“It’s all your fault. Give me a push now, do, and send me over. I have been standing8 here waiting for help. You are the man — of all men. You helped at the beginning; you ought to have a hand in the end.”
“I have better use for you than to throw you to the fishes,” said Lingard, seriously, taking Willems by the arm and forcing him gently to walk up the jetty. “I have been buzzing over this town like a bluebottle fly, looking for you high and low. I have heard a lot. I will tell you what, Willems; you are no saint, that’s a fact. And you have not been over-wise either. I am not throwing stones,” he added, hastily, as Willems made an effort to get away, “but I am not going to mince9 matters. Never could! You keep quiet while I talk. Can’t you?”
With a gesture of resignation and a half-stifled groan10 Willems submitted to the stronger will, and the two men paced slowly up and down the resounding11 planks12, while Lingard disclosed to Willems the exact manner of his undoing14. After the first shock Willems lost the faculty15 of surprise in the over-powering feeling of indignation. So it was Vinck and Leonard who had served him so. They had watched him, tracked his misdeeds, reported them to Hudig. They had bribed16 obscure Chinamen, wormed out confidences from tipsy skippers, got at various boatmen, and had pieced out in that way the story of his irregularities. The blackness of this dark intrigue17 filled him with horror. He could understand Vinck. There was no love lost between them. But Leonard! Leonard!
“Why, Captain Lingard,” he burst out, “the fellow licked my boots.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Lingard, testily18, “we know that, and you did your best to cram19 your boot down his throat. No man likes that, my boy.”
“I was always giving money to all that hungry lot,” went on Willems, passionately20. “Always my hand in my pocket. They never had to ask twice.”
“Just so. Your generosity22 frightened them. They asked themselves where all that came from, and concluded that it was safer to throw you overboard. After all, Hudig is a much greater man than you, my friend, and they have a claim on him also.”
“What do you mean, Captain Lingard?”
“What do I mean?” repeated Lingard, slowly. “Why, you are not going to make me believe you did not know your wife was Hudig’s daughter. Come now!”
Willems stopped suddenly and swayed about.
“Ah! I understand,” he gasped24. “I never heard . . . Lately I thought there was . . . But no, I never guessed.”
“Oh, you simpleton!” said Lingard, pityingly. “‘Pon my word,” he muttered to himself, “I don’t believe the fellow knew. Well! well! Steady now. Pull yourself together. What’s wrong there. She is a good wife to you.”
“Excellent wife,” said Willems, in a dreary25 voice, looking far over the black and scintillating26 water.
“Very well then,” went on Lingard, with increasing friendliness27. “Nothing wrong there. But did you really think that Hudig was marrying you off and giving you a house and I don’t know what, out of love for you?”
“I had served him well,” answered Willems. “How well, you know yourself — through thick and thin. No matter what work and what risk, I was always there; always ready.”
How well he saw the greatness of his work and the immensity of that injustice28 which was his reward. She was that man’s daughter!
