But, quickly recovering his self-possession, he threw down his stick and book, and dropping on one knee beside her, endeavoured, by such simple means as occurred to him, to restore her to herself; while her grandfather, standing2 idly by, wrung3 his hands, and implored4 her with many endearing expressions to speak to him, were it only a word.
‘She is quite exhausted,’ said the schoolmaster, glancing upward into his face. ‘You have taxed her powers too far, friend.’
‘She is perishing of want,’ rejoined the old man. ‘I never thought how weak and ill she was, till now.’
Casting a look upon him, half-reproachful and half-compassionate, the schoolmaster took the child in his arms, and, bidding the old man gather up her little basket and follow him directly, bore her away at his utmost speed.
There was a small inn within sight, to which, it would seem, he had been directing his steps when so unexpectedly overtaken. Towards this place he hurried with his unconscious burden, and rushing into the kitchen, and calling upon the company there assembled to make way for God’s sake, deposited it on a chair before the fire.
The company, who rose in confusion on the schoolmaster’s entrance, did as people usually do under such circumstances. Everybody called for his or her favourite remedy, which nobody brought; each cried for more air, at the same time carefully excluding what air there was, by closing round the object of sympathy; and all wondered why somebody else didn’t do what it never appeared to occur to them might be done by themselves.
The landlady5, however, who possessed6 more readiness and activity than any of them, and who had withal a quicker perception of the merits of the case, soon came running in, with a little hot brandy and water, followed by her servant-girl, carrying vinegar, hartshorn, smelling-salts, and such other restoratives; which, being duly administered, recovered the child so far as to enable her to thank them in a faint voice, and to extend her hand to the poor schoolmaster, who stood, with an anxious face, hard by. Without suffering her to speak another word, or so much as to stir a finger any more, the women straightway carried her off to bed; and, having covered her up warm, bathed her cold feet, and wrapped them in flannel7, they despatched a messenger for the doctor.
The doctor, who was a red-nosed gentleman with a great bunch of seals dangling8 below a waistcoat of ribbed black satin, arrived with all speed, and taking his seat by the bedside of poor Nell, drew out his watch, and felt her pulse. Then he looked at her tongue, then he felt her pulse again, and while he did so, he eyed the half-emptied wine-glass as if in profound abstraction.
‘I should give her,’ said the doctor at length, ‘a tea-spoonful, every now and then, of hot brandy and water.’
‘Why, that’s exactly what we’ve done, sir!’ said the delighted landlady.
‘I should also,’ observed the doctor, who had passed the foot-bath on the stairs, ‘I should also,’ said the doctor, in the voice of an oracle9, ‘put her feet in hot water, and wrap them up in flannel. I should likewise,’ said the doctor with increased solemnity, ‘give her something light for supper — the wing of a roasted fowl10 now —’
‘Why, goodness gracious me, sir, it’s cooking at the kitchen fire this instant!’ cried the landlady. And so indeed it was, for the schoolmaster had ordered it to be put down, and it was getting on so well that the doctor might have smelt11 it if he had tried; perhaps he did.
‘You may then,’ said the doctor, rising gravely, ‘give her a glass of hot mulled port wine, if she likes wine —’
‘And a toast, Sir?’ suggested the landlady. ‘Ay,’ said the doctor, in the tone of a man who makes a dignified12 concession13. ‘And a toast — of bread. But be very particular to make it of bread, if you please, ma’am.’
With which parting injunction, slowly and portentously14 delivered, the doctor departed, leaving the whole house in admiration15 of that wisdom which tallied16 so closely with their own. Everybody said he was a very shrewd doctor indeed, and knew perfectly17 what people’s constitutions were; which there appears some reason to suppose he did.
While her supper was preparing, the child fell into a refreshing18 sleep, from which they were obliged to rouse her when it was ready. As she evinced extraordinary uneasiness on learning that her grandfather was below stairs, and as she was greatly troubled at the thought of their being apart, he took his supper with her. Finding her still very restless on this head, they made him up a bed in an inner room, to which he presently retired19. The key of this chamber20 happened by good fortune to be on that side of the door which was in Nell’s room; she turned it on him when the landlady had withdrawn21, and crept to bed again with a thankful heart.
