The accursed man low sitting on the ground,
Musing1 full sadly in his sullen2 mind.
SPENSER.
As the morning began to appear on the mountains, a gentle knock was heard at the door of the humble3 apartment in which Morton slept, and a girlish treble voice asked him, from without, “If he wad please gang to the Linn or the folk raise?”
He arose upon the invitation, and, dressing4 himself hastily, went forth5 and joined his little guide. The mountain maid tript lightly before him, through the grey haze6, over hill and moor7. It was a wild and varied8 walk, unmarked by any regular or distinguishable track, and keeping, upon the whole, the direction of the ascent9 of the brook10, though without tracing its windings12. The landscape, as they advanced, became waster and more wild, until nothing but heath and rock encumbered13 the side of the valley.
“Is the place still distant?” said Morton. “Nearly a mile off,” answered the girl. “We’ll be there belive.”
“And do you often go this wild journey, my little maid?”
“When grannie sends me wi’ milk and meal to the Linn,” answered the child.
“And are you not afraid to travel so wild a road alone?”
“Hout na, sir,” replied the guide; “nae living creature wad touch sic a bit thing as I am, and grannie says we need never fear onything else when we are doing a gude turn.”
“Strong in innocence14 as in triple mail!” said Morton to himself, and followed her steps in silence.
They soon came to a decayed thicket15, where brambles and thorns supplied the room of the oak and birches of which it had once consisted. Here the guide turned short off the open heath, and, by a sheep-track, conducted Morton to the brook. A hoarse16 and sullen roar had in part prepared him for the scene which presented itself, yet it was not to be viewed without surprise and even terror. When he emerged from the devious17 path which conducted him through the thicket, he found himself placed on a ledge18 of flat rock projecting over one side of a chasm19 not less than a hundred feet deep, where the dark mountain-stream made a decided20 and rapid shoot over the precipice21, and was swallowed up by a deep, black, yawning gulf22. The eye in vain strove to see the bottom of the fall; it could catch but one sheet of foaming24 uproar25 and sheer descent, until the view was obstructed26 by the proecting crags which enclosed the bottom of the waterfall, and hid from sight the dark pool which received its tortured waters; far beneath, at the distance of perhaps a quarter of a mile, the eye caught the winding11 of the stream as it emerged into a more open course. But, for that distance, they were lost to sight as much as if a cavern27 had been arched over them; and indeed the steep and projecting ledges28 of rock through which they wound their way in darkness were very nearly closing and over-roofing their course.
While Morton gazed at this scene of tumult29, which seemed, by the surrounding thickets30 and the clefts32 into which the waters descended33, to seek to hide itself from every eye, his little attendant as she stood beside him on the platform of rock which commanded the best view of the fall, pulled him by the sleeve, and said, in a tone which he could not hear without stooping his ear near the speaker, “Hear till him! Eh! hear till him!”
Morton listened more attentively34; and out of the very abyss into which the brook fell, and amidst the turnultuary sounds of the cataract35, thought he could distinguish shouts, screams, and even articulate words, as if the tortured demon36 of the stream had been mingling37 his complaints with the roar of his broken waters.
