Bob wore a collar. In the die-sinking establishment which employed him there were, it is true, two men who belonged to the collarless; but their business was down in the basement of the building, where they kept up a furnace, worked huge stamping-machines, and so on. Bob’s workshop was upstairs, and the companions with whom he sat, without exception, had something white and stiff round their necks; in fact, they were every bit as respectable as Sidney Kirkwood, and such as he, who bent14 over a jeweller’s table. To John Hewett it was no slight gratification that he had been able to apprentice15 his son to a craft which permitted him always to wear a collar. I would not imply that John thought of the matter in these terms, but his reflections bore this significance. Bob was raised for ever above the rank of those who depend merely upon their muscles, even as Clara was saved from the dismal17 destiny of the women who can do nothing but sew.
There was, on the whole, some reason why John Hewett should feel pride in his eldest18 son. Like Sidney Kirkwood, Bob had early shown a faculty19 for draughtsmansbip; when at school, he made decidedly clever caricatures of such persons as displeased21 him, and he drew such wonderful horses (on the race-course or pulling cabs), such laughable donkeys in costers’ carts, such perfect dogs, that on several occasions some friend had purchased with a veritable shilling a specimen22 of his work. ‘Put him to the die-sinking,’ said an acquaintance of the family, himself so employed; ‘he’ll find a use for this kind of thing some day.’ Die-sinking is not the craft it once was; cheap methods, vulgarising here as everywhere, have diminished the opportunities of capable men; but a fair living was promised the lad if he stuck to his work, and at the age of nineteen he was already earning his pound a week. Then he was clever in a good many other ways. He had an ear for music, played (nothing else was within his reach) the concertina, sang a lively song with uncommon23 melodiousness24 — a gift much appreciated at the meetings of a certain Mutual25 Benefit Club, to which his father had paid a weekly subscription26, without fail, through all adversities. In the regular departments of learning Bob had never shown any particular aptitude27; he wrote and read decently, but his speech, as you have had occasion for observing, was not marked by refinement28, and for books he had no liking29. His father, unfortunately, had spoilt him, just as he had spoilt Clara. Being of the nobly independent sex, between fifteen and sixteen he practically free himself from parental30 control. The use he made of his liberty was not altogether pleasing to John, but the time for restraint and training had hopelessly gone by. The lad was selfish, that there was no denying; he grudged31 the money demanded of him for his support; but in other matters he always showed himself so easy-tempered, so disposed to a genial33 understanding, that the great fault had to be blinked. Many failings might have been forgiven him in consideration of the fact that he had never yet drunk too much, and indeed cared little for liquor.
Men of talent, as you are aware, not seldom exhibit low tastes in their choice of companionship. Bob was a case in point; he did not sufficiently35 appreciate social distinctions. He, who wore a collar, seemed to prefer associating with the collarless. There was Jack36 — more properly ‘Jeck’— Bartley, for instance, his bosom37 friend until they began to cool in consequence of a common interest in Miss Peckover. Jack never wore a collar in his life, not even on Sundays, and was closely allied38 with all sorts of blackguards, who somehow made a living on the outskirts39 of turf-land. And there was Eli Snape, compared with whom Jack was a person of refinement and culture. Eli dealt surreptitiously in dogs and rats, and the mere16 odour of him was intolerable to ordinary nostrils40; yet he was a species of hero in Bob’s regard, such invaluable41 information could he supply with regard to ‘events’ in which young Hewett took a profound interest. Perhaps a more serious aspect of Bob’s disregard for social standing34 was revealed in his relations with the other sex. Susceptible42 from his tender youth, he showed no ambition in the bestowal43 of his amorous44 homage45. At the age of sixteen did he not declare his resolve to wed32 the daughter of old Sally Budge46, who went about selling watercress? and was there not a desperate conflict at home before this project could be driven from his head? It was but the first of many such instances. Had he been left to his own devices, he would already, like numbers of his coevals, have been supporting (or declining to support) a wife and two or three children. At present he was ‘engaged’ to Clem Peckover; that was an understood thing. His father did not approve it, but this connection was undeniably better than those he had previously47 declared or concealed48. Bob, it seemed evident, was fated to make a mesalliance— a pity, seeing his parts and prospects49. He might have aspired50 to a wife who had scarcely any difficulty with her h’s; whose bringing-up enabled her to look with compassion51 on girls who could not play the piano; who counted among her relatives not one collarless individual.
