Whew! The hot-house air is faint with pine-apples. Every French citizen or citizeness is carrying pine-apples home. The compact little Enchantress in the corner of my carriage (French actress, to whom I yielded up my heart under the auspices4 of that brave child, ‘MEAT-CHELL,’ at the St. James’s Theatre the night before last) has a pine-apple in her lap. Compact Enchantress’s friend, confidante, mother, mystery, Heaven knows what, has two pine-apples in her lap, and a bundle of them under the seat. Tobacco-smoky Frenchman in Algerine wrapper, with peaked hood5 behind, who might be Abd-el-Kader dyed rifle-green, and who seems to be dressed entirely6 in dirt and braid, carries pine-apples in a covered basket. Tall, grave, melancholy7 Frenchman, with black Vandyke beard, and hair close-cropped, with expansive chest to waistcoat, and compressive waist to coat: saturnine8 as to his pantaloons, calm as to his feminine boots, precious as to his jewellery, smooth and white as to his linen9: dark-eyed, high-foreheaded, hawk-nosed — got up, one thinks, like Lucifer or Mephistopheles, or Zamiel, transformed into a highly genteel Parisian — has the green end of a pine-apple sticking out of his neat valise.
Whew! If I were to be kept here long, under this forcing-frame, I wonder what would become of me — whether I should be forced into a giant, or should sprout10 or blow into some other phenomenon! Compact Enchantress is not ruffled11 by the heat — she is always composed, always compact. O look at her little ribbons, frills, and edges, at her shawl, at her gloves, at her hair, at her bracelets12, at her bonnet13, at everything about her! How is it accomplished14? What does she do to be so neat? How is it that every trifle she wears belongs to her, and cannot choose but be a part of her? And even Mystery, look at HER! A model. Mystery is not young, not pretty, though still of an average candle-light passability; but she does such miracles in her own behalf, that, one of these days, when she dies, they’ll be amazed to find an old woman in her bed, distantly like her. She was an actress once, I shouldn’t wonder, and had a Mystery attendant on herself. Perhaps, Compact Enchantress will live to be a Mystery, and to wait with a shawl at the side-scenes, and to sit opposite to Mademoiselle in railway carriages, and smile and talk subserviently15, as Mystery does now. That’s hard to believe!
Two Englishmen, and now our carriage is full. First Englishman, in the monied interest — flushed, highly respectable — Stock Exchange, perhaps — City, certainly. Faculties16 of second Englishman entirely absorbed in hurry. Plunges17 into the carriage, blind. Calls out of window concerning his luggage, deaf. Suffocates18 himself under pillows of great-coats, for no reason, and in a demented manner. Will receive no assurance from any porter whatsoever19. Is stout20 and hot, and wipes his head, and makes himself hotter by breathing so hard. Is totally incredulous respecting assurance of Collected Guard, that ‘there’s no hurry.’ No hurry! And a flight to Paris in eleven hours!
It is all one to me in this drowsy21 corner, hurry or no hurry. Until Don Diego shall send home my wings, my flight is with the South-Eastern Company. I can fly with the South-Eastern, more lazily, at all events, than in the upper air. I have but to sit here thinking as idly as I please, and be whisked away. I am not accountable to anybody for the idleness of my thoughts in such an idle summer flight; my flight is provided for by the South-Eastern and is no business of mine.
The bell! With all my heart. It does not require me to do so much as even to flap my wings. Something snorts for me, something shrieks23 for me, something proclaims to everything else that it had better keep out of my way, — and away I go.
Ah! The fresh air is pleasant after the forcing-frame, though it does blow over these interminable streets, and scatter24 the smoke of this vast wilderness25 of chimneys. Here we are — no, I mean there we were, for it has darted26 far into the rear — in Bermondsey where the tanners live. Flash! The distant shipping27 in the Thames is gone. Whirr! The little streets of new brick and red tile, with here and there a flagstaff growing like a tall weed out of the scarlet28 beans, and, everywhere, plenty of open sewer29 and ditch for the promotion30 of the public health, have been fired off in a volley. Whizz! Dust-heaps, market-gardens, and waste grounds. Rattle31! New Cross Station. Shock! There we were at Croydon. Bur-r-r-r! The tunnel.
I wonder why it is that when I shut my eyes in a tunnel I begin to feel as if I were going at an Express pace the other way. I am clearly going back to London now. Compact Enchantress must have forgotten something, and reversed the engine. No! After long darkness, pale fitful streaks32 of light appear. I am still flying on for Folkestone. The streaks grow stronger — become continuous — become the ghost of day — become the living day — became I mean — the tunnel is miles and miles away, and here I fly through sunlight, all among the harvest and the Kentish hops33.