“This is the way,” said the little girl; “follow me, gin ye please, sir, but tak tent to your feet;” and, with the daring agility38 which custom had rendered easy, she vanished from the platform on which she stood, and, by notches40 and slight projections43 in the rock, scrambled44 down its face into the chasm which it overhung. Steady, bold, and active, Morton hesitated not to follow her; but the necessary attention to secure his hold and footing in a descent where both foot and hand were needful for security, prevented him from looking around him, till, having descended nigh twenty feet, and being sixty or seventy above the pool which received the fall, his guide made a pause, and he again found himself by her side in a situation that appeared equally romantic and precarious45. They were nearly opposite to the waterfall, and in point of level situated46 at about one-quarter’s depth from the point of the cliff over which it thundered, and three-fourths of the height above the dark, deep, and restless pool which received its fall. Both these tremendous points — the first shoot, namely, of the yet unbroken stream, and the deep and sombre abyss into which it was emptied — were full before him, as well as the whole continuous stream of billowy froth, which, dashing from the one, was eddying47 and boiling in the other. They were so near this grand phenomenon that they were covered with its spray, and well-nigh deafened48 by the incessant49 roar. But crossing in the very front of the fall, and at scarce three yards distance from the cataract, an old oak-tree, flung across the chasm in a manner that seemed accidental, formed a bridge of fearfully narrow dimensions and uncertain footing. The upper end of the tree rested on the platform on which they stood; the lower or uprooted51 extremity52 extended behind a projection42 on the opposite side, and was secured, Morton’s eye could not discover where. From behind the same projection glimmered53 a strong red light, which, glancing in the waves of the falling water, and tinging54 them partially55 with crimson56, had a strange preternatural and sinister57 effect when contrasted with the beams of the rising sun, which glanced on the first broken waves of the fall, though even its meridian58 splendour could not gain the third of its full depth. When he had looked around him for a moment, the girl again pulled his sleeve, and, pointing to the oak and the projecting point beyond it (for hearing speech was now out of the question), indicated that there lay his farther passage.
Morton gazed at her with surprise; for although he well knew that the persecuted60 Presbyterians had in the preceding reigns61 sought refuge among dells and thickets, caves and cataracts62, in spots the most extraordinary and secluded63; although he had heard of the champions of the Covenant64, who had long abidden beside Dobs-lien on the wild heights of Polmoodie, and others who had been concealed65 in the yet more terrific cavern called Creehope-linn, in the parish of Closeburn — yet his imagination had never exactly figured out the horrors of such a residence, and he was surprised how the strange and romantic scene which he now saw had remained concealed from him, while a curious investigator66 of such natural phenomena67. But he readily conceived that, lying in a remote and wild district, and being destined68 as a place of concealment69 to the persecuted preachers and professors of nonconformity, the secret of its existence was carefully preserved by the few shepherds to whom it might be known. As, breaking from these meditations70, he began to consider how he should traverse the doubtful and terrific bridge, which, skirted by the cascade71, and rendered wet and slippery by its constant drizzle72, traversed the chasm above sixty feet from the bottom of the fall, his guide, as if to give him courage, tript over and back without the least hesitation73. Envying for a moment the little bare feet which caught a safer hold of the rugged74 side of the oak than he could pretend to with his heavy boots, Morton nevertheless resolved to attempt the passage, and, fixing his eye firm on a stationary75 object on the other side, without allowing his head to become giddy, or his attention to be distracted by the flash, the foam23, and the roar of the waters around him, he strode steadily76 and safely along the uncertain bridge, and reached the mouth of a small cavern on the farther side of the torrent77. Here he paused; for a light, proceeding78 from a fire of red-hot charcoal79, permitted him to see the interior of the cave, and enabled him to contemplate80 the appearance of its inhabitant, by whom he himself could not be so readily distinguished81, being concealed by the shadow of the rock. What he observed would by no means have encouraged a less determined82 man to proceed with the task which he had undertaken.
Burley, only altered from what he had been formerly83 by the addition of a grisly beard, stood in the midst of the cave, with his clasped Bible in one hand, and his drawn84 sword in the other. His figure, dimly ruddied by the light of the red charcoal, seemed that of a fiend in the lurid85 atmosphere of Pandemonium86, and his gestures and words, as far as they could be heard, seemed equally violent and irregular. All alone, and in a place of almost unapproachable seclusion87, his demeanour was that of a man who strives for life and death with a mortal enemy. “Ha! ha! — there — there!” he exclaimed, accompanying each word with a thrust, urged with his whole force against the impassible and empty air, “Did I not tell thee so? — I have resisted, and thou fleest from me! — Coward as thou art, come in all thy terrors; come with mine own evil deeds, which render thee most terrible of all — there is enough betwixt the boards of this book to rescue me! — What mutterest thou of grey hairs? It was well done to slay89 him — the more ripe the corn, the readier for the sickle90. — Art gone? Art gone? — I have ever known thee but a coward — ha! ha! ha!”