In the light of this disclosure the facts of the last five years of his life stood clearly revealed in their full meaning. He had spoken first to Joanna at the gate of their dwelling30 as he went to his work in the brilliant flush of the early morning, when women and flowers are charming even to the dullest eyes. A most respectable family — two women and a young man — were his next-door neighbours. Nobody ever came to their little house but the priest, a native from the Spanish islands, now and then. The young man Leonard he had met in town, and was flattered by the little fellow’s immense respect for the great Willems. He let him bring chairs, call the waiters, chalk his cues when playing billiards31, express his admiration32 in choice words. He even condescended33 to listen patiently to Leonard’s allusions34 to “our beloved father,” a man of official position, a government agent in Koti, where he died of cholera35, alas36! a victim to duty, like a good Catholic, and a good man. It sounded very respectable, and Willems approved of those feeling references. Moreover, he prided himself upon having no colour-prejudices and no racial antipathies37. He consented to drink curacoa one afternoon on the verandah of Mrs. da Souza’s house. He remembered Joanna that day, swinging in a hammock. She was untidy even then, he remembered, and that was the only impression he carried away from that visit. He had no time for love in those glorious days, no time even for a passing fancy, but gradually he fell into the habit of calling almost every day at that little house where he was greeted by Mrs. da Souza’s shrill38 voice screaming for Joanna to come and entertain the gentleman from Hudig & Co. And then the sudden and unexpected visit of the priest. He remembered the man’s flat, yellow face, his thin legs, his propitiatory39 smile, his beaming black eyes, his conciliating manner, his veiled hints which he did not understand at the time. How he wondered what the man wanted, and how unceremoniously he got rid of him. And then came vividly40 into his recollection the morning when he met again that fellow coming out of Hudig’s office, and how he was amused at the incongruous visit. And that morning with Hudig! Would he ever forget it? Would he ever forget his surprise as the master, instead of plunging41 at once into business, looked at him thoughtfully before turning, with a furtive42 smile, to the papers on the desk? He could hear him now, his nose in the paper before him, dropping astonishing words in the intervals43 of wheezy breathing.
“Heard said . . . called there often . . . most respectable ladies . . . knew the father very well . . . estimable . . . best thing for a young man . . . settle down. . . . Personally, very glad to hear . . . thing arranged. . . . Suitable recognition of valuable services. . . . Best thing — best thing to do.”
And he believed! What credulity! What an ass21! Hudig knew the father! Rather. And so did everybody else probably; all except himself. How proud he had been of Hudig’s benevolent44 interest in his fate! How proud he was when invited by Hudig to stay with him at his little house in the country — where he could meet men, men of official position — as a friend. Vinck had been green with envy. Oh, yes! He had believed in the best thing, and took the girl like a gift of fortune. How he boasted to Hudig of being free from prejudices. The old scoundrel must have been laughing in his sleeve at his fool of a confidential45 clerk. He took the girl, guessing nothing. How could he? There had been a father of some kind to the common knowledge. Men knew him; spoke29 about him. A lank13 man of hopelessly mixed descent, but otherwise — apparently46 — unobjectionable. The shady relations came out afterward47, but — with his freedom from prejudices — he did not mind them, because, with their humble48 dependence49, they completed his triumphant50 life. Taken in! taken in! Hudig had found an easy way to provide for the begging crowd. He had shifted the burden of his youthful vagaries51 on to the shoulders of his confidential clerk; and while he worked for the master, the master had cheated him; had stolen his very self from him. He was married. He belonged to that woman, no matter what she might do! . . . Had sworn . . . for all life! . . . Thrown himself away . . . . And that man dared this very morning call him a thief! Damnation!
“Let go, Lingard!” he shouted, trying to get away by a sudden jerk from the watchful52 old seaman. “Let me go and kill that . . . ”
“No you don’t!” panted Lingard, hanging on manfully. “You want to kill, do you? You lunatic. Ah! — I’ve got you now! Be quiet, I say!”
They struggled violently, Lingard forcing Willems slowly towards the guard-rail. Under their feet the jetty sounded like a drum in the quiet night. On the shore end the native caretaker of the wharf53 watched the combat, squatting54 behind the safe shelter of some big cases. The next day he informed his friends, with calm satisfaction, that two drunken white men had fought on the jetty.
It had been a great fight. They fought without arms, like wild beasts, after the manner of white men. No! nobody was killed, or there would have been trouble and a report to make. How could he know why they fought? White men have no reason when they are like that.
Just as Lingard was beginning to fear that he would be unable to restrain much longer the violence of the younger man, he felt Willems’ muscles relaxing, and took advantage of this opportunity to pin him, by a last effort, to the rail. They both panted heavily, speechless, their faces very close.
“All right,” muttered Willems at last. “Don’t break my back over this infernal rail. I will be quiet.”
“Now you are reasonable,” said Lingard, much relieved. “What made you fly into that passion?” he asked, leading him back to the end of the jetty, and, still holding him prudently55 with one hand, he fumbled56 with the other for his whistle and blew a shrill and prolonged blast. Over the smooth water of the roadstead came in answer a faint cry from one of the ships at anchor.