The schoolmaster sat for a long time smoking his pipe by the kitchen fire, which was now deserted22, thinking, with a very happy face, on the fortunate chance which had brought him so opportunely23 to the child’s assistance, and parrying, as well as in his simple way he could, the inquisitive24 cross-examination of the landlady, who had a great curiosity to be made acquainted with every particular of Nell’s life and history. The poor schoolmaster was so open-hearted, and so little versed26 in the most ordinary cunning or deceit, that she could not have failed to succeed in the first five minutes, but that he happened to be unacquainted with what she wished to know; and so he told her. The landlady, by no means satisfied with this assurance, which she considered an ingenious evasion27 of the question, rejoined that he had his reasons of course. Heaven forbid that she should wish to pry28 into the affairs of her customers, which indeed were no business of hers, who had so many of her own. She had merely asked a civil question, and to be sure she knew it would meet with a civil answer. She was quite satisfied — quite. She had rather perhaps that he would have said at once that he didn’t choose to be communicative, because that would have been plain and intelligible29. However, she had no right to be offended of course. He was the best judge, and had a perfect right to say what he pleased; nobody could dispute that for a moment. Oh dear, no!
‘I assure you, my good lady,’ said the mild schoolmaster, ‘that I have told you the plain truth. As I hope to be saved, I have told you the truth.’
‘Why then, I do believe you are in earnest,’ rejoined the landlady, with ready good-humour, ‘and I’m very sorry I have teazed you. But curiosity you know is the curse of our sex, and that’s the fact.’ The landlord scratched his head, as if he thought the curse sometimes involved the other sex likewise; but he was prevented from making any remark to that effect, if he had it in contemplation to do so, by the schoolmaster’s rejoinder.
‘You should question me for half-a-dozen hours at a sitting, and welcome, and I would answer you patiently for the kindness of heart you have shown to-night, if I could,’ he said. ‘As it is, please to take care of her in the morning, and let me know early how she is; and to understand that I am paymaster for the three.’
So, parting with them on most friendly terms (not the less cordial perhaps for this last direction), the schoolmaster went to his bed, and the host and hostess to theirs.
The report in the morning was, that the child was better, but was extremely weak, and would at least require a day’s rest, and careful nursing, before she could proceed upon her journey. The schoolmaster received this communication with perfect cheerfulness, observing that he had a day to spare — two days for that matter — and could very well afford to wait. As the patient was to sit up in the evening, he appointed to visit her in her room at a certain hour, and rambling30 out with his book, did not return until the hour arrived.
Nell could not help weeping when they were left alone; whereat, and at sight of her pale face and wasted figure, the simple schoolmaster shed a few tears himself, at the same time showing in very energetic language how foolish it was to do so, and how very easily it could be avoided, if one tried.
‘It makes me unhappy even in the midst of all this kindness’ said the child, ‘to think that we should be a burden upon you. How can I ever thank you? If I had not met you so far from home, I must have died, and he would have been left alone.’
‘We’ll not talk about dying,’ said the schoolmaster; ‘and as to burdens, I have made my fortune since you slept at my cottage.’
‘Indeed!’ cried the child joyfully31.
‘Oh yes,’ returned her friend. ‘I have been appointed clerk and schoolmaster to a village a long way from here — and a long way from the old one as you may suppose — at five-and-thirty pounds a year. Five-and-thirty pounds!’
‘I am very glad,’ said the child, ‘so very, very glad.’
‘I am on my way there now,’ resumed the schoolmaster. ‘They allowed me the stage-coach-hire — outside stage-coach-hire all the way. Bless you, they grudge32 me nothing. But as the time at which I am expected there, left me ample leisure, I determined33 to walk instead. How glad I am, to think I did so!’
‘How glad should we be!’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the schoolmaster, moving restlessly in his chair, ‘certainly, that’s very true. But you — where are you going, where are you coming from, what have you been doing since you left me, what had you been doing before? Now, tell me — do tell me. I know very little of the world, and perhaps you are better fitted to advise me in its affairs than I am qualified34 to give advice to you; but I am very sincere, and I have a reason (you have not forgotten it) for loving you. I have felt since that time as if my love for him who died, had been transferred to you who stood beside his bed. If this,’ he added, looking upwards35, ‘is the beautiful creation that springs from ashes, let its peace prosper36 with me, as I deal tenderly and compassionately37 by this young child!’
The plain, frank kindness of the honest schoolmaster, the affectionate earnestness of his speech and manner, the truth which was stamped upon his every word and look, gave the child a confidence in him, which the utmost arts of treachery and dissimulation38 could never have awakened39 in her breast. She told him all — that they had no friend or relative — that she had fled with the old man, to save him from a madhouse and all the miseries40 he dreaded41 — that she was flying now, to save him from himself — and that she sought an asylum42 in some remote and primitive43 place, where the temptation before which he fell would never enter, and her late sorrows and distresses44 could have no place.