With these wild exclamations92 he sunk the point of his sword, and remained standing93 still in the same posture94, like a maniac95 whose fit is over.
“The dangerous time is by now,” said the little girl who had followed; “it seldom lasts beyond the time that the sun’s ower the hill; ye may gang in and speak wi’ him now. I’ll wait for you at the other side of the linn; he canna bide96 to see twa folk at anes.”
Slowly and cautiously, and keeping constantly upon his guard, Morton presented himself to the view of his old associate in command.
“What! comest thou again when thine hour is over?” was his first exclamation91; and flourishing his sword aloft, his countenance97 assumed an expression in which ghastly terror seemed mingled98 with the rage of a demoniac.
“I am come, Mr. Balfour,” said Morton, in a steady and composed tone, “to renew an acquaintance which has been broken off since the fight of Bothwell Bridge.”
As soon as Burley became aware that Morton was before him in person — an idea which he caught with marvellous celerity — he at once exerted that mastership over his heated and enthusiastic imagination, the power of enforcing which was a most striking part of his extraordinary character. He sunk his sword-point at once, and as he stole it composedly into the scabbard, he muttered something of the damp and cold which sent an old soldier to his fencing exercise, to prevent his blood from chilling. This done, he proceeded in the cold, determined manner which was peculiar100 to his ordinary discourse:—
“Thou hast tarried long, Henry Morton, and hast not come to the vintage before the twelfth hour has struck. Art thou yet willing to take the right hand of fellowship, and be one with those who look not to thrones or dynasties, but to the rule of Scripture101, for their directions?”
“I am surprised,” said Morton, evading102 the direct answer to his question, “that you should have known me after so many years.”
“The features of those who ought to act with me are engraved103 on my heart,” answered Burley; “and few but Silas Morton’s son durst have followed me into this my castle of retreat. Seest thou that drawbridge of Nature’s own construction?” he added, pointing to the prostrate104 oak-tree — “one spurn105 of my foot, and it is overwhelmed in the abyss below, bidding foeman on the farther side stand at defiance106, and leaving enemies on this at the mercy of one who never yet met his equal in single fight.”
“Of such defences,” said Morton, “I should have thought you would now have had little need.”
“Little need?” said Burley impatiently. “What little need, when incarnate107 fiends are combined against me on earth, and Sathan himself — But it matters not,” added he, checking himself. “Enough that I like my place of refuge, my cave of Adullam, and would not change its rude ribs108 of limestone109 rock for the fair chambers110 of the castle of the earls of Torwood, with their broad bounds and barony. Thou, unless the foolish fever-fit be over, mayst think differently.”
“It was of those very possessions I came to speak,” said Morton; “and I doubt not to find Mr. Balfour the same rational and reflecting person which I knew him to be in times when zeal111 disunited brethren.”
“Ay?” said Burley; “indeed? Is such truly your hope? Wilt112 thou express it more plainly?”
“In a word, then,” said Morton, “you have exercised, by means at which I can guess, a secret, but most prejudicial, influence over the fortunes of Lady Margaret Bellenden and her granddaughter, and in favour of that base, oppressive apostate113, Basil Olifant, whom the law, deceived by thy operations, has placed in possession of their lawful114 property.”
“Sayest thou?” said Balfour.
“I do say so,” replied Morton; “and face to face you will not deny what you have vouched115 by your handwriting.”
“And suppose I deny it not,” said Balfour; “and suppose that thy — eloquence116 were found equal to persuade me to retrace117 the steps I have taken on matured resolve — what will be thy meed? Dost thou still hope to possess the fair-haired girl, with her wide and rich inheritance?”
“I have no such hope,” answered Morton, calmly.
“And for whom, then, hast thou ventured to do this great thing — to seek to rend39 the prey118 from the valiant119, to bring forth food from the den50 of the lion, and to extract sweetness from the maw of the devourer120? For whose sake hast thou undertaken to read this riddle121, more hard than Samson’s?”
