At nine o'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of chocolate on a tray and opened the shutters1. Dorian was sleeping quite peacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath2 his cheek. He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study.
The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he had been lost in some delightful3 dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all. His night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. But youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
He turned round, and leaning upon his elbow, began to sip4 his chocolate. The mellow5 November sun came streaming into the room. The sky was bright, and there was a genial6 warmth in the air. It was almost like a morning in May.
Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent, blood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves there with terrible distinctness. He winced7 at the memory of all that he had suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing8 for Basil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair came back to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was still sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was! Such hideous9 things were for the darkness, not for the day.
He felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken or grow mad. There were sins whose fascination10 was more in the memory than in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride more than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of joy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the senses. But this was not one of them. It was a thing to be driven out of the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might strangle one itself.
When the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, and then got up hastily and dressed himself with even more than his usual care, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie and scarf-pin and changing his rings more than once. He spent a long time also over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet about some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made for the servants at Selby, and going through his correspondence. At some of the letters, he smiled. Three of them bored him. One he read several times over and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance11 in his face. "That awful thing, a woman's memory!" as Lord Henry had once said.
After he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly with a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait, and going over to the table, sat down and wrote two letters. One he put in his pocket, the other he handed to the valet.
"Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell is out of town, get his address."
As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette and began sketching12 upon a piece of paper, drawing first flowers and bits of architecture, and then human faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew seemed to have a fantastic likeness13 to Basil Hallward. He frowned, and getting up, went over to the book-case and took out a volume at hazard. He was determined14 that he would not think about what had happened until it became absolutely necessary that he should do so.
When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page of the book. It was Gautier's Emaux et Camees, Charpentier's Japanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching. The binding15 was of citron-green leather, with a design of gilt16 trellis-work and dotted pomegranates. It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton. As he turned over the pages, his eye fell on the poem about the hand of Lacenaire, the cold yellow hand "du supplice encore mal lavé:e," with its downy red hairs and its "doigts de faune." He glanced at his own white taper17 fingers, shuddering19 slightly in spite of himself, and passed on, till he came to those lovely stanzas20 upon Venice:
Sur une gamme chromatique,
Le sein de peries ruisselant,
La Vénus de l'Adriatique
Sort de l'eau son corps21 rose et blanc.
Les d?mes, sur l'azur des ondes
Suivant la phrase au pur contour,
S'enflent comme des gorges22 rondes
Que soulève un soupir d'amour.
L'esquif aborde et me dépose,
Jetant son amarre au pilier,
Devant une fa?ade rose,
Sur le marbre d'un escalier.
How exquisite23 they were! As one read them, one seemed to be floating down the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, seated in a black gondola24 with silver prow25 and trailing curtains. The mere26 lines looked to him like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as one pushes out to the Lido. The sudden flashes of colour reminded him of the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the tall honeycombed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through the dim, dust-stained arcades27. Leaning back with half-closed eyes, he kept saying over and over to himself:
Devant une fa?ade rose,
Sur le marbre d'un escalier.
The whole of Venice was in those two lines. He remembered the autumn that he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to mad delightful follies28. There was romance in every place. But Venice, like Oxford29, had kept the background for romance, and, to the true romantic, background was everything, or almost everything. Basil had been with him part of the time, and had gone wild over Tintoret. Poor Basil! What a horrible way for a man to die!
He sighed, and took up the volume again, and tried to forget. He read of the swallows that fly in and out of the little cafe at Smyrna where the Hadjis sit counting their amber30 beads31 and the turbaned merchants smoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each other; he read of the Obelisk32 in the Place de la Concorde that weeps tears of granite33 in its lonely sunless exile and longs to be back by the hot, lotus-covered Nile, where there are Sphinxes, and rose-red ibises, and white vultures with gilded34 claws, and crocodiles with small beryl eyes that crawl over the green steaming mud; he began to brood over those verses which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell of that curious statue that Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the "monstre charmant" that couches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre. But after a time the book fell from his hand. He grew nervous, and a horrible fit of terror came over him. What if Alan Campbell should be out of England? Days would elapse before he could come back. Perhaps he might refuse to come. What could he do then? Every moment was of vital importance.