Clem, as we have seen, had already found, or imagined, cause for dissatisfaction with her betrothed52. She was well enough acquainted with Bob’s repute, and her temper made it improbable, to say the least, that the course of wooing would in this case run very smoothly53. At present, various little signs were beginning to convince her that she had a rival, and the hints of her rejected admirer, Jack Bartley, fixed54 her suspicions upon an acquaintance whom she had hitherto regarded merely with contempt. This was Pennyloaf Candy, formerly55, with her parents, a lodger56 in Mrs. Peckover’s house. The family had been ousted57 some eighteen months ago on account of failure to pay their rent and of the frequent intoxication58 of Mrs. Candy. Pennyloaf’s legal name was Penelope, which, being pronounced as a trisyllable, transformed itself by further corruption59 into a sound at all events conveying some meaning. Applied60 in the first instance jocosely61, the title grew inseparable from her, and was the one she herself always used. Her employment was the making of shirts for export; she earned on an average tenpence a day, and frequently worked fifteen hours between leaving and returning to her home. That Bob Hewett could interest himself, with whatever motive62, in a person of this description, Miss Peckover at first declined to believe. A hint, however, was quite enough to excite her jealous temperament63; as proof accumulated, cunning and ferocity wrought64 in her for the devising of such a declaration of war as should speedily scare Pennyloaf from the field. Jane Snowdon’s removal had caused her no little irritation65; the hours of evening were heavy on her hands, and this new emotion was not unwelcome as a temporary resource.
As he came home from work one Monday towards the end of April, Bob encountered Pennyloaf; she had a bundle in her hands and was walking hurriedly.
‘Hallo! that you?’ ho exclaimed, catching67 her by the arm. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I can’t stop now. I’ve got some things to put away, an’ it’s nearly eight.’
‘Come round to the Passage to-night. Be there at ten.’
‘I can’t give no promise. There’s been such rows at ‘ome. You know mother summonsed father this mornin’?’
‘Yes, I’ve heard. All right! come if you can; I’ll ho there.’
Pennyloaf hastened on. She was a meagre, hollow-eyed, bloodless girl of seventeen, yet her features had a certain charm — that dolorous68 kind of prettiness which is often enough seen in the London needle-slave. Her habitual69 look was one of meaningless surprise; whatever she gazed upon seemed a source of astonishment70 to her, and when she laughed, which was not very often, her eyes grew wider than ever. Her attire was miserable71, but there were signs that she tried to keep it in order; the boots upon her feet were sewn and patched into shapelessness; her limp straw hat had just received a new binding72.
By saying that she had things ‘to put away,’ she meant that her business was with the pawnbroker73, who could not receive pledges after eight o’clock. It wanted some ten minutes of the hour when she entered a side-doorway, and, by an inner door, passed into one of a series of compartments74 constructed before the pawnbroker’s counter. She deposited her bundle, and looked about for someone to attend to her. Two young men were in sight, both transacting75 business; one was conversing76 facetiously77 with a customer on the subject of a pledge. Two or three gas-jets lighted the interior of the shop, but the boxes were in shadow. There was a strong musty odour; the gloom, the narrow compartments, the low tones of conversation, suggested stealth and shame.
Pennyloaf waited with many signs of impatience78, until one of the assistants approached, a smartly attired79 youth, with black hair greased into the discipline he deemed becoming, with an aquiline80 nose, a coarse mouth, a large horseshoe pin adorning81 his necktie, and rings on his fingers. He caught hold of the packet and threw it open; it consisted of a petticoat and the skirt of an old dress.
‘Well, what is it?’ he asked, rubbing his tongue along his upper lip before and after speaking.
‘Three an’ six, please, sir.’
He rolled the things up again with a practised turn of the hand, and said indifferently, glancing towards another box, ‘Eighteenpence.’