“For Lord Evandale’s and that of his bride,” replied Morton, firmly. “Think better of mankind, Mr. Balfour, and believe there are some who are willing to sacrifice their happiness to that of others.”
“Then, as my soul liveth,” replied Balfour, “thou art, to wear beard and back a horse and draw a sword, the tamest and most gall-less puppet that ever sustained injury unavenged. What! thou wouldst help that accursed Evandale to the arms of the woman that thou lovest; thou wouldst endow them with wealth and with heritages, and thou think’st that there lives another man, offended even more deeply than thou, yet equally cold-livered and mean-spirited, crawling upon the face of the earth, and hast dared to suppose that one other to be John Balfour?”
“For my own feelings,” said Morton, composedly, “I am answerable to none but Heaven; to you, Mr. Balfour, I should suppose it of little consequence whether Basil Olifant or Lord Evandale possess these estates.”
“Thou art deceived,” said Burley; “both are indeed in outer darkness, and strangers to the light, as he whose eyes have never been opened to the day. But this Basil Olifant is a Nabal, a Demas, a base churl122 whose wealth and power are at the disposal of him who can threaten to deprive him of them. He became a professor because he was deprived of these lands of Tillietudlem; he turned a papist to obtain possession of them; he called himself an Erastian, that he might not again lose them; and he will become what I list while I have in my power the document that may deprive him of them. These lands are a bit between his jaws123 and a hook in his nostrils124, and the rein125 and the line are in my hands to guide them as I think meet; and his they shall therefore be, unless I had assurance of bestowing126 them on a sure and sincere friend. But Lord Evandale is a malignant127, of heart like flint, and brow like adamant128; the goods of the world fall on him like leaves on the frost-bound earth, and unmoved he will see them whirled off by the first wind. The heathen virtues129 of such as he are more dangerous to us than the sordid130 cupidity131 of those who, governed by their interest, must follow where it leads, and who, therefore, themselves the slaves of avarice132, may be compelled to work in the vineyard, were it but to earn the wages of sin.”
“This might have been all well some years since,” replied Morton, “and I could understand your argument, although I could never acquiesce133 in its justice. But at this crisis it seems useless to you to persevere134 in keeping up an influence which can no longer be directed to an useful purpose. The land has peace, liberty, and freedom of conscience — and what would you more?”
“More!” exclaimed Burley, again unsheathing his sword, with a vivacity136 which nearly made Morton start. “Look at the notches upon that weapon they are three in number, are they not?”
“It seems so,” answered Morton; “but what of that?”
“The fragment of steel that parted from this first gap rested on the skull137 of the perjured138 traitor139 who first introduced Episcopacy into Scotland; this second notch41 was made in the rib-bone of an impious villain140, the boldest and best soldier that upheld the prelatic cause at Drumclog; this third was broken on the steel head-piece of the captain who defended the Chapel141 of Holyrood when the people rose at the Revolution. I cleft31 him to the teeth, through steel and bone. It has done great deeds, this little weapon, and each of these blows was a deliverance to the Church. This sword,” he said, again sheathing135 it, “has yet more to do — to weed out this base and pestilential heresy142 of Erastianism; to vindicate143 the true liberty of the Kirk in her purity; to restore the Covenant in its glory — then let it moulder144 and rust88 beside the bones of its master.”
“You have neither men nor means, Mr. Balfour, to disturb the Government as now settled,” argued Morton; “the people are in general satisfied, excepting only the gentlemen of the Jacobite interest; and surely you would not join with those who would only use you for their own purposes?”
“It is they,” answered Burley, “that should serve ours. I went to the camp of the malignant Claver’se, as the future King of Israel sought the land of the Philistines145; I arranged with him a rising; and but for the villain Evandale, the Erastians ere now had been driven from the West. — I could slay him,” he added, with a vindictive146 scowl147, “were he grasping the horns of the altar!” He then proceeded in a calmer tone: “If thou, son of mine ancient comrade, were suitor for thyself to this Edith Bellenden, and wert willing to put thy hand to the great work with zeal equal to thy courage, think not I would prefer the friendship of Basil Olifant to thine; thou shouldst then have the means that this document [he produced a parchment] affords to place her in possession of the lands of her fathers. This have I longed to say to thee ever since I saw thee fight the good fight so strongly at the fatal Bridge. The maiden148 loved thee, and thou her.”
