When Morley Jones found himself suddenly deserted2 by his ally Billy Towler, he retired3 to the privacy of a box in a low public-house in Thames Street, and there, under the stimulus4 of a stiff glass of grog, consulted with himself as to the best mode of procedure under the trying circumstances in which he found himself placed. He thought it probable, after half an hour of severe meditation6, that Billy would return to the Grotto7, but that, for his own sake, he would give a false account of his absence, and say nothing about the loss of the Skylark. Feeling somewhat relieved in mind by his conclusions on this head, he drank off his grog, called for another glass, and then set himself to the consideration of how far the disappearance8 of the boy would interfere9 with his obtaining payment of the various sums due by the Insurance Offices. This point was either more knotty10 and difficult to unravel11 than the previous one, or the grog began to render his intellect less capable of grappling with it. At all events it cost him an hour to determine his course of action, and required another glass of grog to enable him to put the whole matter fairly before his mental vision in one comprehensive view. This, however, accomplished12, he called for a fourth glass of grog “for luck,” and reeled out of the house to carry out his deep-laid plans.
His first act was to proceed to Greenwich, where a branch of his fish-curing business existed, or was supposed to exist. Here he met a friend who offered to treat him. Unfortunately for the success of his schemes he accepted this offer, and, in the course of a debauch13, revealed so much of his private affairs that the friend, after seeing him safely to his lodging14, and bidding him an affectionate farewell, went up to London by the first boat on the following morning, and presented himself to the managers of various Insurance Companies, to whom he made revelations which were variously received by these gentlemen; some of them opening their eyes in amazement15, while others opened their mouths in amusement, and gave him to understand that he was very much in the position of a man who should carry coals to Newcastle—they being then in possession of all the information given, and a great deal more besides.
The manager of the Submarine Insurance Company was the most facetious16 among these gentlemen on hearing the revelations of Mr Jones’s “friend.”
“Can you tell me,” said that gentleman, when he had pumped the “friend” dry, “which of us is likely to receive the distinguished17 honour of the first visit from Mr Jones?”
“He said summat about your own office, sir,” replied the informer; “leastwise I think he did, but I ain’t quite sartin.”
“H’m! not unlikely,” observed the manager; “we have had the pleasure of paying him something before to-day. Come here, I will introduce you to an acquaintance of Mr Jones, who takes a deep interest in him. He has just arrived from Ramsgate.”
Opening a door, the manager ushered18 the informer into a small room where a stout19 man with peculiarly keen grey eyes was warming himself at the fire.
“Allow me to introduce you, Mr Larks21, to a friend of Mr Jones, who may be of some use. I will leave you together for a little,” said the manager, with a laugh, as he retired and shut the door.
It is not necessary that we should enter into details as to how Mr Jones went about the business of drawing his nets ashore22—so to speak,—and how those who took a special interest in Mr Jones carefully assisted him, and, up to a certain point, furthered all his proceedings23. It is sufficient to say that, about a fortnight after his arrival in London—all the preliminary steps having been taken—he presented himself one fine forenoon at the office of the Submarine Insurance Company.
He was received very graciously, and, much to his satisfaction, was told that the claim could now be settled without further delay. Former experience had taught him that such a piece of business was not unusually difficult of settlement, but he was quite charmed by the unwonted facilities which seemed to be thrown in his way in regard to the present affair. He congratulated himself internally, and the manager congratulated him externally, so to speak, by referring to his good fortune in having insured the vessel25 and cargo26 to the full amount.
Even the clerks of the establishment appeared to manifest unwonted interest in the case, which gratified while it somewhat surprised Mr Jones. Indeed, the interest deepened to such an extent, and was so obtrusive27, that it became almost alarming, so that feelings of considerable relief were experienced by the adventurous28 man when he at length received a cheque for 300 pounds and left the office with it in his pocket.
In the outer lobby he felt a touch on his arm, and, looking round, met the gaze of a gentleman with peculiarly keen grey eyes. This gentleman made some quiet remarks with reference to Mr Jones being “wanted,” and when Mr Jones, not relishing30 the tone or looks of this gentleman, made a rush at the outer glass door of the office, an official stepped promptly31 in front of it, put one hand on the handle, and held up the other with the air of one who should say, “Excuse me, there is no thoroughfare this way.” Turning abruptly32 to the left, Mr Jones found himself confronted by another grave gentleman of powerful frame and resolute33 aspect, who, by a species of magic or sleight34 of hand known only to the initiated35, slipped a pair of steel bracelets36 on Mr Jones’s wrists, and finally, almost before he knew where he was, Mr Jones found himself seated in a cab with the strong gentleman by his side, and the keen grey-eyed gentleman in front of him.