“My boat will be here directly,” said Lingard. “Think of what you are going to do. I sail to-night.”
“What is there for me to do, except one thing?” said Willems, gloomily.
“Look here,” said Lingard; “I picked you up as a boy, and consider myself responsible for you in a way. You took your life into your own hands many years ago — but still . . . ”
He paused, listening, till he heard the regular grind of the oars57 in the rowlocks of the approaching boat then went on again.
“I have made it all right with Hudig. You owe him nothing now. Go back to your wife. She is a good woman. Go back to her.”
“Why, Captain Lingard,” exclaimed Willems, “she . . . ”
“It was most affecting,” went on Lingard, without heeding58 him. “I went to your house to look for you and there I saw her despair. It was heart-breaking. She called for you; she entreated59 me to find you. She spoke wildly, poor woman, as if all this was her fault.”
Willems listened amazed. The blind old idiot! How queerly he misunderstood! But if it was true, if it was even true, the very idea of seeing her filled his soul with intense loathing60. He did not break his oath, but he would not go back to her. Let hers be the sin of that separation; of the sacred bond broken. He revelled61 in the extreme purity of his heart, and he would not go back to her. Let her come back to him. He had the comfortable conviction that he would never see her again, and that through her own fault only. In this conviction he told himself solemnly that if she would come to him he would receive her with generous forgiveness, because such was the praiseworthy solidity of his principles. But he hesitated whether he would or would not disclose to Lingard the revolting completeness of his humiliation62. Turned out of his house — and by his wife; that woman who hardly dared to breathe in his presence, yesterday. He remained perplexed63 and silent. No. He lacked the courage to tell the ignoble64 story.
As the boat of the brig appeared suddenly on the black water close to the jetty, Lingard broke the painful silence.
“I always thought,” he said, sadly, “I always thought you were somewhat heartless, Willems, and apt to cast adrift those that thought most of you. I appeal to what is best in you; do not abandon that woman.”
“I have not abandoned her,” answered Willems, quickly, with conscious truthfulness65. “Why should I? As you so justly observed, she has been a good wife to me. A very good, quiet, obedient, loving wife, and I love her as much as she loves me. Every bit. But as to going back now, to that place where I . . . To walk again amongst those men who yesterday were ready to crawl before me, and then feel on my back the sting of their pitying or satisfied smiles — no! I can’t. I would rather hide from them at the bottom of the sea,” he went on, with resolute66 energy. “I don’t think, Captain Lingard,” he added, more quietly, “I don’t think that you realize what my position was there.”
In a wide sweep of his hand he took in the sleeping shore from north to south, as if wishing it a proud and threatening good-bye. For a short moment he forgot his downfall in the recollection of his brilliant triumphs. Amongst the men of his class and occupation who slept in those dark houses he had been indeed the first.
“It is hard,” muttered Lingard, pensively67. “But whose the fault?
Whose the fault?”
“Captain Lingard!” cried Willems, under the sudden impulse of a felicitous68 inspiration, “if you leave me here on this jetty — it’s murder. I shall never return to that place alive, wife or no wife. You may just as well cut my throat at once.”
The old seaman started.
“Don’t try to frighten me, Willems,” he said, with great severity, and paused.
Above the accents of Willems’ brazen69 despair he heard, with considerable uneasiness, the whisper of his own absurd conscience. He meditated70 for awhile with an irresolute71 air.
“I could tell you to go and drown yourself, and be damned to you,” he said, with an unsuccessful assumption of brutality72 in his manner, “but I won’t. We are responsible for one another — worse luck. I am almost ashamed of myself, but I can understand your dirty pride. I can! By . . . ”
He broke off with a loud sigh and walked briskly to the steps, at the bottom of which lay his boat, rising and falling gently on the slight and invisible swell73.
“Below there! Got a lamp in the boat? Well, light it and bring it up, one of you. Hurry now!”