Morton replied firmly, “I will not dissemble with you, Mr. Balfour, even to gain a good end. I came in hopes to persuade you to do a deed of justice to others, not to gain any selfish end of my own. I have failed; I grieve for your sake more than for the loss which others will sustain by your injustice149.”
“You refuse my proffer150, then?” said Burley, with kindling151 eyes.
“I do,” said Morton. “Would you be really, as you are desirous to be thought, a man of honour and conscience, you would, regardless of all other considerations, restore that parchment to Lord Evandale, to be used for the advantage of the lawful heir.”
“Sooner shall it perish!” said Balfour; and, casting the deed into the heap of red charcoal beside him, pressed it down with the heel of his boot.
While it smoked, shrivelled, and crackled in the flames, Morton sprung forward to snatch it, and Burley catching152 hold of him, a struggle ensued. Both were strong men; but although Morton was much the more active and younger of the two, yet Balfour was the most powerful, and effectually prevented him from rescuing the deed until it was fairly reduced to a cinder153. They then quitted hold of each other, and the enthusiast99, rendered fiercer by the contest, glared on Morton with an eye expressive154 of frantic155 revenge.
“Thou hast my secret,” he exclaimed; “thou must be mine, or die!”
“I contemn156 your threats,” said Morton; “I pity you, and leave you.” But as he turned to retire, Burley stept before him, pushed the oak-trunk from its resting place, and as it fell thundering and crashing into the abyss beneath, drew his sword, and cried out, with a voice that rivalled the roar of the cataract and the thunder of the falling oak, “Now thou art at bay! Fight — yield, or die!” and standing in the mouth of the cavern, he flourished his naked sword.
“I will not fight with the man that preserved my father’s life,” said Morton. “I have not yet learned to say the words, ‘I yield;’ and my life I will rescue as I best can.”
So speaking, and ere Balfour was aware of his purpose, he sprung past him, and exerting that youthful agility of which he possessed157 an uncommon158 share, leaped clear across the fearful chasm which divided the mouth of the cave from the projecting rock on the opposite side, and stood there safe and free from his incensed159 enemy. He immediately ascended160 the ravine, and, as he turned, saw Burley stand for an instant aghast with astonishment161, and then, with the frenzy162 of disappointed rage, rush into the interior of his cavern.
It was not difficult for him to perceive that this unhappy man’s mind had been so long agitated163 by desperate schemes and sudden disappointments that it had lost its equipoise, and that there was now in his conduct a shade of lunacy, not the less striking, from the vigour164 and craft with which he pursued his wild designs. Morton soon joined his guide, who had been terrified by the fall of the oak. This he represented as accidental; and she assured him, in return, that the inhabitant of the cave would experience no inconvenience from it, being always provided with materials to construct another bridge.
The adventures of the morning were not yet ended. As they approached the hut, the little girl made an exclamation of surprise at seeing her grandmother groping her way towards them, at a greater distance from her home than she could have been supposed capable of travelling.
“Oh, sir, sir!” said the old woman, when she heard them approach, “gin e’er ye loved Lord Evandale, help now, or never! God be praised that left my hearing when he took my poor eyesight! Come this way — this way. And oh, tread lightly. Peggy, hinny, gang saddle the gentleman’s horse, and lead him cannily165 ahint the thorny166 shaw, and bide him there.”
She conducted him to a small window, through which, himself unobserved, he could see two dragoons seated at their morning draught167 of ale, and conversing168 earnestly together.
“The more I think of it,” said the one, “the less I like it, Inglis; Evandale was a good officer and the soldier’s friend; and though we were punished for the mutiny at Tillietudlem, yet, by —-, Frank, you must own we deserved it.”
