Lingard had never hesitated in his life. Why should he? He had been a most successful trader, and a man lucky in his fights, skilful16 in navigation, undeniably first in seamanship in those seas. He knew it. Had he not heard the voice of common consent?
The voice of the world that respected him so much; the whole world to him — for to us the limits of the universe are strictly18 defined by those we know. There is nothing for us outside the babble19 of praise and blame on familiar lips, and beyond our last acquaintance there lies only a vast chaos20; a chaos of laughter and tears which concerns us not; laughter and tears unpleasant, wicked, morbid21, contemptible22 — because heard imperfectly by ears rebellious24 to strange sounds. To Lingard — simple himself — all things were simple. He seldom read. Books were not much in his way, and he had to work hard navigating25, trading, and also, in obedience26 to his benevolent27 instincts, shaping stray lives he found here and there under his busy hand. He remembered the Sunday-school teachings of his native village and the discourses28 of the black-coated gentleman connected with the Mission to Fishermen and Seamen29, whose yawl-rigged boat darting31 through rain-squalls amongst the coasters wind-bound in Falmouth Bay, was part of those precious pictures of his youthful days that lingered in his memory. “As clever a sky-pilot as you could wish to see,” he would say with conviction, “and the best man to handle a boat in any weather I ever did meet!” Such were the agencies that had roughly shaped his young soul before he went away to see the world in a southern-going ship — before he went, ignorant and happy, heavy of hand, pure in heart, profane32 in speech, to give himself up to the great sea that took his life and gave him his fortune. When thinking of his rise in the world — commander of ships, then shipowner, then a man of much capital, respected wherever he went, Lingard in a word, the Rajah Laut — he was amazed and awed33 by his fate, that seemed to his ill-informed mind the most wondrous34 known in the annals of men. His experience appeared to him immense and conclusive35, teaching him the lesson of the simplicity36 of life. In life — as in seamanship — there were only two ways of doing a thing: the right way and the wrong way. Common sense and experience taught a man the way that was right. The other was for lubbers and fools, and led, in seamanship, to loss of spars and sails or shipwreck37; in life, to loss of money and consideration, or to an unlucky knock on the head. He did not consider it his duty to be angry with rascals38. He was only angry with things he could not understand, but for the weaknesses of humanity he could find a contemptuous tolerance39. It being manifest that he was wise and lucky — otherwise how could he have been as successful in life as he had been? — he had an inclination40 to set right the lives of other people, just as he could hardly refrain — in defiance41 of nautical42 etiquette43 — from interfering44 with his chief officer when the crew was sending up a new topmast, or generally when busy about, what he called, “a heavy job.” He was meddlesome45 with perfect modesty46; if he knew a thing or two there was no merit in it. “Hard knocks taught me wisdom, my boy,” he used to say, “and you had better take the advice of a man who has been a fool in his time. Have another.” And “my boy” as a rule took the cool drink, the advice, and the consequent help which Lingard felt himself bound in honour to give, so as to back up his opinion like an honest man. Captain Tom went sailing from island to island, appearing unexpectedly in various localities, beaming, noisy, anecdotal, commendatory or comminatory, but always welcome.
It was only since his return to Sambir that the old seaman17 had for the first time known doubt and unhappiness, The loss of the Flash — planted firmly and for ever on a ledge47 of rock at the north end of Gaspar Straits in the uncertain light of a cloudy morning — shook him considerably48; and the amazing news which he heard on his arrival in Sambir were not made to soothe49 his feelings. A good many years ago — prompted by his love of adventure — he, with infinite trouble, had found out and surveyed — for his own benefit only — the entrances to that river, where, he had heard through native report, a new settlement of Malays was forming. No doubt he thought at the time mostly of personal gain; but, received with hearty50 friendliness51 by Patalolo, he soon came to like the ruler and the people, offered his counsel and his help, and — knowing nothing of Arcadia — he dreamed of Arcadian happiness for that little corner of the world which he loved to think all his own. His deep-seated and immovable conviction that only he — he, Lingard — knew what was good for them was characteristic of him. and, after all, not so very far wrong. He would make them happy whether or no, he said, and he meant it. His trade brought prosperity to the young state, and the fear of his heavy hand secured its internal peace for many years.
