Why is it that we can better bear to part in spirit than in body, and while we have the fortitude8 to act farewell have not the nerve to say it? On the eve of long voyages or an absence of many years, friends who are tenderly attached will separate with the usual look, the usual pressure of the hand, planning one final interview for the morrow, while each well knows that it is but a poor feint to save the pain of uttering that one word, and that the meeting will never be. Should possibilities be worse to bear than certainties? We do not shun9 our dying friends; the not having distinctly taken leave of one among them, whom we left in all kindness and affection, will often embitter10 the whole remainder of a life.
The town was glad with morning light; places that had shown ugly and distrustful all night long, now wore a smile; and sparkling sunbeams dancing on chamber11 windows, and twinkling through blind and curtain before sleepers’ eyes, shed light even into dreams, and chased away the shadows of the night. Birds in hot rooms, covered up close and dark, felt it was morning, and chafed12 and grew restless in their little cells; bright-eyed mice crept back to their tiny homes and nestled timidly together; the sleek13 house-cat, forgetful of her prey14, sat winking15 at the rays of sun starting through keyhole and cranny in the door, and longed for her stealthy run and warm sleek bask16 outside. The nobler beasts confined in dens17, stood motionless behind their bars and gazed on fluttering boughs18, and sunshine peeping through some little window, with eyes in which old forests gleamed — then trod impatiently the track their prisoned feet had worn — and stopped and gazed again. Men in their dungeons19 stretched their cramp20 cold limbs and cursed the stone that no bright sky could warm. The flowers that sleep by night, opened their gentle eyes and turned them to the day. The light, creation’s mind, was everywhere, and all things owned its power.
The two pilgrims, often pressing each other’s hands, or exchanging a smile or cheerful look, pursued their way in silence. Bright and happy as it was, there was something solemn in the long, deserted21 streets, from which, like bodies without souls, all habitual22 character and expression had departed, leaving but one dead uniform repose23, that made them all alike. All was so still at that early hour, that the few pale people whom they met seemed as much unsuited to the scene, as the sickly lamp which had been here and there left burning, was powerless and faint in the full glory of the sun.
Before they had penetrated24 very far into the labyrinth25 of men’s abodes26 which yet lay between them and the outskirts27, this aspect began to melt away, and noise and bustle28 to usurp29 its place. Some straggling carts and coaches rumbling30 by, first broke the charm, then others came, then others yet more active, then a crowd. The wonder was, at first, to see a tradesman’s window open, but it was a rare thing soon to see one closed; then, smoke rose slowly from the chimneys, and sashes were thrown up to let in air, and doors were opened, and servant girls, looking lazily in all directions but their brooms, scattered31 brown clouds of dust into the eyes of shrinking passengers, or listened disconsolately32 to milkmen who spoke33 of country fairs, and told of waggons34 in the mews, with awnings35 and all things complete, and gallant36 swains to boot, which another hour would see upon their journey.
This quarter passed, they came upon the haunts of commerce and great traffic, where many people were resorting, and business was already rife37. The old man looked about him with a startled and bewildered gaze, for these were places that he hoped to shun. He pressed his finger on his lip, and drew the child along by narrow courts and winding38 ways, nor did he seem at ease until they had left it far behind, often casting a backward look towards it, murmuring that ruin and self-murder were crouching39 in every street, and would follow if they scented40 them; and that they could not fly too fast.
Again this quarter passed, they came upon a straggling neighbourhood, where the mean houses parcelled off in rooms, and windows patched with rags and paper, told of the populous41 poverty that sheltered there. The shops sold goods that only poverty could buy, and sellers and buyers were pinched and griped alike. Here were poor streets where faded gentility essayed with scanty42 space and shipwrecked means to make its last feeble stand, but tax-gatherer and creditor43 came there as elsewhere, and the poverty that yet faintly struggled was hardly less squalid and manifest than that which had long ago submitted and given up the game.