“D— n seize me if I forgive him for it, though!” replied the other; “and I think I can sit in his skirts now.”
“Why, man, you should forget and forgive. Better take the start with him along with the rest, and join the ranting169 Highlanders. We have all eat King James’s bread.”
“Thou art an ass59; the start, as you call it, will never happen — the day’s put off. Halliday’s seen a ghost, or Miss Bellenden’s fallen sick of the pip, or some blasted nonsense or another; the thing will never keep two days longer, and the first bird that sings out will get the reward.”
“That’s true too,” answered his comrade; “and will this fellow — this Basil Olifant — pay handsomely?”
“Like a prince, man,” said Inglis. “Evandale is the man on earth whom he hates worst, and he fears him, besides, about some law business; and were he once rubbed out of the way, all, he thinks, will be his own.”
“But shall we have warrants and force enough?” said the other fellow. “Few people here will stir against my lord, and we may find him with some of our own fellows at his back.”
“Thou ‘rt a cowardly fool, Dick,” returned Inglis; he is living quietly down at Fairy Knowe to avoid suspicion. Olifant is a magistrate170, and will have some of his own people that he can trust along with him. There are us two, and the laird says he can get a desperate fighting Whig fellow, called Quintin Mackell, that has an old grudge171 at Evandale.”
“Well, well, you are my officer, you know,” said the private, with true military conscience, “and if anything is wrong —”
“I’ll take the blame,” said Inglis. “Come, another pot of ale, and let us to Tillietudlem. — Here, blind Bess! — Why, where the devil has the old hag crept to?”
“Delay them as long as you can,” whispered Morton, as he thrust his purse into the hostess’s hand; “all depends on gaining time.”
Then, walking swiftly to the place where the girl held his horse ready, “To Fairy Knowe? No; alone I could not protect them. I must instantly to Glasgow. Wittenbold, the commandant there, will readily give me the support of a troop, and procure172 me the countenance of the civil power. I must drop a caution as I pass. — Come, Moorkopf,” he said, addressing his horse as he mounted him, “this day must try your breath and speed.”
点击收听单词发音
1 musing | |
n. 沉思,冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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2 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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3 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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4 dressing | |
n.(食物)调料;包扎伤口的用品,敷料 | |
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5 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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6 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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7 moor | |
n.荒野,沼泽;vt.(使)停泊;vi.停泊 | |
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8 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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9 ascent | |
n.(声望或地位)提高;上升,升高;登高 | |
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10 brook | |
n.小河,溪;v.忍受,容让 | |
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11 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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12 windings | |
(道路、河流等)蜿蜒的,弯曲的( winding的名词复数 ); 缠绕( wind的现在分词 ); 卷绕; 转动(把手) | |
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13 encumbered | |
v.妨碍,阻碍,拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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15 thicket | |
n.灌木丛,树林 | |
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16 hoarse | |
adj.嘶哑的,沙哑的 | |
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17 devious | |
adj.不坦率的,狡猾的;迂回的,曲折的 | |
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18 ledge | |
n.壁架,架状突出物;岩架,岩礁 | |
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19 chasm | |
n.深坑,断层,裂口,大分岐,利害冲突 | |
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20 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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21 precipice | |
n.悬崖,危急的处境 | |
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22 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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23 foam | |
v./n.泡沫,起泡沫 | |
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24 foaming | |
adj.布满泡沫的;发泡 | |
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25 uproar | |
n.骚动,喧嚣,鼎沸 | |
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26 obstructed | |
阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 ); 堵塞; 阻碍; 阻止 | |
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27 cavern | |
n.洞穴,大山洞 | |
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28 ledges | |
n.(墙壁,悬崖等)突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 );(平窄的)壁架;横档;(尤指)窗台 | |
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29 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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30 thickets | |
n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 );丛状物 | |
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31 cleft | |
n.裂缝;adj.裂开的 | |
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32 clefts | |
n.裂缝( cleft的名词复数 );裂口;cleave的过去式和过去分词;进退维谷 | |
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33 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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34 attentively | |
adv.聚精会神地;周到地;谛;凝神 | |
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35 cataract | |
n.大瀑布,奔流,洪水,白内障 | |
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36 demon | |
n.魔鬼,恶魔 | |
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37 mingling | |
adj.混合的 | |
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38 agility | |
n.敏捷,活泼 | |
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39 rend | |
vt.把…撕开,割裂;把…揪下来,强行夺取 | |
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40 notches | |
n.(边缘或表面上的)V型痕迹( notch的名词复数 );刻痕;水平;等级 | |
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41 notch | |
n.(V字形)槽口,缺口,等级 | |
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42 projection | |
n.发射,计划,突出部分 | |
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43 projections | |
预测( projection的名词复数 ); 投影; 投掷; 突起物 | |
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44 scrambled | |
v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 );攀登;争夺;(军事飞机)紧急起飞 | |