‘Oh, sir, we had two shillin’s on the skirt not so long ago,’ pleaded Pennyloaf, with a subservient82 voice. ‘Make it twoshillin’s — please do, sir!
The young man paid no attention; he was curling his moustache and exchanging a smile of intelligence with his counter-companion with respect to a piece of business the latter had in hand. Of a sudden he turned and said sharply:
‘Well, are you goin’ to take it or not?’
Pennyloaf sighed and nodded.
‘Got a ‘apenny?’ he asked.
‘No.’
He fetched a cloth, rolled the articles in it very tightly, and pinned them up; then he made out ticket and duplicate, handling his pen with facile flourish, and having blotted83 the little piece of card on a box of sand (a custom which survives in this conservative profession), he threw it to the customer. Lastly, he counted out one shilling and fivepenee halfpenny. The coins were sandy, greasy84, and of scratched surface.
Pennyloaf sped homewards. She lived in Shooter’s Gardens, a picturesque locality which demolition86 and rebuilding have of late transformed. It was a winding87 alley88, with paving raised a foot above the level of the street whence was its main approach. To enter from the obscurer end, you descended89 a flight of steps, under a low archway, in a court itself not easily discovered. From without, only a glimpse of the Gardens was obtainable; the houses curved out of sight after the first few yards, and left surmise90 to busy itself with the characteristics of the hidden portion. A stranger bold enough to explore would have discovered that the Gardens had a blind offshoot, known simply as ‘The Court.’ Needless to burden description with further detail; the slum was like any other slum; filth91, rottenness, evil odours, possessed92 these dens85 of superfluous93 mankind and made them gruesome to the peering imagination. The inhabitants of course felt nothing of the sort; a room in Shooter’s Gardens was the only kind of home that most of them knew or desired. The majority preferred it, on all grounds, to that offered them in a block of model lodgings94 not very far away; here was independence, that is to say, the liberty to be as vile95 as they pleased. How they came to love vileness96, well, that is quite another matter, and shall not for the present concern us.
Pennyloaf ran into the jaws97 of this black horror with the indifference98 of habit; it had never occurred to her that the Gardens were fearful in the night’s gloom, nor even that better lighting6 would have been a convenience. Did it happen that she awoke from her first sleep with the ring of ghastly shrieking99 in her ears, that was an incident of too common occurrence to cause her more than a brief curiosity; she could wait till the morning to hear who had half-killed whom. Four days ago it was her own mother’s turn to be pounded into insensibility; her father (a journeyman baker100, often working nineteen hours out of the twenty-four, which probably did not improve his temper), maddened by his wife’s persistent101 drunkenness, was stopped just on the safe side of murder. To the amazement102 and indignation of the Gardens, Mrs. Candy prosecuted103 her sovereign lord; the case had been heard today, and Candy had been east in a fine. The money was paid, and the baker went his way, remarking that his family were to ‘expect him back when they saw him.’ Mrs. Candy, on her return, was hooted104 through all the length of the Gardens, a demonstration105 of public feeling probably rather of base than of worthy106 significance.
As Pennyloaf drew near to the house, a wild, discordant107 voice suddenly broke forth108 somewhere in the darkness, singing in a high key, ‘All ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him for ever!’ It was Mad Jack, who had his dwelling109 in the Court, and at all hours was wont110 to practise the psalmody which made him notorious throughout Clerkenwell. A burst of laughter followed from a group of men and boys gathered near the archway. Unheeding, the girl passed in at an open door and felt her way up a staircase; the air was noisome111, notwithstanding a fierce draught20 which swept down the stairs. She entered a room lighted by a small metal lamp hanging on the wall — a precaution of Pennyloaf’s own contrivance. There was no bed, but one mattress112 lay with a few rags of bed-clothing spread upon it, and two others were rolled up in a corner. This chamber113 accommodated, under ordinary circumstances, four persons: Mr. and Mrs. Candy, Pennyloaf, and a son named Stephen, whose years were eighteen. (Stephen pursued the occupation of a potman; his hours were from eight in the morning till midnight on week-days, and on Sunday the time during which a public-house is permitted to be open; once a month he was allowed freedom after six o’clock.) Against the window was hung an old shawl pierced with many rents. By the fire sat Mrs. Candy; she leaned forward, her head, which was bound in linen swathes, resting upon her hands.