The schoolmaster heard her with astonishment45. ‘This child!’— he thought —‘Has this child heroically persevered46 under all doubts and dangers, struggled with poverty and suffering, upheld and sustained by strong affection and the consciousness of rectitude alone! And yet the world is full of such heroism47. Have I yet to learn that the hardest and best-borne trials are those which are never chronicled in any earthly record, and are suffered every day! And should I be surprised to hear the story of this child!’
What more he thought or said, matters not. It was concluded that Nell and her grandfather should accompany him to the village whither he was bound, and that he should endeavour to find them some humble48 occupation by which they could subsist49. ‘We shall be sure to succeed,’ said the schoolmaster, heartily50. ‘The cause is too good a one to fail.’
They arranged to proceed upon their journey next evening, as a stage-waggon51, which travelled for some distance on the same road as they must take, would stop at the inn to change horses, and the driver for a small gratuity52 would give Nell a place inside. A bargain was soon struck when the waggon came; and in due time it rolled away; with the child comfortably bestowed53 among the softer packages, her grandfather and the schoolmaster walking on beside the driver, and the landlady and all the good folks of the inn screaming out their good wishes and farewells.
What a soothing54, luxurious55, drowsy56 way of travelling, to lie inside that slowly-moving mountain, listening to the tinkling57 of the horses’ bells, the occasional smacking58 of the carter’s whip, the smooth rolling of the great broad wheels, the rattle59 of the harness, the cheery good-nights of passing travellers jogging past on little short-stepped horses — all made pleasantly indistinct by the thick awning60, which seemed made for lazy listening under, till one fell asleep! The very going to sleep, still with an indistinct idea, as the head jogged to and fro upon the pillow, of moving onward61 with no trouble or fatigue62, and hearing all these sounds like dreamy music, lulling63 to the senses — and the slow waking up, and finding one’s self staring out through the breezy curtain half-opened in the front, far up into the cold bright sky with its countless64 stars, and downward at the driver’s lantern dancing on like its namesake Jack65 of the swamps and marshes66, and sideways at the dark grim trees, and forward at the long bare road rising up, up, up, until it stopped abruptly67 at a sharp high ridge68 as if there were no more road, and all beyond was sky — and the stopping at the inn to bait, and being helped out, and going into a room with fire and candles, and winking69 very much, and being agreeably reminded that the night was cold, and anxious for very comfort’s sake to think it colder than it was! — What a delicious journey was that journey in the waggon.
Then the going on again — so fresh at first, and shortly afterwards so sleepy. The waking from a sound nap as the mail came dashing past like a highway comet, with gleaming lamps and rattling71 hoofs72, and visions of a guard behind, standing up to keep his feet warm, and of a gentleman in a fur cap opening his eyes and looking wild and stupefied — the stopping at the turnpike where the man was gone to bed, and knocking at the door until he answered with a smothered73 shout from under the bed-clothes in the little room above, where the faint light was burning, and presently came down, night-capped and shivering, to throw the gate wide open, and wish all waggons74 off the road except by day. The cold sharp interval75 between night and morning — the distant streak76 of light widening and spreading, and turning from grey to white, and from white to yellow, and from yellow to burning red — the presence of day, with all its cheerfulness and life — men and horses at the plough — birds in the trees and hedges, and boys in solitary77 fields, frightening them away with rattles78. The coming to a town — people busy in the markets; light carts and chaises round the tavern79 yard; tradesmen standing at their doors; men running horses up and down the street for sale; pigs plunging80 and grunting81 in the dirty distance, getting off with long strings82 at their legs, running into clean chemists’ shops and being dislodged with brooms by ‘prentices; the night coach changing horses — the passengers cheerless, cold, ugly, and discontented, with three months’ growth of hair in one night — the coachman fresh as from a band-box, and exquisitely83 beautiful by contrast:— so much bustle84, so many things in motion, such a variety of incidents — when was there a journey with so many delights as that journey in the waggon!
Sometimes walking for a mile or two while her grandfather rode inside, and sometimes even prevailing85 upon the schoolmaster to take her place and lie down to rest, Nell travelled on very happily until they came to a large town, where the waggon stopped, and where they spent a night. They passed a large church; and in the streets were a number of old houses, built of a kind of earth or plaster, crossed and re-crossed in a great many directions with black beams, which gave them a remarkable86 and very ancient look. The doors, too, were arched and low, some with oaken portals and quaint25 benches, where the former inhabitants had sat on summer evenings. The windows were latticed in little diamond panes87, that seemed to wink70 and blink upon the passengers as if they were dim of sight. They had long since got clear of the smoke and furnaces, except in one or two solitary instances, where a factory planted among fields withered88 the space about it, like a burning mountain. When they had passed through this town, they entered again upon the country, and began to draw near their place of destination.