Soon afterwards he found himself standing37 alone in the midst of an apartment, the chief characteristics of which were, that the furniture was scanty38, the size inconveniently39 little, and the window unusually high up, besides being heavily barred, and ridiculously small.
Here let us leave him to his meditations40.
One fine forenoon—many weeks after the capture of Morley Jones—Dick Moy, Jack41 Shales42, and Jerry MacGowl were engaged in painting and repairing buoys43 in the Trinity store on the pier45 at Ramsgate. The two former were enjoying their month of service on shore, the latter was on sick-leave, but convalescent. Jack was painting squares of alternate black and white on a buoy44 of a conical shape. Dick was vigorously scraping sea-weed and barnacles off a buoy of a round form. The store, or big shed, was full of buoys of all shapes; some new and fresh, others old and rugged46; all of them would have appeared surprisingly gigantic to any one accustomed to see buoys only in their native element. The invalid47 sat on the shank of a mushroom anchor, and smoked his pipe while he affected48 to superintend the work.
“Sure I pity the poor craturs as is always sick. The mouth o’ man can niver tell the blessedness of bein’ well, as the pote says,” observed Jerry, with a sigh, as he shook the ashes out of his pipe and proceeded to refill it. “Come now, Jack Shales,” he added, after a short pause, “ye don’t call that square, do ’ee?”
“I’ll paint yer nose black if you don’t shut up,” said Jack, drawing the edge of a black square with intense caution, in order to avoid invading the domain49 of a white one.
“Ah! you reminds me of the owld proverb that says somethin’ about asses50 gittin impudent51 an’ becomin’ free with their heels when lions grow sick.”
“Well, Jerry,” retorted Jack, with a smile, as he leaned back and regarded his work with his head very much on one side, and his eyes partially52 closed, after the manner of knights53 of the brush, “I’m not offended, because I’m just as much of an ass5 as you are of a lion.”
“I say, mates,” remarked Dick Moy, pausing in his work, and wiping his brow, “are ’ee aweer that the cap’n has ordered us to be ready to start wi’ the first o’ the tide at half after five to-morrow?”
“I knows it,” replied Jack Shales, laying down the black brush and taking up the white one.
“I knows it too,” said Jerry MacGowl, “but it don’t make no manner of odds54 to me, ’cause I means to stop ashore and enjoy meself. I mean to amoose meself with the trial o’ that black thief Morley Jones.”
Dick Moy resumed his work with a grunt55, and said that Jerry was a lucky fellow to be so long on sick-leave, and Jack said he wished he had been called up as a witness in Jones’s case, for he would have cut a better figure than Jim Welton did.
“Ay, boy,” said Dick Moy, “but there wos a reason for that. You know the poor feller is in love wi’ Jones’s daughter, an’ he didn’t like for to help to convict his own father-in-law to be, d’ye see? That’s where it is. The boy Billy Towler was a’most as bad. He’s got a weakness for the gal56 too, an’ no wonder, for she’s bin57 as good as a mother to ’im. They say that Billy nigh broke the hearts o’ the lawyers, he wos so stoopid at sometimes, an’ so oncommon cute at others. But it warn’t o’ no use. Jim’s father was strong in his evidence agin him, an’ that Mr Larks, as comed aboard of the Gull58, you remember, he had been watching an’ ferreting about the matter to that extent that he turned Jones’s former life inside out. It seems he’s bin up to dodges59 o’ that kind for a long time past.”
“No! has he?” said Jack Shales.
“Arrah, didn’t ye read of it?” exclaimed Jerry MacGowl.
“No,” replied Jack drily; “not bein’ on the sick-list I han’t got time to read the papers, d’ye see?”
“Well,” resumed Dick Moy, “it seems he has more than once set fire to his premises60 in Gravesend, and got the insurance money. Hows’ever, he has got fourteen years’ transportation now, an’ that’ll take the shine pretty well out of him before he comes back.”
“How did the poor gal take it?” asked Jack.