He tore out a page of his pocketbook, moistened his pencil with great energy and waited, stamping his feet impatiently.
“I will see this thing through,” he muttered to himself. “And I will have it all square and ship-shape; see if I don’t! Are you going to bring that lamp, you son of a crippled mud-turtle? I am waiting.”
The gleam of the light on the paper placated74 his professional anger, and he wrote rapidly, the final dash of his signature curling the paper up in a triangular75 tear.
“Take that to this white Tuan’s house. I will send the boat back for you in half an hour.”
The coxswain raised his lamp deliberately76 to Willem’s face.
“This Tuan? Tau! I know.”
“Quick then!” said Lingard, taking the lamp from him — and the man went off at a run.
“Kassi mem! To the lady herself,” called Lingard after him.
Then, when the man disappeared, he turned to Willems.
“I have written to your wife,” he said. “If you do not return for good, you do not go back to that house only for another parting. You must come as you stand. I won’t have that poor woman tormented77. I will see to it that you are not separated for long. Trust me!”
Willems shivered, then smiled in the darkness.
“No fear of that,” he muttered, enigmatically. “I trust you implicitly78, Captain Lingard,” he added, in a louder tone.
Lingard led the way down the steps, swinging the lamp and speaking over his shoulder.
“It is the second time, Willems, I take you in hand. Mind it is the last. The second time; and the only difference between then and now is that you were bare-footed then and have boots now. In fourteen years. With all your smartness! A poor result that. A very poor result.”
He stood for awhile on the lowest platform of the steps, the light of the lamp falling on the upturned face of the stroke oar23, who held the gunwale of the boat close alongside, ready for the captain to step in.
“You see,” he went on, argumentatively, fumbling79 about the top of the lamp, “you got yourself so crooked80 amongst those ‘longshore quill-drivers that you could not run clear in any way. That’s what comes of such talk as yours, and of such a life. A man sees so much falsehood that he begins to lie to himself. Pah!” he said, in disgust, “there’s only one place for an honest man. The sea, my boy, the sea! But you never would; didn’t think there was enough money in it; and now — look!”
He blew the light out, and, stepping into the boat, stretched quickly his hand towards Willems, with friendly care. Willems sat by him in silence, and the boat shoved off, sweeping81 in a wide circle towards the brig.
“Your compassion82 is all for my wife, Captain Lingard,” said Willems, moodily83. “Do you think I am so very happy?”
“No! no!” said Lingard, heartily84. “Not a word more shall pass my lips. I had to speak my mind once, seeing that I knew you from a child, so to speak. And now I shall forget; but you are young yet. Life is very long,” he went on, with unconscious sadness; “let this be a lesson to you.”
He laid his hand affectionately on Willems’ shoulder, and they both sat silent till the boat came alongside the ship’s ladder.
When on board Lingard gave orders to his mate, and leading Willems on the poop, sat on the breech of one of the brass85 six-pounders with which his vessel86 was armed. The boat went off again to bring back the messenger. As soon as it was seen returning dark forms appeared on the brig’s spars; then the sails fell in festoons with a swish of their heavy folds, and hung motionless under the yards in the dead calm of the clear and dewy night. From the forward end came the clink of the windlass, and soon afterwards the hail of the chief mate informing Lingard that the cable was hove short.
“Hold on everything,” hailed back Lingard; “we must wait for the land-breeze before we let go our hold of the ground.”
He approached Willems, who sat on the skylight, his body bent87 down, his head low, and his hands hanging listlessly between his knees.
“I am going to take you to Sambir,” he said. “You’ve never heard of the place, have you? Well, it’s up that river of mine about which people talk so much and know so little. I’ve found out the entrance for a ship of Flash’s size. It isn’t easy. You’ll see.
