Nevertheless, politeness required that he should address himself to her occasionally. At such times, Queeker’s soul was stabbed in an unutterable manner. He managed to command himself, notwithstanding. To his credit, be it said, that he refrained from using the carving-knife. He even joined with some show of interest (of course hypocritical) in the conversation.
Stanley Hall was not only good-looking, but good-humoured, and full of quiet fun and anecdote24, so that he quickly ingratiated himself with all the members of the family.
“D’you know it makes me feel young again to hear these old stories about your father’s college-life,” said Mr Durant. “Have some more cheese, Stanney—you look like a man who ought to have a good appetite—fill your glass and pass the bottle—thanks. Now, how comes it that you have turned up in this out-of-the-way part of the world? By-the-bye, I hope you intend to stay some time, and that you will take up your quarters with me? You can’t imagine how much pleasure it would give me to have the son of my old companion as a guest for some time. I’m sure that Katie joins me heartily25 in this hope.”
Queeker’s spirit sank with horror, and when Katie smilingly seconded her father’s proposal, his heart stood still with dismay. Fanny Hennings, who had begun to suspect that there was something wrong with Queeker, put her handkerchief to her mouth, and coughed with what appeared to be unreasonable26 energy.
“I regret,” said Stanley (and Queeker’s breath came more freely), “that my stay must necessarily be short. I need not say that it would afford me the highest pleasure to accept your kind invitation” (he turned with a slight bow to Katie, and Queeker almost fainted), “but the truth is, that I have come down on a particular piece of business, in regard to which I wish to have your advice, and must return to London to-morrow or next day at furthest.”
Queeker’s heart resumed its office.
“I am sorry to hear that—very sorry. However, you shall stay to-night at all events; and you shall have the best advice I can give you on any subject you choose to mention. By the way talking of advice, you’re an M.D. now, I fancy?”
“Not yet,” replied Stanley. “I am not quite fledged, although nearly so, and I wish to go on a voyage before completing my course.”
“Quite right, quite right—see a little of life first, eh? But how comes it, Stanney, that you took kindly to the work at last, for, when I knew you first you could not bear the idea of becoming a doctor?”
“One’s ideas change, I suppose,” replied the youth, with a smile,—“probably my making the discovery that I had some talent in that direction had something to do with it.”
“H’m; how did you make that discovery, my boy?” asked the old gentleman.
“That question can’t easily be answered except by my inflicting28 on you a chapter of my early life,” replied Stanley, laughing.
“Then inflict27 it on us without delay, my boy. I shall delight to listen, and so, I am sure, will Katie and Fanny. As to my young friend Queeker, he is of a somewhat literary turn, and may perhaps throw the incidents into verse, if they are of a sufficiently29 romantic character!”
Katie and Fanny declared they would be charmed to hear about it, and Queeker said, in a savagely30 jesting tone, that he was so used to things being inflicted32 on him, that he didn’t mind—rather liked it than otherwise!
“But you must not imagine,” said Stanley, “that I have a thrilling narrative33 to give you, I can merely relate the two incidents which fixed35 my destiny in regard to a profession. You remember, I daresay, that my heart was once set upon going to sea. Well, like most boys, I refused to listen to advice on that point, and told my father that I should never make a surgeon—that I had no taste or talent for the medical profession. The more my father tried to reason me out of my desire, the more obstinate36 I became. The only excuse that I can plead is that I was very young, very ignorant, and very stupid. One day, however, I was left in the surgery with a number of dirty phials to wash—my father having gone to visit a patient at a short distance, when our servant came running in, saying that there was a cab at the door with a poor boy who had got his cheek badly cut. As I knew that my father would be at home in less than quarter of an hour, I ordered him to be brought in. The poor child—a little delicate boy—was very pale, and bleeding profusely37 from a deep gash38 in the cheek, made accidentally by a knife with which he had been playing. The mouth was cut open almost to the ear. We laid him on a sofa, and I did what I could to stop the flow of blood. I was not sixteen at the time, and, being very small for my age, had never before felt myself in a position to offer advice, and indeed I had not much to offer. But one of the bystanders said to me while we were looking at the child,—
“‘What do you think should be done, sir?’