Dick replied that she was very bad at first, but that she got somewhat comforted by the way her father behaved to her and listened to her readin’ o’ the Bible after he was condemned61. It might be that the death of his old mother had softened62 him a bit, for she died with his name on her lips, her last words being, “Oh Morley, give it up, my darling boy, give it up; it’s your only chance to give it up, for you inherit it, my poor boy; the passion and the poison are in your blood; oh, give it up, Morley, give it up!”
“They do say,” continued Dick, “that Jones broke down altogether w’en he heard that, an’ fell on his gal’s neck an’ cried like a babby. But for my part I don’t much believe in them deathbed repentances—for it’s much the same thing wi’ Jones now, he bein’ as good as dead. It’s not wot a man says, but how a man lives, as’ll weigh for or against him in the end.”
“An’ what more did he say?” asked Jerry MacGowl, stopping down the tobacco in his pipe with one of his fire-proof fingers; “you see, havin’ bin on the sick-list so long, I haven’t got up all the details o’ this business.”
“He didn’t say much more,” replied Dick, scraping away at the sea-weed and barnacles with renewed vigour63, “only he made his darter promise that she’d marry Jim Welton as soon after he was gone as possible. She did nothing but cry, poor thing, and wouldn’t hear of it at first, but he was so strong about it, saying that the thought of her being so well married was the only thing as would comfort him w’en he was gone, that she gave in at last.”
“Sure then she’ll have to make up her mind,” said Jerry, “to live on air, which is too light food intirely for any wan29 excep’ hummin’-birds and potes.”
“She’ll do better than that, mate,” returned Dick, “for Jim ’as got appointed to be assistant-keeper to a light’ouse, through that fust-rate gen’leman Mr Durant, who is ’and an’ glove, I’m told, wi’ the Elder Brethren up at the Trinity ’Ouse. It’s said that they are to be spliced65 in a week or two, but, owin’ to the circumstances, the weddin’ is to be kep’ quite priwate.”
“Good luck to em!” cried Jerry. “Talkin’ of the Durants, I s’pose ye’ve heard that there’s goin’ to be a weddin’ in that family soon?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard on it,” cried Dick; “Miss Durant—Katie, they calls her—she’s agoin’ to be spliced to the young doctor that was wrecked66 in the Wellington. A smart man that. They say ’ee has stepped into ’is father’s shoes, an’ is so much liked that ’ee’s had to git an assistant to help him to get through the work o’ curin’ people—or killin’ of ’em. I never feel rightly sure in my own mind which it is that the doctors does for us.”
“Och, don’t ye know?” said Jerry, removing his pipe for a moment, “they keeps curin’ of us as long as we’ve got any tin, an’ when that’s done they kills us off quietly. If it warn’t for the doctors we’d all live to the age of Methoosamel, excep’, of coorse, w’en we was cut off by accident or drink.”
“Well, I don’t know as to that,” said Jack Shales, in a hearty67 manner; “but I’m right glad to hear that Miss Durant is gettin’ a good husband, for she’s the sweetest gal in England, I think, always exceptin’ one whom I don’t mean for to name just now. Hasn’t she been a perfect angel to the poor—especially to poor old men—since she come to Ramsgate? and didn’t she, before goin’ back to Yarmouth, where she b’longs to, make a beautiful paintin’ o’ the lifeboat, and present it in a gold frame, with tears in her sweet eyes, to the coxswain o’ the boat, an’ took his big fist in her two soft little hands, an’ shook an’ squeezed it, an’ begged him to keep the pictur’ as a very slight mark of the gratitude68 an’ esteem69 of Dr Hall an’ herself—that was after they was engaged, you know? Ah! there ain’t many gals70 like her,” said Jack, with a sigh, “always exceptin’ one.”
“Humph!” said Dick Moy, “I wouldn’t give my old ’ooman for six dozen of ’er.”
“Just so,” observed Jerry, with a grin, “an’ I’ve no manner of doubt that Dr Hall wouldn’t give her for sixty dozen o’ your old ’ooman. It’s human natur’, lad,—that’s where it is, mates. But what has come o’ Billy Towler? Has he gone back to the what’s-’is-name—the Cavern71, eh?”
“The Grotto, you mean,” said Jack Shales.
“Well, the Grotto—’tan’t much differ.”