I will show you. You have been at sea long enough to take an interest. . . . Pity you didn’t stick to it. Well, I am going there. I have my own trading post in the place. Almayer is my partner. You knew him when he was at Hudig’s. Oh, he lives there as happy as a king. D’ye see, I have them all in my pocket. The rajah is an old friend of mine. My word is law — and I am the only trader. No other white man but Almayer had ever been in that settlement. You will live quietly there till I come back from my next cruise to the westward88. We shall see then what can be done for you. Never fear. I have no doubt my secret will be safe with you. Keep mum about my river when you get amongst the traders again. There’s many would give their ears for the knowledge of it. I’ll tell you something: that’s where I get all my guttah and rattans. Simply inexhaustible, my boy.”
While Lingard spoke Willems looked up quickly, but soon his head fell on his breast in the discouraging certitude that the knowledge he and Hudig had wished for so much had come to him too late. He sat in a listless attitude.
“You will help Almayer in his trading if you have a heart for it,” continued Lingard, “just to kill time till I come back for you. Only six weeks or so.”
Over their heads the damp sails fluttered noisily in the first faint puff89 of the breeze; then, as the airs freshened, the brig tended to the wind, and the silenced canvas lay quietly aback. The mate spoke with low distinctness from the shadows of the quarter-deck.
“There’s the breeze. Which way do you want to cast her, Captain Lingard?”
Lingard’s eyes, that had been fixed90 aloft, glanced down at the dejected figure of the man sitting on the skylight. He seemed to hesitate for a minute.
“To the northward91, to the northward,” he answered, testily, as if annoyed at his own fleeting thought, “and bear a hand there. Every puff of wind is worth money in these seas.”
He remained motionless, listening to the rattle92 of blocks and the creaking of trusses as the head-yards were hauled round. Sail was made on the ship and the windlass manned again while he stood still, lost in thought. He only roused himself when a barefooted seacannie glided93 past him silently on his way to the wheel.
“Put the helm aport! Hard over!” he said, in his harsh sea-voice, to the man whose face appeared suddenly out of the darkness in the circle of light thrown upwards94 from the binnacle lamps.
The anchor was secured, the yards trimmed, and the brig began to move out of the roadstead. The sea woke up under the push of the sharp cutwater, and whispered softly to the gliding95 craft in that tender and rippling96 murmur97 in which it speaks sometimes to those it nurses and loves. Lingard stood by the taff-rail listening, with a pleased smile till the Flash began to draw close to the only other vessel in the anchorage.
“Here, Willems,” he said, calling him to his side, “d’ye see that barque here? That’s an Arab vessel. White men have mostly given up the game, but this fellow drops in my wake often, and lives in hopes of cutting me out in that settlement. Not while I live, I trust. You see, Willems, I brought prosperity to that place. I composed their quarrels, and saw them grow under my eyes. There’s peace and happiness there. I am more master there than his Dutch Excellency down in Batavia ever will be when some day a lazy man-of-war blunders at last against the river. I mean to keep the Arabs out of it, with their lies and their intrigues98. I shall keep the venomous breed out, if it costs me my fortune.”
The Flash drew quietly abreast99 of the barque, and was beginning to drop it astern when a white figure started up on the poop of the Arab vessel, and a voice called out —
“Greeting to the Rajah Laut!”
“To you greeting!” answered Lingard, after a moment of hesitating surprise. Then he turned to Willems with a grim smile. “That’s Abdulla’s voice,” he said. “Mighty civil all of a sudden, isn’t he? I wonder what it means. Just like his impudence100! No matter! His civility or his impudence are all one to me. I know that this fellow will be under way and after me like a shot. I don’t care! I have the heels of anything that floats in these seas,” he added, while his proud and loving glance ran over and rested fondly amongst the brig’s lofty and graceful101 spars.
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1
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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7
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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8
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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mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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15
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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16
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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17
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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scintillating
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| adj．才气横溢的,闪闪发光的; 闪烁的 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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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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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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antipathies
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| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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propitiatory
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| adj.劝解的；抚慰的；谋求好感的；哄人息怒的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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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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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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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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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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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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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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placated
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| v.安抚，抚慰，使平静( placate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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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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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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