‘What have you got?’ she asked, in the thick voice of a drunkard, without moving.
‘Eighteenpence; it’s all they’d give me.’
The woman cursed in her throat, but exhibited no anger with Pennyloaf.
‘Go an’ get some tea an’ milk,’ she said, after a pause. ‘There is sugar. An’ bring seven o’ coals; there’s only a dust.’
She pointed114 to a deal box which stood by the hearth115. Pennyloaf went out again.
Over the fireplace, the stained wall bore certain singular ornaments116. These were five coloured cards, such as are signed by one who takes a pledge of total abstinence; each presented the signature, ‘Maria Candy,’ and it was noticeable that at each progressive date the handwriting had become more unsteady. Yes, five times had Maria Candy promised, with the help of God, to abstain,’ &c. &c.; each time she was in earnest. But it appeared that the help of God availed little against the views of one Mrs. Green, who kept the beer-shop in Rosoman Street, once Mrs. Peckover’s, and who could on no account afford to lose so good a customer. For many years that house, licensed117 for the sale of non-spirituous liquors, had been working Mrs. Candy’s ruin; not a particle of her frame but was vitiated by the drugs retailed118 there under the approving smile of civilisation119. Spirits would have been harmless in comparison. The advantage of Mrs. Green’s ale was that the very first half-pint gave conscience its bemuddling sop120; for a penny you forgot all the cares of existence; for threepence you became a yelling maniac121.
Poor, poor creature She was sober to-night, sitting over the fire with her face battered122 into shapelessness; and now that her fury had had its way, she bitterly repented123 invoking124 the help of the law against her husband. What use? what use? Perhaps he had now abandoned her for good, and it was certain that the fear of him was the only thing that ever checked her on the ruinous road she would so willingly have quitted. But for the harm to himself, the only pity was he had not taken her life outright125. She knew all the hatefulness of her existence; she knew also that only the grave would rescue her from it. The struggle was too unequal between Mrs. Candy with her appeal to Providence126, and Mrs. Green with the forces of civilisation at her back.
Pennyloaf speedily returned with a ha’p’orth of milk, a pennyworth of tea, and seven pounds (also price one penny) of coals in an apron127. It was very seldom indeed that the Candys had more of anything in their room than would last them for the current day. There being no kettle, water was put on to boil in a tin saucepan; the tea was made in a jug128. Pennyloaf had always been a good girl to her mother; she tended her as well as she could to-night; but there was no word of affection from either. Kindly129 speech was stifled130 by the atmosphere of Shooter’s Gardens.
Having drunk her tea, Mrs. Candy lay down, as she was, on the already extended mattress, and drew the ragged131 coverings about her. In half an hour she slept.
Pennyloaf then put on her hat and jacket again and left the house. She walked away from the denser132 regions of Clerkenwell, came to Sadler’s Wells Theatre (gloomy in its profitless recollection of the last worthy manager that London knew), and there turned into Myddelton Passage. It is a narrow paved walk between brick walls seven feet high; on the one hand lies the New River Head, on the other are small gardens behind Myddelton Square. The branches of a few trees hang over; there are doors, seemingly never opened, belonging one to each garden; a couple of gas-lamps shed feeble light. Pennyloaf paced the length of the Passage several times, meeting no one. Then a policeman came along with echoing tread, and eyed her suspiciously. She had to wait more than a quarter of an hour before Bob Hewett made his appearance. Greeting her with a nod and a laugh, he took up a leaning position against the wall, and began to put questions concerning the state of things at her home.
‘And what’ll your mother do if the old man don’t give her nothing to live on?’ he inquired, when he had listened good-naturedly to the recital133 of domestic difficulties.
‘Don’t knew,’ replied the girl, shaking her head, the habitual surprise of her countenance134 becoming a blank interrogation of destiny.
Bob kept kicking the wall, first with one heel, then with the other. He whistled a few bars of the last song he had learnt at the music-hall.