There is a dreamy pleasure in this flying. I wonder where it was, and when it was, that we exploded, blew into space somehow, a Parliamentary Train, with a crowd of heads and faces looking at us out of cages, and some hats waving. Monied Interest says it was at Reigate Station. Expounds34 to Mystery how Reigate Station is so many miles from London, which Mystery again develops to Compact Enchantress. There might be neither a Reigate nor a London for me, as I fly away among the Kentish hops and harvest. What do I care?
Bang! We have let another Station off, and fly away regardless. Everything is flying. The hop-gardens turn gracefully35 towards me, presenting regular avenues of hops in rapid flight, then whirl away. So do the pools and rushes, haystacks, sheep, clover in full bloom delicious to the sight and smell, corn-sheaves, cherry-orchards, apple-orchards, reapers36, gleaners, hedges, gates, fields that taper37 off into little angular corners, cottages, gardens, now and then a church. Bang, bang! A double-barrelled Station! Now a wood, now a bridge, now a landscape, now a cutting, now a — Bang! a single-barrelled Station — there was a cricket-match somewhere with two white tents, and then four flying cows, then turnips38 — now the wires of the electric telegraph are all alive, and spin, and blurr their edges, and go up and down, and make the intervals39 between each other most irregular: contracting and expanding in the strangest manner. Now we slacken. With a screwing, and a grinding, and a smell of water thrown on ashes, now we stop!
Demented Traveller, who has been for two or three minutes watchful40, clutches his great-coats, plunges at the door, rattles41 it, cries ‘Hi!’ eager to embark42 on board of impossible packets, far inland. Collected Guard appears. ‘Are you for Tunbridge, sir?’ ‘Tunbridge? No. Paris.’ ‘Plenty of time, sir. No hurry. Five minutes here, sir, for refreshment43.’ I am so blest (anticipating Zamiel, by half a second) as to procure44 a glass of water for Compact Enchantress.
Who would suppose we had been flying at such a rate, and shall take wing again directly? Refreshment-room full, platform full, porter with watering-pot deliberately45 cooling a hot wheel, another porter with equal deliberation helping46 the rest of the wheels bountifully to ice cream. Monied Interest and I re-entering the carriage first, and being there alone, he intimates to me that the French are ‘no go’ as a Nation. I ask why? He says, that Reign47 of Terror of theirs was quite enough. I ventured to inquire whether he remembers anything that preceded said Reign of Terror? He says not particularly. ‘Because,’ I remark, ‘the harvest that is reaped, has sometimes been sown.’ Monied Interest repeats, as quite enough for him, that the French are revolutionary, — ‘and always at it.’
Bell. Compact Enchantress, helped in by Zamiel (whom the stars confound!), gives us her charming little side-box look, and smites48 me to the core. Mystery eating sponge-cake. Pine-apple atmosphere faintly tinged49 with suspicions of sherry. Demented Traveller flits past the carriage, looking for it. Is blind with agitation50, and can’t see it. Seems singled out by Destiny to be the only unhappy creature in the flight, who has any cause to hurry himself. Is nearly left behind. Is seized by Collected Guard after the Train is in motion, and bundled in. Still, has lingering suspicions that there must be a boat in the neighbourhood, and WILL look wildly out of window for it.
Flight resumed. Corn-sheaves, hop-gardens, reapers, gleaners, apple-orchards, cherry-orchards, Stations single and double-barrelled, Ashford. Compact Enchantress (constantly talking to Mystery, in an exquisite51 manner) gives a little scream; a sound that seems to come from high up in her precious little head; from behind her bright little eyebrows52. ‘Great Heaven, my pine-apple! My Angel! It is lost!’ Mystery is desolated53. A search made. It is not lost. Zamiel finds it. I curse him (flying) in the Persian manner. May his face be turned upside down, and jackasses sit upon his uncle’s grave!
Now fresher air, now glimpses of unenclosed Down-land with flapping crows flying over it whom we soon outfly, now the Sea, now Folkestone at a quarter after ten. ‘Tickets ready, gentlemen!’ Demented dashes at the door. ‘For Paris, sir? No hurry.’