“He’s gone back for a time,” said Dick; “but Mr Durant has prowided for him too. He has given him a berth72 aboord one of his East-Indiamen; so if Billy behaves hisself his fortin’s as good as made. Leastwise he has got his futt on the first round, an’ the ladder’s all clear before him.”
“By the way, what’s that I’ve heard,” said Jack Shales, “about Mr Durant findin’ out that he’d know’d Billy Towler some years ago?”
“I don’t rightly know,” replied Dick. “I’ve ’eerd it said that the old gentleman recognised him as a beggar boy ’e’d tuck a fancy to an’ putt to school long ago; but Billy didn’t like the school, it seems, an’ runn’d away—w’ich I don’t regard as wery surprisin’—an’ Mr Durant could never find out where ’e’d run to. That’s how I ’eerd the story, but wot’s true of it I dun know.”
“There goes the dinner-bell!” exclaimed Jack Shales, rising with alacrity73 on hearing a neighbouring clock strike noon.
Jerry rose with a sigh, and remarked, as he shook the ashes out of his pipe, and put it into his waistcoat pocket, that his appetite had quite left him; that he didn’t believe he was fit for more than two chickens at one meal, whereas he had seen the day when he would have thought nothing of a whole leg of mutton to his own cheek.
“Ah,” remarked Dick Moy, “Irish mutton, I s’pose. Well, I don’t know ’ow you feels, but I feels so hungry that I could snap at a ring-bolt; and I know of a lot o’ child’n, big an’ small, as won’t look sweet on their daddy if he keeps ’em waitin’ for dinner, so come along, mates.”
Saying this, Dick and his friends left the buoy-store, and walked smartly off to their several places of abode74 in the town.
In a darkened apartment of that same town sat Nora Jones, the very personification of despair, on a low stool, with her head resting on the side of a poor bed. She was alone, and perfectly75 silent; for some sorrows, like some thoughts, are too deep for utterance76. Everything around her suggested absolute desolation. The bed was that in which not long ago she had been wont24 to smooth the pillow and soothe77 the heart of her old grandmother. It was empty now. The fire in the rusty78 grate had been allowed to die out, and its cold grey ashes strewed79 the hearth80. Among them lay the fragments of a black bottle. It would be difficult to say what it was in the peculiar20 aspect of these fragments that rendered them so suggestive, but there was that about them which conveyed irresistibly81 the idea that the bottle had been dashed down there with the vehemence82 of uncontrollable passion. The little table which used to stand at the patient’s bedside was covered with a few crumbs83 and fragments of a meal that must, to judge from their state and appearance, have been eaten a considerable time ago; and the confusion of the furniture, as well as the dust that covered everything, was strangely out of keeping with the character of the poor girl, who reclined by the side of the bed, so pale and still that, but for the slight twitching84 movement of her clasped hands, one might have supposed she had already passed from the scene of her woe85. Even the old-fashioned timepiece that hung upon a nail in the wall seemed to be smitten86 with the pervading87 spell, for its pendulum88 was motionless, and its feeble pulse had ceased to tick.
A soft tap at the door broke the deathlike silence. Nora looked up but did not answer, as it slowly opened, and a man entered. On seeing who it was, she uttered a low wail89, and buried her face in the bed-clothes. Without speaking, or moving from her position, she held out her hand to Jim Welton, who advanced with a quick but quiet step, and, going down on his knees beside her, took the little hand in both of his. The attitude and the silence were suggestive. Without having intended it the young sailor began to pray, and in a few short broken sentences poured out his soul before God.
A flood of tears came to Nora’s relief. After a few minutes she looked up.
“Oh! thank you, thank you, Jim. I believe that in the selfishness of my grief I had forgotten God; but oh! I feel as if my heart was crushed beyond the power of recovery. She is gone” (glancing at the empty bed), “and he is gone—gone—for ever.”
Jim wished to comfort her, and tried to speak, but his voice was choked. He could only draw her to him, and laying her head on his breast, smooth her fair soft hair with his hard but gentle hand.
“Not gone for ever, dearest,” he said at length with a great effort. “It is indeed along long time, but—”
He could not go further, for it seemed to him like mockery to suggest by way of comfort that fourteen years would come to an end.