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45 precarious | |
adj.不安定的,靠不住的;根据不足的 | |
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46 situated | |
adj.坐落在...的,处于某种境地的 | |
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47 eddying | |
涡流,涡流的形成 | |
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48 deafened | |
使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 ); 使隔音 | |
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49 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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50 den | |
n.兽穴;秘密地方;安静的小房间,私室 | |
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51 uprooted | |
v.把(某物)连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 );根除;赶走;把…赶出家园 | |
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52 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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53 glimmered | |
v.发闪光,发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54 tinging | |
v.(使)发丁丁声( ting的现在分词 ) | |
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55 partially | |
adv.部分地,从某些方面讲 | |
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56 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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57 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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58 meridian | |
adj.子午线的;全盛期的 | |
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59 ass | |
n.驴;傻瓜,蠢笨的人 | |
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60 persecuted | |
(尤指宗教或政治信仰的)迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 ); 烦扰,困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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61 reigns | |
n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 );君主统治时期;任期;当政期 | |
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62 cataracts | |
n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 );白内障 | |
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63 secluded | |
adj.与世隔绝的;隐退的;偏僻的v.使隔开,使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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64 covenant | |
n.盟约,契约;v.订盟约 | |
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65 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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66 investigator | |
n.研究者,调查者,审查者 | |
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67 phenomena | |
n.现象 | |
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68 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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69 concealment | |
n.隐藏, 掩盖,隐瞒 | |
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70 meditations | |
默想( meditation的名词复数 ); 默念; 沉思; 冥想 | |
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71 cascade | |
n.小瀑布,喷流;层叠;vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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72 drizzle | |
v.下毛毛雨;n.毛毛雨,蒙蒙细雨 | |
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73 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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74 rugged | |
adj.高低不平的,粗糙的,粗壮的,强健的 | |
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75 stationary | |
adj.固定的,静止不动的 | |
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76 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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77 torrent | |
n.激流,洪流;爆发,(话语等的)连发 | |
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78 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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79 charcoal | |
n.炭,木炭,生物炭 | |
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80 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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81 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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82 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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83 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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84 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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85 lurid | |
adj.可怕的;血红的;苍白的 | |
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86 pandemonium | |
n.喧嚣,大混乱 | |
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87 seclusion | |
n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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88 rust | |
n.锈;v.生锈;(脑子)衰退 | |
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89 slay | |
v.杀死,宰杀,杀戮 | |
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90 sickle | |
n.镰刀 | |
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91 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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92 exclamations | |
n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 );感叹;感叹语;感叹词 | |
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93 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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94 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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95 maniac | |
n.精神癫狂的人;疯子 | |
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96 bide | |
v.忍耐;等候;住 | |
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97 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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98 mingled | |
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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99 enthusiast | |
n.热心人,热衷者 | |
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100 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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101 scripture | |
n.经文,圣书,手稿;Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》,《圣经》中的一段 | |
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102 evading | |
逃避( evade的现在分词 ); 避开; 回避; 想不出 | |
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103 engraved | |
v.在(硬物)上雕刻(字,画等)( engrave的过去式和过去分词 );将某事物深深印在(记忆或头脑中) | |
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104 prostrate | |
v.拜倒,平卧,衰竭;adj.拜倒的,平卧的,衰竭的 | |
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105 spurn | |
v.拒绝,摈弃;n.轻视的拒绝;踢开 | |
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106 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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107 incarnate | |