This was a wide, wide track — for the humble44 followers45 of the camp of wealth pitch their tents round about it for many a mile — but its character was still the same. Damp rotten houses, many to let, many yet building, many half-built and mouldering46 away — lodgings47, where it would be hard to tell which needed pity most, those who let or those who came to take — children, scantily49 fed and clothed, spread over every street, and sprawling50 in the dust — scolding mothers, stamping their slipshod feet with noisy threats upon the pavement — shabby fathers, hurrying with dispirited looks to the occupation which brought them ‘daily bread’ and little more — mangling-women, washer-women, cobblers, tailors, chandlers, driving their trades in parlours and kitchens and back room and garrets, and sometimes all of them under the same roof — brick-fields skirting gardens paled with staves of old casks, or timber pillaged51 from houses burnt down, and blackened and blistered52 by the flames — mounds53 of dock-weed, nettles54, coarse grass and oyster-shells, heaped in rank confusion — small dissenting55 chapels56 to teach, with no lack of illustration, the miseries57 of Earth, and plenty of new churches, erected58 with a little superfluous59 wealth, to show the way to Heaven.
At length these streets becoming more straggling yet, dwindled60 and dwindled away, until there were only small garden patches bordering the road, with many a summer house innocent of paint and built of old timber or some fragments of a boat, green as the tough cabbage-stalks that grew about it, and grottoed61 at the seams with toad-stools and tight-sticking snails62. To these succeeded pert cottages, two and two with plots of ground in front, laid out in angular beds with stiff box borders and narrow paths between, where footstep never strayed to make the gravel63 rough. Then came the public-house, freshly painted in green and white, with tea-gardens and a bowling64 green, spurning65 its old neighbour with the horse-trough where the waggons stopped; then, fields; and then, some houses, one by one, of goodly size with lawns, some even with a lodge66 where dwelt a porter and his wife. Then came a turnpike; then fields again with trees and hay-stacks; then, a hill, and on the top of that, the traveller might stop, and — looking back at old Saint Paul’s looming67 through the smoke, its cross peeping above the cloud (if the day were clear), and glittering in the sun; and casting his eyes upon the Babel out of which it grew until he traced it down to the furthest outposts of the invading army of bricks and mortar68 whose station lay for the present nearly at his feet — might feel at last that he was clear of London.
Near such a spot as this, and in a pleasant field, the old man and his little guide (if guide she were, who knew not whither they were bound) sat down to rest. She had had the precaution to furnish her basket with some slices of bread and meat, and here they made their frugal69 breakfast.
The freshness of the day, the singing of the birds, the beauty of the waving grass, the deep green leaves, the wild flowers, and the thousand exquisite70 scents71 and sounds that floated in the air — deep joys to most of us, but most of all to those whose life is in a crowd or who live solitarily72 in great cities as in the bucket of a human well — sunk into their breasts and made them very glad. The child had repeated her artless prayers once that morning, more earnestly perhaps than she had ever done in all her life, but as she felt all this, they rose to her lips again. The old man took off his hat — he had no memory for the words — but he said amen, and that they were very good.
There had been an old copy of the Pilgrim’s Progress, with strange plates, upon a shelf at home, over which she had often pored whole evenings, wondering whether it was true in every word, and where those distant countries with the curious names might be. As she looked back upon the place they had left, one part of it came strongly on her mind.
‘Dear grandfather,’ she said, ‘only that this place is prettier and a great deal better than the real one, if that in the book is like it, I feel as if we were both Christian73, and laid down on this grass all the cares and troubles we brought with us; never to take them up again.’
‘No — never to return — never to return’— replied the old man, waving his hand towards the city. ‘Thou and I are free of it now, Nell. They shall never lure74 us back.’
‘Are you tired?’ said the child, ‘are you sure you don’t feel ill from this long walk?’
‘I shall never feel ill again, now that we are once away,’ was his reply. ‘Let us be stirring, Nell. We must be further away — a long, long way further. We are too near to stop, and be at rest. Come!’
There was a pool of clear water in the field, in which the child laved her hands and face, and cooled her feet before setting forth75 to walk again. She would have the old man refresh himself in this way too, and making him sit down upon the grass, cast the water on him with her hands, and dried it with her simple dress.
‘I can do nothing for myself, my darling,’ said the grandfather; ‘I don’t know how it is, I could once, but the time’s gone. Don’t leave me, Nell; say that thou’lt not leave me. I loved thee all the while, indeed I did. If I lose thee too, my dear, I must die!’
He laid his head upon her shoulder and moaned piteously. The time had been, and a very few days before, when the child could not have restrained her tears and must have wept with him. But now she soothed76 him with gentle and tender words, smiled at his thinking they could ever part, and rallied him cheerfully upon the jest. He was soon calmed and fell asleep, singing to himself in a low voice, like a little child.