Not the least. We are dropped slowly down to the Port, and sidle to and fro (the whole Train) before the insensible Royal George Hotel, for some ten minutes. The Royal George takes no more heed54 of us than its namesake under water at Spithead, or under earth at Windsor, does. The Royal George’s dog lies winking55 and blinking at us, without taking the trouble to sit up; and the Royal George’s ‘wedding party’ at the open window (who seem, I must say, rather tired of bliss) don’t bestow56 a solitary57 glance upon us, flying thus to Paris in eleven hours. The first gentleman in Folkestone is evidently used up, on this subject.
Meanwhile, Demented chafes58. Conceives that every man’s hand is against him, and exerting itself to prevent his getting to Paris. Refuses consolation59. Rattles door. Sees smoke on the horizon, and ‘knows’ it’s the boat gone without him. Monied Interest resentfully explains that HE is going to Paris too. Demented signifies, that if Monied Interest chooses to be left behind, HE don’t.
‘Refreshments in the Waiting-Room, ladies and gentlemen. No hurry, ladies and gentlemen, for Paris. No hurry whatever!’
Twenty minutes’ pause, by Folkestone clock, for looking at Enchantress while she eats a sandwich, and at Mystery while she eats of everything there that is eatable, from pork-pie, sausage, jam, and gooseberries, to lumps of sugar. All this time, there is a very waterfall of luggage, with a spray of dust, tumbling slantwise from the pier60 into the steamboat. All this time, Demented (who has no business with it) watches it with starting eyes, fiercely requiring to be shown HIS luggage. When it at last concludes the cataract61, he rushes hotly to refresh — is shouted after, pursued, jostled, brought back, pitched into the departing steamer upside down, and caught by mariners62 disgracefully.
A lovely harvest-day, a cloudless sky, a tranquil63 sea. The piston-rods of the engines so regularly coming up from below, to look (as well they may) at the bright weather, and so regularly almost knocking their iron heads against the cross beam of the skylight, and never doing it! Another Parisian actress is on board, attended by another Mystery. Compact Enchantress greets her sister artist — Oh, the Compact One’s pretty teeth! — and Mystery greets Mystery. My Mystery soon ceases to be conversational64 — is taken poorly, in a word, having lunched too miscellaneously — and goes below. The remaining Mystery then smiles upon the sister artists (who, I am afraid, wouldn’t greatly mind stabbing each other), and is upon the whole ravished.
And now I find that all the French people on board begin to grow, and all the English people to shrink. The French are nearing home, and shaking off a disadvantage, whereas we are shaking it on. Zamiel is the same man, and Abd-el-Kader is the same man, but each seems to come into possession of an indescribable confidence that departs from us — from Monied Interest, for instance, and from me. Just what they gain, we lose. Certain British ‘Gents’ about the steersman, intellectually nurtured65 at home on parody66 of everything and truth of nothing, become subdued67, and in a manner forlorn; and when the steersman tells them (not exultingly) how he has ‘been upon this station now eight year, and never see the old town of Bullum yet,’ one of them, with an imbecile reliance on a reed, asks him what he considers to be the best hotel in Paris?
Now, I tread upon French ground, and am greeted by the three charming words, Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, painted up (in letters a little too thin for their height) on the Custom-house wall — also by the sight of large cocked hats, without which demonstrative head-gear nothing of a public nature can be done upon this soil. All the rabid Hotel population of Boulogne howl and shriek22 outside a distant barrier, frantic68 to get at us. Demented, by some unlucky means peculiar69 to himself, is delivered over to their fury, and is presently seen struggling in a whirlpool of Touters — is somehow understood to be going to Paris — is, with infinite noise, rescued by two cocked hats, and brought into Custom-house bondage70 with the rest of us.
Here, I resign the active duties of life to an eager being, of preternatural sharpness, with a shelving forehead and a shabby snuff-coloured coat, who (from the wharf) brought me down with his eye before the boat came into port. He darts71 upon my luggage, on the floor where all the luggage is strewn like a wreck72 at the bottom of the great deep; gets it proclaimed and weighed as the property of ‘Monsieur a traveller unknown;’ pays certain francs for it, to a certain functionary73 behind a Pigeon Hole, like a pay-box at a Theatre (the arrangements in general are on a wholesale74 scale, half military and half theatrical); and I suppose I shall find it when I come to Paris — he says I shall. I know nothing about it, except that I pay him his small fee, and pocket the ticket he gives me, and sit upon a counter, involved in the general distraction75.