It was not so near, however, but that they spent another night upon the road; not that their doing so was quite an act of necessity, but that the schoolmaster, when they approached within a few miles of his village, had a fidgety sense of his dignity as the new clerk, and was unwilling89 to make his entry in dusty shoes, and travel-disordered dress. It was a fine, clear, autumn morning, when they came upon the scene of his promotion90, and stopped to contemplate91 its beauties.
‘See — here’s the church!’ cried the delighted schoolmaster in a low voice; ‘and that old building close beside it, is the school-house, I’ll be sworn. Five-and-thirty pounds a-year in this beautiful place!’
They admired everything — the old grey porch, the mullioned windows, the venerable gravestones dotting the green churchyard, the ancient tower, the very weathercock; the brown thatched roofs of cottage, barn, and homestead, peeping from among the trees; the stream that rippled92 by the distant water-mill; the blue Welsh mountains far away. It was for such a spot the child had wearied in the dense93, dark, miserable94 haunts of labour. Upon her bed of ashes, and amidst the squalid horrors through which they had forced their way, visions of such scenes — beautiful indeed, but not more beautiful than this sweet reality — had been always present to her mind. They had seemed to melt into a dim and airy distance, as the prospect95 of ever beholding96 them again grew fainter; but, as they receded97, she had loved and panted for them more.
‘I must leave you somewhere for a few minutes,’ said the schoolmaster, at length breaking the silence into which they had fallen in their gladness. ‘I have a letter to present, and inquiries98 to make, you know. Where shall I take you? To the little inn yonder?’
‘Let us wait here,’ rejoined Nell. ‘The gate is open. We will sit in the church porch till you come back.’
‘A good place too,’ said the schoolmaster, leading the way towards it, disencumbering himself of his portmanteau, and placing it on the stone seat. ‘Be sure that I come back with good news, and am not long gone!’
So, the happy schoolmaster put on a bran-new pair of gloves which he had carried in a little parcel in his pocket all the way, and hurried off, full of ardour and excitement.
The child watched him from the porch until the intervening foliage99 hid him from her view, and then stepped softly out into the old churchyard — so solemn and quiet that every rustle100 of her dress upon the fallen leaves, which strewed101 the path and made her footsteps noiseless, seemed an invasion of its silence. It was a very aged102, ghostly place; the church had been built many hundreds of years ago, and had once had a convent or monastery103 attached; for arches in ruins, remains104 of oriel windows, and fragments of blackened walls, were yet standing–, while other portions of the old building, which had crumbled105 away and fallen down, were mingled106 with the churchyard earth and overgrown with grass, as if they too claimed a burying-place and sought to mix their ashes with the dust of men. Hard by these gravestones of dead years, and forming a part of the ruin which some pains had been taken to render habitable in modern times, were two small dwellings107 with sunken windows and oaken doors, fast hastening to decay, empty and desolate108.
Upon these tenements109, the attention of the child became exclusively riveted110. She knew not why. The church, the ruin, the antiquated111 graves, had equal claims at least upon a stranger’s thoughts, but from the moment when her eyes first rested on these two dwellings, she could turn to nothing else. Even when she had made the circuit of the enclosure, and, returning to the porch, sat pensively112 waiting for their friend, she took her station where she could still look upon them, and felt as if fascinated towards that spot.
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1
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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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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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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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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8
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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portentously
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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tallied
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| v.计算，清点( tally的过去式和过去分词 )；加标签（或标记）于；（使）符合；（使）吻合 | |
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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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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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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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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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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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opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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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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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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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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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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45
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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46
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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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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49
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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gratuity
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| n.赏钱，小费 | |
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53
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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lulling
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的现在分词形式） | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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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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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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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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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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72
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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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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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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rattles
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| （使）发出格格的响声， （使）作嘎嘎声( rattle的第三人称单数 )； 喋喋不休地说话； 迅速而嘎嘎作响地移动，堕下或走动； 使紧张，使恐惧 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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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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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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100
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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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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102
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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103
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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104
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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105
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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106
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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107
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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108
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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109
tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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111
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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112
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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