He looked proudly upon his work. With every passing year he loved more the land, the people, the muddy river that, if he could help it, would carry no other craft but the Flash on its unclean and friendly surface. As he slowly warped52 his vessel53 up-stream he would scan with knowing looks the riverside clearings, and pronounce solemn judgment54 upon the prospects55 of the season’s rice-crop. He knew every settler on the banks between the sea and Sambir; he knew their wives, their children; he knew every individual of the multi-coloured groups that, standing56 on the flimsy platforms of tiny reed dwellings57 built over the water, waved their hands and shouted shrilly58: “O! Kapal layer! Hai!” while the Flash swept slowly through the populated reach, to enter the lonely stretches of sparkling brown water bordered by the dense59 and silent forest, whose big trees nodded their outspread boughs60 gently in the faint, warm breeze — as if in sign of tender but melancholy61 welcome. He loved it all: the landscape of brown golds and brilliant emeralds under the dome62 of hot sapphire63; the whispering big trees; the loquacious64 nipa-palms that rattled65 their leaves volubly in the night breeze, as if in haste to tell him all the secrets of the great forest behind them. He loved the heavy scents66 of blossoms and black earth, that breath of life and of death which lingered over his brig in the damp air of tepid67 and peaceful nights. He loved the narrow and sombre creeks68, strangers to sunshine: black, smooth, tortuous69 — like byways of despair. He liked even the troops of sorrowful-faced monkeys that profaned70 the quiet spots with capricious gambols71 and insane gestures of inhuman72 madness. He loved everything there, animated73 or inanimated; the very mud of the riverside; the very alligators74, enormous and stolid75, basking76 on it with impertinent unconcern. Their size was a source of pride to him. “Immense fellows! Make two of them Palembang reptiles77! I tell you, old man!” he would shout, poking78 some crony of his playfully in the ribs79: “I tell you, big as you are, they could swallow you in one gulp80, hat, boots and all! Magnificent beggars! Wouldn’t you like to see them? Wouldn’t you! Ha! ha! ha!” His thunderous laughter filled the verandah, rolled over the hotel garden, overflowed81 into the street, paralyzing for a short moment the noiseless traffic of bare brown feet; and its loud reverberations would even startle the landlord’s tame bird — a shameless mynah — into a momentary82 propriety83 of behaviour under the nearest chair. In the big billiard-room perspiring84 men in thin cotton singlets would stop the game, listen, cue in hand, for a while through the open windows, then nod their moist faces at each other sagaciously and whisper: “The old fellow is talking about his river.”
His river! The whispers of curious men, the mystery of the thing, were to Lingard a source of never-ending delight. The common talk of ignorance exaggerated the profits of his queer monopoly, and, although strictly truthful15 in general, he liked, on that matter, to mislead speculation85 still further by boasts full of cold raillery. His river! By it he was not only rich — he was interesting. This secret of his which made him different to the other traders of those seas gave intimate satisfaction to that desire for singularity which he shared with the rest of mankind, without being aware of its presence within his breast. It was the greater part of his happiness, but he only knew it after its loss, so unforeseen, so sudden and so cruel.
After his conversation with Almayer he went on board the schooner86, sent Joanna on shore, and shut himself up in his cabin, feeling very unwell. He made the most of his indisposition to Almayer, who came to visit him twice a day. It was an excuse for doing nothing just yet. He wanted to think. He was very angry. Angry with himself, with Willems. Angry at what Willems had done — and also angry at what he had left undone87. The scoundrel was not complete. The conception was perfect, but the execution, unaccountably, fell short. Why? He ought to have cut Almayer’s throat and burnt the place to ashes — then cleared out. Got out of his way; of him, Lingard! Yet he didn’t. Was it impudence88, contempt — or what? He felt hurt at the implied disrespect of his power, and the incomplete rascality89 of the proceeding90 disturbed him exceedingly. There was something short, something wanting, something that would have given him a free hand in the work of retribution. The obvious, the right thing to do, was to shoot Willems. Yet how could he? Had the fellow resisted, showed fight, or ran away; had he shown any consciousness of harm done, it would have been more possible, more natural. But no! The fellow actually had sent him a message. Wanted to see him. What for? The thing could not be explained. An unexampled, cold-blooded treachery, awful, incomprehensible. Why did he do it? Why? Why? The old seaman in the stuffy91 solitude92 of his little cabin on board the schooner groaned93 out many times that question, striking with an open palm his perplexed94 forehead.