Railway station. ‘Lunch or dinner, ladies and gentlemen. Plenty of time for Paris. Plenty of time!’ Large hall, long counter, long strips of dining-table, bottles of wine, plates of meat, roast chickens, little loaves of bread, basins of soup, little caraffes of brandy, cakes, and fruit. Comfortably restored from these resources, I begin to fly again.
I saw Zamiel (before I took wing) presented to Compact Enchantress and Sister Artist, by an officer in uniform, with a waist like a wasp76’s, and pantaloons like two balloons. They all got into the next carriage together, accompanied by the two Mysteries. They laughed. I am alone in the carriage (for I don’t consider Demented anybody) and alone in the world.
Fields, windmills, low grounds, pollard-trees, windmills, fields, fortifications, Abbeville, soldiering and drumming. I wonder where England is, and when I was there last — about two years ago, I should say. Flying in and out among these trenches77 and batteries, skimming the clattering78 drawbridges, looking down into the stagnant79 ditches, I become a prisoner of state, escaping. I am confined with a comrade in a fortress80. Our room is in an upper story. We have tried to get up the chimney, but there’s an iron grating across it, imbedded in the masonry81. After months of labour, we have worked the grating loose with the poker82, and can lift it up. We have also made a hook, and twisted our rugs and blankets into ropes. Our plan is, to go up the chimney, hook our ropes to the top, descend83 hand over hand upon the roof of the guard-house far below, shake the hook loose, watch the opportunity of the sentinels pacing away, hook again, drop into the ditch, swim across it, creep into the shelter of the wood. The time is come — a wild and stormy night. We are up the chimney, we are on the guard-house roof, we are swimming in the murky84 ditch, when lo! ‘Qui v’la?’ a bugle85, the alarm, a crash! What is it? Death? No, Amiens.
More fortifications, more soldiering and drumming, more basins of soup, more little loaves of bread, more bottles of wine, more caraffes of brandy, more time for refreshment. Everything good, and everything ready. Bright, unsubstantial-looking, scenic86 sort of station. People waiting. Houses, uniforms, beards, moustaches, some sabots, plenty of neat women, and a few old-visaged children. Unless it be a delusion87 born of my giddy flight, the grown-up people and the children seem to change places in France. In general, the boys and girls are little old men and women, and the men and women lively boys and girls.
Bugle, shriek, flight resumed. Monied Interest has come into my carriage. Says the manner of refreshing88 is ‘not bad,’ but considers it French. Admits great dexterity89 and politeness in the attendants. Thinks a decimal currency may have something to do with their despatch90 in settling accounts, and don’t know but what it’s sensible and convenient. Adds, however, as a general protest, that they’re a revolutionary people — and always at it.
Ramparts, canals, cathedral, river, soldiering and drumming, open country, river, earthenware91 manufactures, Creil. Again ten minutes. Not even Demented in a hurry. Station, a drawing-room with a verandah: like a planter’s house. Monied Interest considers it a band-box, and not made to last. Little round tables in it, at one of which the Sister Artists and attendant Mysteries are established with Wasp and Zamiel, as if they were going to stay a week.
Anon, with no more trouble than before, I am flying again, and lazily wondering as I fly. What has the South-Eastern done with all the horrible little villages we used to pass through, in the DILIGENCE? What have they done with all the summer dust, with all the winter mud, with all the dreary92 avenues of little trees, with all the ramshackle postyards, with all the beggars (who used to turn out at night with bits of lighted candle, to look in at the coach windows), with all the long-tailed horses who were always biting one another, with all the big postilions in jack-boots — with all the mouldy cafes that we used to stop at, where a long mildewed93 table-cloth, set forth94 with jovial95 bottles of vinegar and oil, and with a Siamese arrangement of pepper and salt, was never wanting? Where are the grass-grown little towns, the wonderful little market-places all unconscious of markets, the shops that nobody kept, the streets that nobody trod, the churches that nobody went to, the bells that nobody rang, the tumble-down old buildings plastered with many-coloured bills that nobody read? Where are the two-and-twenty weary hours of long, long day and night journey, sure to be either insupportably hot or insupportably cold? Where are the pains in my bones, where are the fidgets in my legs, where is the Frenchman with the nightcap who never WOULD have the little coupe-window down, and who always fell upon me when he went to sleep, and always slept all night snoring onions?
A voice breaks in with ‘Paris! Here we are!’
I have overflown96 myself, perhaps, but I can’t believe it. I feel as if I were enchanted97 or bewitched. It is barely eight o’clock yet — it is nothing like half-past — when I have had my luggage examined at that briskest of Custom-houses attached to the station, and am rattling98 over the pavement in a hackney-cabriolet.