“The mere34 fact of being asked my opinion gratified my vanity, and the respectful ‘sir’ with which the question concluded caused my heart to beat high with unwonted emotion. It was the first time I had ever been addressed gravely as a man; it was a new sensation, and I think may be regarded as an era in my existence.
“With much gravity I replied that of course the wound ought to be sewed up.
“‘Then sooner it’s done the better, I think,’ said the bystander, ‘for the poor child will bleed to death if it is allowed to go on like that.’
“A sudden resolution entered into my mind. I stroked my chin and frowned, as if in deep thought, then, turning to the man who had spoken, said,—‘It ought certainly to be done with as little delay as possible; I expect my father to return every minute; but as it is an urgent case, I will myself undertake it, if the parents of the child have no objection.’
“‘Seems to me, lad,’ remarked a country fellow, who had helped to carry the child in, ‘that it beant a time to talk o’ parients objectin’ w’en the cheeld’s blood’n to deth. Ye’d better fa’ to work at once—if ’ee knows how.’
“I cast upon this man a look of scorn, but made no reply. Going to the drawer in which the surgical41 instruments were kept, I took out those that suited my purpose, and went to work with a degree of coolness which astonished myself. I had often seen my father sew up wounds, and had assisted at many an operation of the kind, so that, although altogether unpractised, I was not ignorant of the proper mode of procedure. The people looked on with breathless interest. When I had completed the operation, I saw my father looking over the shoulders of the people with an expression of unutterable surprise not unmingled with amusement. I blushed deeply, and began some sort of explanation, which, however, he cut short by observing in an off-hand manner, that the thing had been done very well, and the child had better be carried into my bedroom and left there to rest for some time. He thus got the people out of the surgery, and then, when we were alone, told me that I was a born surgeon, that he could not have done it much better himself, and, in short, praised me to such an extent that I felt quite proud of my performance.”
Queeker, who had listened up to this point with breathless attention, suddenly said—
“D’you mean to say that you really did that?”
“I do,” replied Stanley with an amused smile.
“Sewed up a mouth cut all the way to the ear?”
“Yes.”
“With a—a—”
“With a needle and thread,” said Stanley.
Queeker’s powers of utterance42 were paralysed. He looked at the young doctor with a species of awe-stricken admiration43. Jealousy, for the time, was in abeyance44.
“This, then, was the beginning of your love for the profession?” said Mr Durant.
“Undoubtedly it was, but a subsequent event confirmed me in my devotion to it, and induced me to give up all thoughts of the sea. The praise that I had received from my father—who was not usually lavish45 of complimentary46 remarks—made me ambitious to excel in other departments of surgery, so I fixed upon the extraction of teeth as my next step in the profession. My father had a pretty large practice in that way. We lived, as you remember, in the midst of a populous47 rural district, and had frequent visits from farm servants and labourers with heads tied up and lugubrious48 faces.
“I began to fit myself for duty by hammering big nails into a block of wood, and drawing them out again. This was a device of my own, for I wished to give my father another surprise, and did not wish to betray what I was about, by asking his advice as to how I should proceed. I then extracted the teeth from the jaw-bones of all the sheep’s-heads that I could lay hands on; after a good deal of practice in this way, I tried to tempt49 our cook with an offer of five shillings to let me extract a back tooth which had caused her a great deal of suffering at intervals50 for many months; but she was a timid woman, and would not have allowed me for five guineas, I believe, even to look into her mouth. I also tried to tempt our small stable-boy with a similar sum. He was a plucky51 little fellow, and, although there was not an unsound tooth in his head, agreed to let me draw one of the smallest of his back teeth for seven and sixpence if it should come out the first pull, and sixpence for every extra rug! I thought the little fellow extravagant52 in his demands, but, rather than lose the chance, submitted. He sat down quite boldly on our operating chair, but grew pale when I advanced with the instrument; when I tried to open his mouth, he began to whimper, and finally, struggling out of my grasp, fled. I afterwards gave him sixpence, however, for affording me, as I told him, so much pleasurable anticipation53.