During his four days of seclusion95 he had received two messages from the outer world; from that world of Sambir which had, so suddenly and so finally, slipped from his grasp. One, a few words from Willems written on a torn-out page of a small notebook; the other, a communication from Abdulla caligraphed carefully on a large sheet of flimsy paper and delivered to him in a green silk wrapper. The first he could not understand. It said: “Come and see me. I am not afraid. Are you? W.” He tore it up angrily, but before the small bits of dirty paper had the time to flutter down and settle on the floor, the anger was gone and was replaced by a sentiment that induced him to go on his knees, pick up the fragments of the torn message, piece it together on the top of his chronometer96 box, and contemplate97 it long and thoughtfully, as if he had hoped to read the answer of the horrible riddle98 in the very form of the letters that went to make up that fresh insult. Abdulla’s letter he read carefully and rammed99 it into his pocket, also with anger, but with anger that ended in a half-resigned, half-amused smile. He would never give in as long as there was a chance. “It’s generally the safest way to stick to the ship as long as she will swim,” was one of his favourite sayings: “The safest and the right way. To abandon a craft because it leaks is easy — but poor work. Poor work!” Yet he was intelligent enough to know when he was beaten, and to accept the situation like a man, without repining. When Almayer came on board that afternoon he handed him the letter without comment.
Almayer read it, returned it in silence, and leaning over the taffrail (the two men were on deck) looked down for some time at the play of the eddies100 round the schooner’s rudder. At last he said without looking up —
“That’s a decent enough letter. Abdulla gives him up to you. I told you they were getting sick of him. What are you going to do?”
Lingard cleared his throat, shuffled101 his feet, opened his mouth with great determination, but said nothing for a while. At last he murmured —
“I’ll be hanged if I know — just yet.”
“I wish you would do something soon . . . ”
“What’s the hurry?” interrupted Lingard. “He can’t get away. As it stands he is at my mercy, as far as I can see.”
“Yes,” said Almayer, reflectively —“and very little mercy he deserves too. Abdulla’s meaning — as I can make it out amongst all those compliments — is: ‘Get rid for me of that white man — and we shall live in peace and share the trade.”’
“You believe that?” asked Lingard, contemptuously.
“Not altogether,” answered Almayer. “No doubt we will share the trade for a time — till he can grab the lot. Well, what are you going to do?”
He looked up as he spoke102 and was surprised to see Lingard’s discomposed face.
“You ain’t well. Pain anywhere?” he asked, with real solicitude103.
“I have been queer — you know — these last few days, but no pain.” He struck his broad chest several times, cleared his throat with a powerful “Hem!” and repeated: “No. No pain. Good for a few years yet. But I am bothered with all this, I can tell you!”
“You must take care of yourself,” said Almayer. Then after a pause he added: “You will see Abdulla. Won’t you?”
“I don’t know. Not yet. There’s plenty of time,” said Lingard, impatiently.
“I wish you would do something,” urged Almayer, moodily104. “You know, that woman is a perfect nuisance to me. She and her brat105! Yelps106 all day. And the children don’t get on together. Yesterday the little devil wanted to fight with my Nina. Scratched her face, too. A perfect savage107! Like his honourable108 papa. Yes, really. She worries about her husband, and whimpers from morning to night. When she isn’t weeping she is furious with me. Yesterday she tormented109 me to tell her when he would be back and cried because he was engaged in such dangerous work. I said something about it being all right — no necessity to make a fool of herself, when she turned upon me like a wild cat. Called me a brute110, selfish, heartless; raved111 about her beloved Peter risking his life for my benefit, while I did not care. Said I took advantage of his generous good-nature to get him to do dangerous work — my work. That he was worth twenty of the likes of me. That she would tell you — open your eyes as to the kind of man I was, and so on. That’s what I’ve got to put up with for your sake. You really might consider me a little. I haven’t robbed anybody,” went on Almayer, with an attempt at bitter irony112 —“or sold my best friend, but still you ought to have some pity on me. It’s like living in a hot fever. She is out of her wits. You make my house a refuge for scoundrels and lunatics. It isn’t fair. ‘Pon my word it isn’t! When she is in her tantrums she is ridiculously ugly and screeches113 so — it sets my teeth on edge. Thank God! my wife got a fit of the sulks and cleared out of the house. Lives in a riverside hut since that affair — you know. But this Willems’ wife by herself is almost more than I can bear. And I ask myself why should I? You are exacting114 and no mistake. This morning I thought she was going to claw me. Only think! She wanted to go prancing115 about the settlement. She might have heard something there, so I told her she mustn’t. It wasn’t safe outside our fences, I said. Thereupon she rushes at me with her ten nails up to my eyes. ‘You miserable116 man,’ she yells, ‘even this place is not safe, and you’ve sent him up this awful river where he may lose his head. If he dies before forgiving me, Heaven will punish you for your crime . . . ’ My crime! I ask myself sometimes whether I am dreaming! It will make me ill, all this. I’ve lost my appetite already.”