They had been great friends once, five years before-- almost inseparable, indeed. Then the intimacy35 had come suddenly to an end. When they met in society now, it was only Dorian Gray who smiled: Alan Campbell never did.
He was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real appreciation36 of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the beauty of poetry he possessed37 he had gained entirely38 from Dorian. His dominant39 intellectual passion was for science. At Cambridge he had spent a great deal of his time working in the laboratory, and had taken a good class in the Natural Science Tripos of his year. Indeed, he was still devoted40 to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his own in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the annoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing41 for Parliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up prescriptions42. He was an excellent musician, however, as well, and played both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. In fact, it was music that had first brought him and Dorian Gray together--music and that indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed to be able to exercise whenever he wished-- and, indeed, exercised often without being conscious of it. They had met at Lady Berkshire's the night that Rubinstein played there, and after that used to be always seen together at the opera and wherever good music was going on. For eighteen months their intimacy lasted. Campbell was always either at Selby Royal or in Grosvenor Square. To him, as to many others, Dorian Gray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in life. Whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one ever knew. But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke43 when they met and that Campbell seemed always to go away early from any party at which Dorian Gray was present. He had changed, too--was strangely melancholy44 at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing music, and would never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was called upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time left in which to practise. And this was certainly true. Every day he seemed to become more interested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice in some of the scientific reviews in connection with certain curious experiments.
This was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second he kept glancing at the clock. As the minutes went by he became horribly agitated45. At last he got up and began to pace up and down the room, looking like a beautiful caged thing. He took long stealthy strides. His hands were curiously46 cold.
The suspense47 became unbearable48. Time seemed to him to be crawling with feet of lead, while he by monstrous49 winds was being swept towards the jagged edge of some black cleft50 of precipice51. He knew what was waiting for him there; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands his burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sight and driven the eyeballs back into their cave. It was useless. The brain had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made grotesque52 by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain, danced like some foul53 puppet on a stand and grinned through moving masks. Then, suddenly, time stopped for him. Yes: that blind, slow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time being dead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from its grave, and showed it to him. He stared at it. Its very horror made him stone.
At last the door opened and his servant entered. He turned glazed54 eyes upon him.
"Mr. Campbell, sir," said the man.
A sigh of relief broke from his parched55 lips, and the colour came back to his cheeks.
"Ask him to come in at once, Francis." He felt that he was himself again. His mood of cowardice56 had passed away.
The man bowed and retired57. In a few moments, Alan Campbell walked in, looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified58 by his coal-black hair and dark eyebrows59.
"Alan! This is kind of you. I thank you for coming."
"I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray. But you said it was a matter of life and death." His voice was hard and cold. He spoke with slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt in the steady searching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his hands in the pockets of his Astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed the gesture with which he had been greeted.
"Yes: it is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one person. Sit down."
Campbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him. The two men's eyes met. In Dorian's there was infinite pity. He knew that what he was going to do was dreadful.
After a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of him he had sent for, "Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room to which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table. He has been dead ten hours now. Don't stir, and don't look at me like that. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not concern you. What you have to do is this--"
"Stop, Gray. I don't want to know anything further. Whether what you have told me is true or not true doesn't concern me. I entirely decline to be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets to yourself. They don't interest me any more."
"Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to interest you. I am awfully60 sorry for you, Alan. But I can't help myself. You are the one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring you into the matter. I have no option. Alan, you are scientific. You know about chemistry and things of that kind. You have made experiments. What you have got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs-- to destroy it so that not a vestige61 of it will be left. Nobody saw this person come into the house. Indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in Paris. He will not be missed for months. When he is missed, there must be no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you must change him, and everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that I may scatter62 in the air."
"You are mad, Dorian."
"Ah! I was waiting for you to call me Dorian."
"You are mad, I tell you--mad to imagine that I would raise a finger to help you, mad to make this monstrous confession63. I will have nothing to do with this matter, whatever it is. Do you think I am going to peril64 my reputation for you? What is it to me what devil's work you are up to?"
"It was suicide, Alan."
"I am glad of that. But who drove him to it? You, I should fancy."
"Do you still refuse to do this for me?"