“After this I cast about for another subject, but failed to procure54 a live one. It occurred to me, however, that I might try my hand on two skeletons that hung in our garret, so I got their heads off without delay, and gradually extracted every tooth in their jaws55. As there were about sixty teeth, I think, in each pair, I felt myself much improved before the jaws were toothless. At last, I resolved to take advantage of the first opportunity that should offer, during my father’s absence, to practise on the living subject. It was not long before I had a chance.
“One morning my father went out, leaving me in the surgery, as was his wont39. I was deeply immersed in a book on anatomy56, when I heard a tremendous double rap—as if made with the head of a stick—at the outer door, and immediately after the question put in the gruff bass57 voice of an Irishman, ‘Is the dactur within?’
“A tremendous growl58 of disappointment followed the reply. Then, after a pause, ‘Is the assistant within?’ This was followed by a heavy tread in the passage and, next moment; an enormous man, in very ragged59 fustian60, with a bronzed hairy face, and a reaping-hook under his arm, stood in the surgery, his head almost touching61 the ceiling.
“‘Sure it’s niver the dactur’s assistant ye are?’ he exclaimed, with a look of surprise.
“I rose, drew myself up, and, endeavouring to look very solemn, said that I was, and demanded to know if I could do anything for him.
“‘Ah, then, it’s a small assistant ye are, anyhow,’ he remarked; but stopped suddenly and his huge countenance was convulsed with pain, as he clapped his hand to his face, and uttered a groan62, which was at least three parts composed of a growl.
“‘Hooroo! whirr–r–hach! musha, but it’s like the cratur o’ Vesoovious all alive-o—in me head. Av it don’t split up me jaw—there—ha—och!’
“The giant stamped his foot with such violence that all the glasses, cups, and vials in the room rang again, and, clapping both hands over his mouth, he bent63 himself double in a paroxysm of agony.
“I felt a strange mixture of wild delight and alarm shoot through me. The chance had come in my way, but in anticipating it I had somehow always contemplated64 operating on some poor boy or old woman. My thoughts had never depicted65 such a herculean and rude specimen66 of humanity. At first, he would not believe me capable of extracting a tooth; but I spoke40 with such cool self-possession and assurance—though far from feeling either—that he consented to submit to the operation. For the sake of additional security, I seated him on the floor, and took his head between my knees; and I confess that when seated thus, in such close proximity67 to his rugged68 as well as massive head, gazing into the cavern69 filled with elephantine tusks71, my heart almost failed me. Far back, in the darkest corner of the cave, I saw the decayed tooth—a massive lump of glistening72 ivory, with a black pit in the middle of it. Screwing up my courage to the utmost, I applied73 the key. The giant winced74 at the touch, but clasped his hard hands together—evidently prepared for the worst. I began to twist with right good-will. The man roared furiously, and gave a convulsive heave that almost upset myself and the big chair, and disengaged the key!
“‘Oh, come,’ said I, remonstratively, ‘you ought to stand it better than that! why, the worst of it was almost over.’
“‘Was it, though?’ he inquired earnestly, with an upward glance, that gave to his countenance in that position a hideous75 aspect. ‘Sure it had need be, for the worst baits all that iver I drained of. Go at it again, me boy.’
“Resolving to make sure work of it next time, I fixed the key again, and, after getting it pretty tight—at which point he evidently fancied the worst had been again reached—I put forth76 all my strength in one tremendous twist.
“I failed for a moment to draw the tusk70, but I drew forth a prolonged roar, that can by no means be conceived or described. The Irishman struggled. I held on tight to his head with my knees. The chair tottered77 on its legs. Letting go the hair of his head, I clapped my left hand to my right, and with both arms redoubled the strain. The roar rose into a terrible yowl. There was a crash like the rending78 of a forest tree. I dropped the instrument, sprang up, turned the chair on the top of the man, and cramming79 it down on him rushed to the door, which I threw open, and then faced about.
“There was a huge iron pestle80 lying on a table near my hand. Seizing it, I swayed it gently to and fro, ready to knock him down with it if he should rush at me, or to turn and fly, as should seem most advisable. I was terribly excited, and a good deal alarmed as to the possible consequences, but managed with much difficulty to look collected.