He flung his hat on deck and laid hold of his hair despairingly. Lingard looked at him with concern.
“What did she mean by it?” he muttered, thoughtfully.
“Mean! She is crazy, I tell you — and I will be, very soon, if this lasts!”
“Just a little patience, Kaspar,” pleaded Lingard. “A day or so more.”
Relieved or tired by his violent outburst, Almayer calmed down, picked up his hat and, leaning against the bulwark117, commenced to fan himself with it.
“Days do pass,” he said, resignedly —“but that kind of thing makes a man old before his time. What is there to think about? — I can’t imagine! Abdulla says plainly that if you undertake to pilot his ship out and instruct the half-caste, he will drop Willems like a hot potato and be your friend ever after. I believe him perfectly23, as to Willems. It’s so natural. As to being your friend it’s a lie of course, but we need not bother about that just yet. You just say yes to Abdulla, and then whatever happens to Willems will be nobody’s business.”
He interrupted himself and remained silent for a while, glaring about with set teeth and dilated118 nostrils119.
“You leave it to me. I’ll see to it that something happens to him,” he said at last, with calm ferocity. Lingard smiled faintly.
“The fellow isn’t worth a shot. Not the trouble of it,” he whispered, as if to himself. Almayer fired up suddenly.
“That’s what you think,” he cried. “You haven’t been sewn up in your hammock to be made a laughing-stock of before a parcel of savages120. Why! I daren’t look anybody here in the face while that scoundrel is alive. I will . . . I will settle him.”
“I don’t think you will,” growled121 Lingard.
“Do you think I am afraid of him?”
“Bless you! no!” said Lingard with alacrity122. “Afraid! Not you. I know you. I don’t doubt your courage. It’s your head, my boy, your head that I . . . ”
“That’s it,” said the aggrieved123 Almayer. “Go on. Why don’t you call me a fool at once?”
“Because I don’t want to,” burst out Lingard, with nervous irritability124. “If I wanted to call you a fool, I would do so without asking your leave.” He began to walk athwart the narrow quarter-deck, kicking ropes’ ends out of his way and growling125 to himself: “Delicate gentleman . . . what next? . . . I’ve done man’s work before you could toddle126. Understand . . . say what I like.”
“Well! well!” said Almayer, with affected127 resignation. “There’s no talking to you these last few days.” He put on his hat, strolled to the gangway and stopped, one foot on the little inside ladder, as if hesitating, came back and planted himself in Lingard’s way, compelling him to stand still and listen.
“Of course you will do what you like. You never take advice — I know that; but let me tell you that it wouldn’t be honest to let that fellow get away from here. If you do nothing, that scoundrel will leave in Abdulla’s ship for sure. Abdulla will make use of him to hurt you and others elsewhere. Willems knows too much about your affairs. He will cause you lots of trouble. You mark my words. Lots of trouble. To you — and to others perhaps. Think of that, Captain Lingard. That’s all I’ve got to say. Now I must go back on shore. There’s lots of work. We will begin loading this schooner to-morrow morning, first thing. All the bundles are ready. If you should want me for anything, hoist128 some kind of flag on the mainmast. At night two shots will fetch me.” Then he added, in a friendly tone, “Won’t you come and dine in the house to-night? It can’t be good for you to stew129 on board like that, day after day.”