He awoke refreshed, and they continued their journey. The road was pleasant, lying between beautiful pastures and fields of corn, about which, poised77 high in the clear blue sky, the lark78 trilled out her happy song. The air came laden79 with the fragrance80 it caught upon its way, and the bees, upborne upon its scented breath, hummed forth their drowsy81 satisfaction as they floated by.
They were now in the open country; the houses were very few and scattered at long intervals83, often miles apart. Occasionally they came upon a cluster of poor cottages, some with a chair or low board put across the open door to keep the scrambling84 children from the road, others shut up close while all the family were working in the fields. These were often the commencement of a little village: and after an interval82 came a wheelwright’s shed or perhaps a blacksmith’s forge; then a thriving farm with sleepy cows lying about the yard, and horses peering over the low wall and scampering85 away when harnessed horses passed upon the road, as though in triumph at their freedom. There were dull pigs too, turning up the ground in search of dainty food, and grunting86 their monotonous87 grumblings as they prowled about, or crossed each other in their quest; plump pigeons skimming round the roof or strutting88 on the eaves; and ducks and geese, far more graceful89 in their own conceit90, waddling91 awkwardly about the edges of the pond or sailing glibly92 on its surface. The farm-yard passed, then came the little inn; the humbler beer-shop; and the village tradesman’s; then the lawyer’s and the parson’s, at whose dread5 names the beer-shop trembled; the church then peeped out modestly from a clump93 of trees; then there were a few more cottages; then the cage, and pound, and not unfrequently, on a bank by the way-side, a deep old dusty well. Then came the trim-hedged fields on either hand, and the open road again.
They walked all day, and slept that night at a small cottage where beds were let to travellers. Next morning they were afoot again, and though jaded94 at first, and very tired, recovered before long and proceeded briskly forward.
They often stopped to rest, but only for a short space at a time, and still kept on, having had but slight refreshment95 since the morning. It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon, when drawing near another cluster of labourers’ huts, the child looked wistfully in each, doubtful at which to ask for permission to rest awhile, and buy a draught96 of milk.
It was not easy to determine, for she was timid and fearful of being repulsed97. Here was a crying child, and there a noisy wife. In this, the people seemed too poor; in that, too many. At length she stopped at one where the family were seated round the table — chiefly because there was an old man sitting in a cushioned chair beside the hearth98, and she thought he was a grandfather and would feel for hers.
There were besides, the cottager and his wife, and three young sturdy children, brown as berries. The request was no sooner preferred, than granted. The eldest99 boy ran out to fetch some milk, the second dragged two stools towards the door, and the youngest crept to his mother’s gown, and looked at the strangers from beneath his sunburnt hand.
‘God save you, master,’ said the old cottager in a thin piping voice; ‘are you travelling far?’
‘Yes, Sir, a long way’— replied the child; for her grandfather appealed to her.
‘From London?’ inquired the old man.
The child said yes.
Ah! He had been in London many a time — used to go there often once, with waggons. It was nigh two-and-thirty year since he had been there last, and he did hear say there were great changes. Like enough! He had changed, himself, since then. Two-and-thirty year was a long time and eighty-four a great age, though there was some he had known that had lived to very hard upon a hundred — and not so hearty100 as he, neither — no, nothing like it.
‘Sit thee down, master, in the elbow chair,’ said the old man, knocking his stick upon the brick floor, and trying to do so sharply. ‘Take a pinch out o’ that box; I don’t take much myself, for it comes dear, but I find it wakes me up sometimes, and ye’re but a boy to me. I should have a son pretty nigh as old as you if he’d lived, but they listed him for a so’ger — he come back home though, for all he had but one poor leg. He always said he’d be buried near the sun-dial he used to climb upon when he was a baby, did my poor boy, and his words come true — you can see the place with your own eyes; we’ve kept the turf up, ever since.’
He shook his head, and looking at his daughter with watery101 eyes, said she needn’t be afraid that he was going to talk about that, any more. He didn’t wish to trouble nobody, and if he had troubled anybody by what he said, he asked pardon, that was all.