“Oh! he was so different once,” she said, raising herself and looking at her lover with tearful, earnest eyes; “you have seen him at his worst, Jim. There was a time,—before he took to—”
She stopped abruptly, as if unable to find words, and pointed64, with a fierce expression, that seemed strange and awful on her gentle face, to the fragments of the broken bottle on the hearth. Jim nodded. She saw that he understood, and went on in her own calm voice:—
“There was a time when he was kind and gentle and loving; when he had no drunken companions, and no mysterious goings to sea; when he was the joy as well as the support of his mother, and so fond of me—but he was always that; even after he had—”
Again Nora paused, and, drooping91 her head, uttered the low wail of desolation that went like cold steel to the young sailor’s heart.
“Nora,” he said earnestly, “he will get no drink where he is going. At all events he will be cured of that before he returns home.”
“Oh, I bless the Lord for that,” said Nora, with fervour. “I have thought of that before now, and I have thought, too, that there are men of God where he is going, who think of, and pray for, and strive to recover, the souls of those who—that is; but oh, Jim, Jim, it is a long, long, weary time. I feel that I shall never see my father more in this world—never, never more!”
“We cannot tell, Nora,” said Jim, with a desperate effort to appear hopeful. “I know well enough that it may seem foolish to try to comfort you with the hope of seein’ him again in this life; and yet even this may come to pass. He may escape, or he may be forgiven, and let off before the end of his time. But come, cheer up, my darling. You remember what his last request was?”
“How can you talk of such a thing at such a time?” exclaimed Nora, drawing away from him and rising.
“Be not angry, Nora,” said Jim, also rising. “I did but remind you of it for the purpose of sayin’ that as you agreed to what he wished, you have given me a sort of right or privilege, dear Nora, at least to help and look after you in your distress92. Your own unselfish heart has never thought of telling me that you have neither money nor home; this poor place being yours only till term-day, which is to-morrow; but I know all this without requiring to be told, and I have come to say that there is an old woman—a sort of relation of mine—who lives in this town, and will give you board and lodging gladly till I can get arrangements made at the lighthouse for our—that is to say—till you choose, in your own good time, to let me be your rightful protector and supporter, as well as your comforter.”
“Thank you, Jim. It is like yourself to be so thoughtful. Forgive me; I judged you hastily. It is true I am poor—I have nothing in the world, but, thanks be to God, I have health. I can work; and there are some kind friends,” she added, with a sad smile, “who will throw work in my way, I know.”
“Well, we will talk about these things afterwards, Nora, but you won’t refuse to take advantage of my old friend’s offer—at least for a night or two?”
“No, I won’t refuse that, Jim; see, I am prepared to go,” she said, pointing to a wooden sea-chest which stood in the middle of the room; “my box is packed. Everything I own is in it. The furniture, clock, and bedding belong to the landlord.”
“Come then, my own poor lamb,” said the young sailor tenderly, “let us go.”
Nora rose and glanced slowly round the room. Few rooms in Ramsgate could have looked more poverty-stricken and cheerless, nevertheless, being associated in her mind with those whom she had lost, she was loath93 to leave it. Falling suddenly on her knees beside the bed, she kissed the old counterpane that had covered the dead form she had loved so well, and then went hastily out and leaned her head against the wall of the narrow court before the door.
Jim lifted the chest, placed it on his broad shoulders and followed her. Locking the door behind him and putting the key in his pocket, he gave his disengaged arm to Nora, and led her slowly a way.
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1
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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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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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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relishing
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| v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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sleight
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| n.技巧，花招 | |
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initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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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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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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inconveniently
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| ad.不方便地 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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shales
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| n.页岩( shale的名词复数 ) | |
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43
buoys
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| n.浮标( buoy的名词复数 )；航标；救生圈；救生衣v.使浮起( buoy的第三人称单数 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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buoy
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| n.浮标；救生圈；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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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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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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51
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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58
gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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59
dodges
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| n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 )；躲避；伎俩；妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 )；回避 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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spliced
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| adj.（针织品）加固的n.叠接v.绞接( splice的过去式和过去分词 )；捻接（两段绳子）；胶接；粘接（胶片、磁带等） | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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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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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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gals
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| abbr.gallons （复数）加仑（液量单位）n.女孩，少女( gal的名词复数 ) | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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72
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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81
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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82
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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83
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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84
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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85
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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86
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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88
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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89
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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90
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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91
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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92
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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93
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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