Lingard did not answer. The image evoked130 by Almayer; the picture of Willems ranging over the islands and disturbing the harmony of the universe by robbery, treachery, and violence, held him silent, entranced — painfully spellbound. Almayer, after waiting for a little while, moved reluctantly towards the gangway, lingered there, then sighed and got over the side, going down step by step. His head disappeared slowly below the rail. Lingard, who had been staring at him absently, started suddenly, ran to the side, and looking over, called out —
“Hey! Kaspar! Hold on a bit!”
Almayer signed to his boatmen to cease paddling, and turned his head towards the schooner. The boat drifted back slowly abreast131 of Lingard, nearly alongside.
“Look here,” said Lingard, looking down —“I want a good canoe with four men to-day.”
“Do you want it now?” asked Almayer.
“No! Catch this rope. Oh, you clumsy devil! . . . No, Kaspar,” went on Lingard, after the bow-man had got hold of the end of the brace132 he had thrown down into the canoe —“No, Kaspar. The sun is too much for me. And it would be better to keep my affairs quiet, too. Send the canoe — four good paddlers, mind, and your canvas chair for me to sit in. Send it about sunset. D’ye hear?”
“All right, father,” said Almayer, cheerfully —“I will send Ali for a steersman, and the best men I’ve got. Anything else?”
“No, my lad. Only don’t let them be late.”
“I suppose it’s no use asking you where you are going,” said Almayer, tentatively. “Because if it is to see Abdulla, I . . . ”
“I am not going to see Abdulla. Not to-day. Now be off with you.”
He watched the canoe dart30 away shorewards, waved his hand in response to Almayer’s nod, and walked to the taffrail smoothing out Abdulla’s letter, which he had pulled out of his pocket. He read it over carefully, crumpled133 it up slowly, smiling the while and closing his fingers firmly over the crackling paper as though he had hold there of Abdulla’s throat. Halfway to his pocket he changed his mind, and flinging the ball overboard looked at it thoughtfully as it spun134 round in the eddies for a moment, before the current bore it away down-stream, towards the sea.
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1
steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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disdains
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| 鄙视，轻蔑( disdain的名词复数 ) | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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morasses
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| n.缠作一团( morass的名词复数 )；困境；沼泽；陷阱 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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besmirched
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| v.弄脏( besmirch的过去式和过去分词 )；玷污；丑化；糟蹋（名誉等） | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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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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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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navigating
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| v.给（船舶、飞机等）引航，导航( navigate的现在分词 )；（从海上、空中等）横越；横渡；飞跃 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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42
nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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43
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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44
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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45
meddlesome
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| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
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46
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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47
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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48
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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49
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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50
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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51
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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52
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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53
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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54
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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55
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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56
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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57
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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58
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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59
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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60
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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61
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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62
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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63
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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64
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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65
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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66
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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67
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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68
creeks
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| n.小湾( creek的名词复数 )；小港；小河；小溪 | |
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69
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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70
profaned
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| v.不敬( profane的过去式和过去分词 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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71
gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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72
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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73
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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74
alligators
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| n.短吻鳄( alligator的名词复数 ) | |
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75
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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76
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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77
reptiles
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| n.爬行动物，爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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78
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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79
ribs
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| 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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80
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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81
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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82
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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83
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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84
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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85
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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86
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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87
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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88
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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89
rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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90
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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91
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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92
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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93
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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94
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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95
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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96
chronometer
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| n.精密的计时器 | |
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97
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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98
riddle
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| 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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99
rammed
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| v.夯实（土等）( ram的过去式和过去分词 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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100
eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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101
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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102
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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103
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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104
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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105
brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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106
yelps
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| n.（因痛苦、气愤、兴奋等的）短而尖的叫声( yelp的名词复数 )v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的第三人称单数 ) | |
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107
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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108
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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109
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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110
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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111
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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112
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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113
screeches
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| n.尖锐的声音( screech的名词复数 )v.发出尖叫声( screech的第三人称单数 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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114
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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115
prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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116
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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117
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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118
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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120
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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121
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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122
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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123
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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124
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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125
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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126
toddle
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| v.（如小孩）蹒跚学步 | |
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127
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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128
hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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129
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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130
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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131
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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132
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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133
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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134
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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