“The big chair was hurled81 into a corner as he rose sputtering82 from the floor, and holding his jaws with both hands.
“‘Och! ye spalpeen, is that the way ye trait people?’
“‘Yes,’ I replied in a voice of forced calmness, ‘we usually put a restraint on strong men like you, when they’re likely to be violent.’
“I saw the corners of his eyes wrinkle a little, and felt more confidence.
“‘Arrah, but it’s the jawbone ye’ve took out, ye goormacalluchscrowl!’
“‘No, it isn’t, it’s only the tooth,’ I replied, going forward and picking it up from the floor.
“The amazement83 of the man is not to be described. I gave him a tumbler of water, and, pointing to a basin, told him to wash out his mouth, which he did, looking at me all the time, however, and following me with his astonished eyes, as I moved about the room. He seemed to have been bereft84 of the power of speech; for all that he could say after that was, ‘Och! av yer small yer cliver!’
“On leaving he asked what was to pay. I said that I’d ask nothing, as he had stood it so well; and he left me with the same look of astonishment85 in his eyes and words of commendation on his lips.”
“Well, that was a tremendous experience to begin with,” said Mr Durant, laughing; “and so it made you a doctor?”
“It helped. When my father came home I presented him with the tooth, and from that day to this I have been hard at work; but I feel a little seedy just now from over-study, so I have resolved to try to get a berth86 as surgeon on board a ship bound for India, Australia, China, or South America, and, as you are a shipowner and old friend, I thought it just possible you might be not only willing but able to help me to what I want.”
“And you thought right, Stanney, my boy,” said the old gentleman heartily; “I have a ship going to sail for India in a few weeks, and we have not yet appointed a surgeon. You shall have that berth if it suits you.”
At this point they were interrupted by the entrance of a servant maid with the announcement that there was a man in the lobby who wished to see Mr Durant.
“I’ll be back shortly,” said the old gentleman to Stanley as he rose; “go to the drawing-room, girls, and give Mr Hall some music. You’ll find that my Katie sings and plays very sweetly, although she won’t let me say so. Fanny joins her with a fine contralto, I believe, and Queeker, too, he sings—a—a what is it, Queeker?—a bass or a baritone—eh?”
Without waiting for a reply, Mr Durant left the room, and found Morley Jones standing23 in the lobby, hat in hand.
The old gentleman’s expression changed instantly, and he said with much severity—
“Well, Mr Jones, what do you want?”
Morley begged the favour of a private interview for a few minutes. After a moment’s hesitation87, Mr Durant led him into his study.
“Another loan, I suppose?” said the old gentleman, as he lit the gas.
“I had expected to have called to pay the last loan, sir,” replied Mr Jones somewhat boldly, “but one can’t force the market. I have my sloop88 down here loaded with herrings, and if I chose to sell at a loss, could pay my debt to you twice over; but surely it can scarcely be expected of me to do that. I hear there is a rise in France just now, and mean to run over there with them. I shall be sure to dispose of ’em to advantage. On my return, I’ll pay your loan with interest.”
Morley Jones paused, and Mr Durant looked at him attentively89 for a few seconds.
“Is this all you came to tell me?”
“Why, no sir, not exactly,” replied Jones, a little disconcerted by the stern manner of the old gentleman. “The sloop is not quite filled up, she could stow a few more casks, but I have been cleaned out, and unless I can get the loan of forty or fifty pounds—”
“Ha! I thought so. Are you aware, Mr Jones, that your character for honesty has of late been called in question?”
“I am aware that I have got enemies,” replied the fish-merchant coldly. “If their false reports are to be believed to my disadvantage, of course I cannot expect—”
“It is not my belief in their reports,” replied Mr Durant, “that creates suspicion in me, but I couple these reports with the fact that you have again and again deceived me in regard to the repayment90 of the loans which you have already received at various times from me.”
“I can’t help ill-luck, sir,” said Morley with a downcast look. “If men’s friends always deserted91 them at the same time with fortune there would be an end of all trade.”