‘Say, Penny,’ he remarked at length, with something of shamefacedness, ‘there’s a namesake of mine here as I shan’t miss, if you can do any good with it.’
He held a shilling towards her under his hand. Pennyloaf turned away, casting down her eyes and looking troubled.
‘We can get on for a bit,’ she said indistinctly.
Bob returned the coin to his pocket. He whistled again for a moment, then asked abruptly135:
‘Say! have you seen Clem again?’
‘No,’ replied the girl, examining him with sudden acuteness. ‘What about her?’
‘Nothing much. She’s got her back up a bit, that’s all.’
‘About me?’ Pennyloaf asked anxiously.
Bob nodded. As he was making some further remarks on the subject, a man’s figure appeared at a little distance, and almost immediately withdrew again round a winding of the Passage. A moment after there sounded from that direction a shrill136 whistle. Bob and the girl regarded each other.
‘Who was that?’ said the former suspiciously. ‘I half believe it was Jeck Bartley. If Jeck is up to any of his larks137, I’ll make him remember it. You wait here a minute!’
He walked at a sharp pace towards the suspected quarter. Scarcely had he gone half a dozen yards, when there came running from the other end of the Passage a girl whom Pennyloaf at once recognised. It was Clem Peckover; with some friend’s assistance she had evidently tracked the couple and was now springing out of ambush138. She rushed upon Pennyloaf, who for very alarm could not flee, and attacked her with clenched139 fists. A scream of terror and pain caused Bob to turn and run back. Pennyloaf could not even ward66 off the blows that descended upon her head; she was pinned against the wall, her hat was torn away, her hair began to fly in disorder140. But Bob effected a speedy rescue. He gripped Clem’s muscular arms, and forced them behind her back as if he meant to dismember her. Even then it was with no slight effort that he restrained the girl’s fury.
‘You run off ‘ome!’ he shouted to Pennyloaf. ‘If she tries this on again, I’ll murder her!’
Pennyloaf’s hysterical141 cries and the frantic142 invectives of her assailant made the Passage ring. Again Bob roared to the former to be off, and was at length obeyed. When Pennyloaf was out of sight he released Clem. Her twisted arms caused her such pain that she threw herself against the wall, mingling143 maledictions with groans144. Bob burst into scornful laughter.
Clem went home vowing145 vengeance146. In the nether world this trifling147 dissension might have been expected to bear its crop of violent language and straightway pass into oblivion; but Miss Peckover’s malevolence148 was of no common stamp, and the scene of to-night originated a feud149 which in the end concerned many more people than those immediately interested.
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1
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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5
analyst
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| n.分析家，化验员；心理分析学家 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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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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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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melodiousness
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| n.melodious（音调悦耳的）的变形 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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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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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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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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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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49
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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50
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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52
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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53
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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54
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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55
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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56
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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57
ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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58
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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59
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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60
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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61
jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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62
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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63
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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64
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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65
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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66
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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67
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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68
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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69
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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70
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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71
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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72
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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73
pawnbroker
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| n.典当商，当铺老板 | |
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74
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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75
transacting
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的现在分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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76
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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77
facetiously
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| adv.爱开玩笑地；滑稽地，爱开玩笑地 | |
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78
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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79
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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81
adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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82
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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83
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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84
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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85
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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86
demolition
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| n.破坏,毁坏,毁坏之遗迹 | |
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87
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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88
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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89
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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90
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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91
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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92
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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93
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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94
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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95
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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96
vileness
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| n.讨厌，卑劣 | |
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97
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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98
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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99
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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100
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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101
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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102
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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103
prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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104
hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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106
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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107
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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108
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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109
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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110
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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111
noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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112
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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113
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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114
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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115
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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116
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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117
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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118
retailed
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| vt.零售（retail的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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119
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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120
sop
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| n.湿透的东西，懦夫；v.浸，泡，浸湿 | |
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121
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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122
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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123
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
invoking
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| v.援引( invoke的现在分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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125
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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126
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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127
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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128
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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129
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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130
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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131
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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132
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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133
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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134
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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135
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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136
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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137
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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138
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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139
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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141
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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142
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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143
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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144
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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145
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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146
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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147
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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148
malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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149
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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