Surely, not the pavement of Paris? Yes, I think it is, too. I don’t know any other place where there are all these high houses, all these haggard-looking wine shops, all these billiard tables, all these stocking-makers with flat red or yellow legs of wood for signboard, all these fuel shops with stacks of billets painted outside, and real billets sawing in the gutter99, all these dirty corners of streets, all these cabinet pictures over dark doorways100 representing discreet101 matrons nursing babies. And yet this morning — I’ll think of it in a warm-bath.
Very like a small room that I remember in the Chinese baths upon the Boulevard, certainly; and, though I see it through the steam, I think that I might swear to that peculiar hot-linen basket, like a large wicker hour-glass. When can it have been that I left home? When was it that I paid ‘through to Paris’ at London Bridge, and discharged myself of all responsibility, except the preservation102 of a voucher103 ruled into three divisions, of which the first was snipped104 off at Folkestone, the second aboard the boat, and the third taken at my journey’s end? It seems to have been ages ago. Calculation is useless. I will go out for a walk.
The crowds in the streets, the lights in the shops and balconies, the elegance105, variety, and beauty of their decorations, the number of the theatres, the brilliant cafes with their windows thrown up high and their vivacious106 groups at little tables on the pavement, the light and glitter of the houses turned as it were inside out, soon convince me that it is no dream; that I am in Paris, howsoever I got there. I stroll down to the sparkling Palais Royal, up the Rue107 de Rivoli, to the Place Vendome. As I glance into a print-shop window, Monied Interest, my late travelling companion, comes upon me, laughing with the highest relish108 of disdain109. ‘Here’s a people!’ he says, pointing to Napoleon in the window and Napoleon on the column. ‘Only one idea all over Paris! A monomania!’ Humph! I THINK I have seen Napoleon’s match? There was a statue, when I came away, at Hyde Park Corner, and another in the City, and a print or two in the shops.
I walk up to the Barriere de l’Etoile, sufficiently110 dazed by my flight to have a pleasant doubt of the reality of everything about me; of the lively crowd, the overhanging trees, the performing dogs, the hobby-horses, the beautiful perspectives of shining lamps: the hundred and one enclosures, where the singing is, in gleaming orchestras of azure111 and gold, and where a star-eyed Houri comes round with a box for voluntary offerings. So, I pass to my hotel, enchanted; sup, enchanted; go to bed, enchanted; pushing back this morning (if it really were this morning) into the remoteness of time, blessing112 the South-Eastern Company for realising the Arabian Nights in these prose days, murmuring, as I wing my idle flight into the land of dreams, ‘No hurry, ladies and gentlemen, going to Paris in eleven hours. It is so well done, that there really is no hurry!’
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1
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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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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saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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sprout
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| n.芽，萌芽；vt.使发芽，摘去芽；vi.长芽，抽条 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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subserviently
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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suffocates
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的第三人称单数 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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21
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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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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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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expounds
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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36
reapers
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| n.收割者，收获者( reaper的名词复数 )；收割机 | |
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37
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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38
turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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39
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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40
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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41
rattles
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| （使）发出格格的响声， （使）作嘎嘎声( rattle的第三人称单数 )； 喋喋不休地说话； 迅速而嘎嘎作响地移动，堕下或走动； 使紧张，使恐惧 | |
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42
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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43
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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44
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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45
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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46
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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47
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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48
smites
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的第三人称单数 ) | |
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49
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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51
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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52
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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53
desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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54
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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55
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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56
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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57
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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58
chafes
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的第三人称单数 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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59
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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60
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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61
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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62
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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63
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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65
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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66
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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67
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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68
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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69
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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70
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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71
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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72
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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73
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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74
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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76
wasp
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| n.黄蜂，蚂蜂 | |
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77
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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78
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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79
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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80
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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81
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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82
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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83
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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84
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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85
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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86
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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87
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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88
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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89
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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90
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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91
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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92
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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93
mildewed
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| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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95
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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96
overflown
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| v.溢出，淹没( overflow的过去分词 )；充满；挤满了人；扩展出界，过度延伸 | |
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97
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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98
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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99
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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100
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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101
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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102
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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103
voucher
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| n.收据；传票；凭单，凭证 | |
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104
snipped
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| v.剪( snip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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106
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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107
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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108
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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109
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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110
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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111
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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112
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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