“Mr Jones,” said the other decidedly, “I tell you plainly that you are presumptuous92 when you count me one of your friends. Your deceased brother, having been an old and faithful servant of mine, was considered by me a friend, and it is out of regard to his memory alone that I have assisted you. Even now, I will lend you the sum you ask, but be assured it is the last you shall ever get from me. I distrust you, sir, and I tell you so—flatly.”
While he was speaking the old gentleman had opened a desk. He now sat down and wrote out a cheque, which he handed to his visitor, who received it with a grim smile and a curt93 acknowledgment, and instantly took his leave.
Mr Durant smoothed the frown from his brow, and returned to the drawing-room, where Katie’s sweet voice instantly charmed away the memory of the evil spirit that had just left him.
The table was covered with beautiful pencil sketches94 and chalk-heads and water-colour drawings in various stages of progression—all of which were the production of the same fair, busy, and talented little hand that copied the accounts for the Board of Trade, for love instead of money, without a blot95, and without defrauding96 of dot or stroke a single i or t!
Queeker was gazing at one of the sketches with an aspect so haggard and savage31 that Mr Durant could not refrain from remarking it.
“Why, Queeker, you seem to be displeased97 with that drawing, eh? What’s wrong with it?”
“Oh, ah!” exclaimed the youth, starting, and becoming very red in the face—“no, not with the drawing, it is beautiful—most beautiful, but I—in—fact I was thinking, sir, that thought sometimes leads us into regions of gloom in which—where—one can’t see one’s way, and ignes fatui mislead or—or—”
“Very true, Queeker,” interrupted the old gentleman, good-humouredly; “thought is a wonderful quality of the mind—transports us in a moment from the Indies to the poles; fastens with equal facility on the substantial and the impalpable; gropes among the vague generalities of the abstract, and wriggles98 with ease through the thick obscurities of the concrete—eh, Queeker? Come, give us a song, like a good fellow.”
“I never sing—I cannot sing, sir,” said the youth, hurriedly.
“No! why, I thought Katie said you were attending the singing-class.”
The fat cousin was observed here to put her handkerchief to her mouth and bend convulsively over a drawing.
Queeker explained that he had just begun to attend, but had not yet attained99 sufficient confidence to sing in public. Then, starting up he suddenly pulled out his watch, exclaimed that he was quite ashamed of having remained so late, shook hands nervously100 all round, and, rushing from the house, left Stanley Hall in possession of the field!
Now, the poor youth’s state of mind is not easily accounted for. Stanley, being a close observer, had at an early part of the evening detected the cause of Queeker’s jealousy, and, being a kindly fellow, sought, by devoting himself to Fanny Hennings, to relieve his young friend; but, strange to say, Queeker was not relieved! This fact was a matter of profound astonishment even to Queeker himself, who went home that night in a state of mind which cannot be adequately described, sat down before his desk, and, with his head buried in his hands, thought intensely.
“Can it be,” he murmured in a sepulchral101 voice, looking up with an expression of horror, “that I love them both? Impossible. Horrible! Perish the thought—yes.” Seizing a pen:—
“Perish the thought
Which never ought
To be,
Let not the thing.”
“Thing—wing—bing—ping—jing—ring—ling—ting—cling—dear me! what a lot of words with little or no meaning there are in the English language!—what will rhyme with—ah! I have it—sting—”
“Let not the thing
Reveal its sting
To me!”
Having penned these lines, Queeker heaved a deep sigh—cast one long lingering gaze on the moon, and went to bed.
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收听单词发音
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1
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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surmount
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| vt.克服；置于…顶上 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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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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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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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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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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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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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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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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surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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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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populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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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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plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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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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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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tusk
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| n.獠牙，长牙，象牙 | |
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tusks
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| n.（象等动物的）长牙( tusk的名词复数 )；獠牙；尖形物；尖头 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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pestle
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| n.杵 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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83
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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sloop
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| n.单桅帆船 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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repayment
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| n.偿还，偿还款；报酬 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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defrauding
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的现在分词 ) | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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wriggles
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| n.蠕动，扭动( wriggle的名词复数 )v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的第三人称单数 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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