The milk arrived, and the child producing her little basket, and selecting its best fragments for her grandfather, they made a hearty meal. The furniture of the room was very homely102 of course — a few rough chairs and a table, a corner cupboard with their little stock of crockery and delf, a gaudy103 tea-tray, representing a lady in bright red, walking out with a very blue parasol, a few common, coloured scripture104 subjects in frames upon the wall and chimney, an old dwarf105 clothes-press and an eight-day clock, with a few bright saucepans and a kettle, comprised the whole. But everything was clean and neat, and as the child glanced round, she felt a tranquil106 air of comfort and content to which she had long been unaccustomed.
‘How far is it to any town or village?’ she asked of the husband.
‘A matter of good five mile, my dear,’ was the reply, ‘but you’re not going on to-night?’
‘Yes, yes, Nell,’ said the old man hastily, urging her too by signs. ‘Further on, further on, darling, further away if we walk till midnight.’
‘There’s a good barn hard by, master,’ said the man, ‘or there’s travellers’ lodging48, I know, at the Plow107 an’ Harrer. Excuse me, but you do seem a little tired, and unless you’re very anxious to get on —’
‘Yes, yes, we are,’ returned the old man fretfully. ‘Further away, dear Nell, pray further away.’
‘We must go on, indeed,’ said the child, yielding to his restless wish. ‘We thank you very much, but we cannot stop so soon. I’m quite ready, grandfather.’
But the woman had observed, from the young wanderer’s gait, that one of her little feet was blistered and sore, and being a woman and a mother too, she would not suffer her to go until she had washed the place and applied108 some simple remedy, which she did so carefully and with such a gentle hand — rough-grained and hard though it was, with work — that the child’s heart was too full to admit of her saying more than a fervent109 ‘God bless you!’ nor could she look back nor trust herself to speak, until they had left the cottage some distance behind. When she turned her head, she saw that the whole family, even the old grandfather, were standing110 in the road watching them as they went, and so, with many waves of the hand, and cheering nods, and on one side at least not without tears, they parted company.
They trudged111 forward, more slowly and painfully than they had done yet, for another mile or thereabouts, when they heard the sound of wheels behind them, and looking round observed an empty cart approaching pretty briskly. The driver on coming up to them stopped his horse and looked earnestly at Nell.
‘Didn’t you stop to rest at a cottage yonder?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the child.
‘Ah! They asked me to look out for you,’ said the man. ‘I’m going your way. Give me your hand — jump up, master.’
This was a great relief, for they were very much fatigued112 and could scarcely crawl along. To them the jolting113 cart was a luxurious114 carriage, and the ride the most delicious in the world. Nell had scarcely settled herself on a little heap of straw in one corner, when she fell asleep, for the first time that day.
She was awakened115 by the stopping of the cart, which was about to turn up a bye-lane. The driver kindly116 got down to help her out, and pointing to some trees at a very short distance before them, said that the town lay there, and that they had better take the path which they would see leading through the churchyard. Accordingly, towards this spot, they directed their weary steps.
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收听单词发音
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1
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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7
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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8
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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12
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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13
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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15
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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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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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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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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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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25
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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26
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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29
usurp
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| vt.篡夺，霸占；vi.篡位 | |
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30
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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31
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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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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34
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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35
awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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36
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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37
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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38
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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39
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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40
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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41
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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42
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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43
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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44
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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45
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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46
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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47
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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48
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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49
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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50
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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51
pillaged
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| v.抢劫，掠夺( pillage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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53
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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54
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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55
dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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56
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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57
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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58
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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59
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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60
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
grottoed
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| [地名] [美国] 格罗托斯 | |
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62
snails
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| n.蜗牛；迟钝的人；蜗牛( snail的名词复数 ) | |
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63
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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64
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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65
spurning
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的现在分词 ) | |
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66
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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67
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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68
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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69
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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70
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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71
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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72
solitarily
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| adv.独自一人地，寂寞地 | |
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73
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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74
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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75
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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76
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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77
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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78
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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79
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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80
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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81
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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82
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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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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84
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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85
scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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86
grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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87
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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88
strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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89
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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90
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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91
waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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92
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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93
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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95
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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96
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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97
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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98
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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99
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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100
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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101
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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102
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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103
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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104
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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105
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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106
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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107
plow
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| n.犁，耕地，犁过的地；v.犁，费力地前进[英]plough | |
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108
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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109
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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110
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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111
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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112
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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113
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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114
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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115
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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116
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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