adj.化身的,人体化的,肉色的 | |
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108 ribs | |
n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 );(船或屋顶等的)肋拱;肋骨状的东西;(织物的)凸条花纹 | |
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109 limestone | |
n.石灰石 | |
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110 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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111 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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112 wilt | |
v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎;(指人)疲倦,衰弱 | |
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113 apostate | |
n.背叛者,变节者 | |
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114 lawful | |
adj.法律许可的,守法的,合法的 | |
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115 vouched | |
v.保证( vouch的过去式和过去分词 );担保;确定;确定地说 | |
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116 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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117 retrace | |
v.折回;追溯,探源 | |
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118 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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119 valiant | |
adj.勇敢的,英勇的;n.勇士,勇敢的人 | |
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120 devourer | |
吞噬者 | |
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121 riddle | |
n.谜,谜语,粗筛;vt.解谜,给…出谜,筛,检查,鉴定,非难,充满于;vi.出谜 | |
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122 churl | |
n.吝啬之人;粗鄙之人 | |
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123 jaws | |
n.口部;嘴 | |
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124 nostrils | |
鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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125 rein | |
n.疆绳,统治,支配;vt.以僵绳控制,统治 | |
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126 bestowing | |
砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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127 malignant | |
adj.恶性的,致命的;恶意的,恶毒的 | |
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128 adamant | |
adj.坚硬的,固执的 | |
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129 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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130 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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131 cupidity | |
n.贪心,贪财 | |
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132 avarice | |
n.贪婪;贪心 | |
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133 acquiesce | |
vi.默许,顺从,同意 | |
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134 persevere | |
v.坚持,坚忍,不屈不挠 | |
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135 sheathing | |
n.覆盖物,罩子v.将(刀、剑等)插入鞘( sheathe的现在分词 );包,覆盖 | |
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136 vivacity | |
n.快活,活泼,精神充沛 | |
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137 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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138 perjured | |
adj.伪证的,犯伪证罪的v.发假誓,作伪证( perjure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139 traitor | |
n.叛徒,卖国贼 | |
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140 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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141 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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142 heresy | |
n.异端邪说;异教 | |
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143 vindicate | |
v.为…辩护或辩解,辩明;证明…正确 | |
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144 moulder | |
v.腐朽,崩碎 | |
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145 philistines | |
n.市侩,庸人( philistine的名词复数 );庸夫俗子 | |
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146 vindictive | |
adj.有报仇心的,怀恨的,惩罚的 | |
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147 scowl | |
vi.(at)生气地皱眉,沉下脸,怒视;n.怒容 | |
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148 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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149 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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150 proffer | |
v.献出,赠送;n.提议,建议 | |
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151 kindling | |
n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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152 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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153 cinder | |
n.余烬,矿渣 | |
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154 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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155 frantic | |
adj.狂乱的,错乱的,激昂的 | |
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156 contemn | |
v.蔑视 | |
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157 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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158 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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159 incensed | |
盛怒的 | |
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160 ascended | |
v.上升,攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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162 frenzy | |
n.疯狂,狂热,极度的激动 | |
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163 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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164 vigour | |
(=vigor)n.智力,体力,精力 | |
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165 cannily | |
精明地 | |
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166 thorny | |
adj.多刺的,棘手的 | |
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167 draught | |
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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168 conversing | |
v.交谈,谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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169 ranting | |
v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 );大叫大嚷地以…说教;气愤地)大叫大嚷;不停地大声抱怨 | |
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170 magistrate | |
n.地方行政官,地方法官,治安官 | |
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171 grudge | |
n.不满,怨恨,妒嫉;vt.勉强给,不情愿做 | |
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172 procure | |
vt.获得,取得,促成;vi.拉皮条 | |
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