"Of course I refuse. I will have absolutely nothing to do with it. I don't care what shame comes on you. You deserve it all. I should not be sorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. How dare you ask me, of all men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? I should have thought you knew more about people's characters. Your friend Lord Henry Wotton can't have taught you much about psychology65, whatever else he has taught you. Nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. You have come to the wrong man. Go to some of your friends. Don't come to me."
"Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don't know what he had made me suffer. Whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making or the marring of it than poor Harry66 has had. He may not have intended it, the result was the same."
"Murder! Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall not inform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, without my stirring in the matter, you are certain to be arrested. Nobody ever commits a crime without doing something stupid. But I will have nothing to do with it."
"You must have something to do with it. Wait, wait a moment; listen to me. Only listen, Alan. All I ask of you is to perform a certain scientific experiment. You go to hospitals and dead-houses, and the horrors that you do there don't affect you. If in some hideous dissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a leaden table with red gutters67 scooped68 out in it for the blood to flow through, you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. You would not turn a hair. You would not believe that you were doing anything wrong. On the contrary, you would probably feel that you were benefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the world, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind. What I want you to do is merely what you have often done before. Indeed, to destroy a body must be far less horrible than what you are accustomed to work at. And, remember, it is the only piece of evidence against me. If it is discovered, I am lost; and it is sure to be discovered unless you help me."
"I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply indifferent to the whole thing. It has nothing to do with me."
"Alan, I entreat69 you. Think of the position I am in. Just before you came I almost fainted with terror. You may know terror yourself some day. No! don't think of that. Look at the matter purely70 from the scientific point of view. You don't inquire where the dead things on which you experiment come from. Don't inquire now. I have told you too much as it is. But I beg of you to do this. We were friends once, Alan."
"Don't speak about those days, Dorian--they are dead."
"The dead linger sometimes. The man upstairs will not go away. He is sitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. Alan! Alan! If you don't come to my assistance, I am ruined. Why, they will hang me, Alan! Don't you understand? They will hang me for what I have done."
"There is no good in prolonging this scene. I absolutely refuse to do anything in the matter. It is insane of you to ask me."
"You refuse?"
"Yes."
"I entreat you, Alan."
"It is useless."
The same look of pity came into Dorian Gray's eyes. Then he stretched out his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. He read it over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across the table. Having done this, he got up and went over to the window.
Campbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, and opened it. As he read it, his face became ghastly pale and he fell back in his chair. A horrible sense of sickness came over him. He felt as if his heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow.
After two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned round and came and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder.
"I am so sorry for you, Alan," he murmured, "but you leave me no alternative. I have a letter written already. Here it is. You see the address. If you don't help me, I must send it. If you don't help me, I will send it. You know what the result will be. But you are going to help me. It is impossible for you to refuse now. I tried to spare you. You will do me the justice to admit that. You were stern, harsh, offensive. You treated me as no man has ever dared to treat me--no living man, at any rate. I bore it all. Now it is for me to dictate71 terms."
Campbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder18 passed through him.
"Yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, Alan. You know what they are. The thing is quite simple. Come, don't work yourself into this fever. The thing has to be done. Face it, and do it."
A groan72 broke from Campbell's lips and he shivered all over. The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be dividing time into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be borne. He felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened73 round his forehead, as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had already come upon him. The hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead. It was intolerable. It seemed to crush him.
"Come, Alan, you must decide at once."
"I cannot do it," he said, mechanically, as though words could alter things.
"You must. You have no choice. Don't delay."
He hesitated a moment. "Is there a fire in the room upstairs?"
"Yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos."
"I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory."
"No, Alan, you must not leave the house. Write out on a sheet of notepaper what you want and my servant will take a cab and bring the things back to you."
Campbell scrawled74 a few lines, blotted75 them, and addressed an envelope to his assistant. Dorian took the note up and read it carefully. Then he rang the bell and gave it to his valet, with orders to return as soon as possible and to bring the things with him.
As the hall door shut, Campbell started nervously76, and having got up from the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering with a kind of ague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. A fly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was like the beat of a hammer.
As the chime struck one, Campbell turned round, and looking at Dorian Gray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something in the purity and refinement77 of that sad face that seemed to enrage78 him. "You are infamous79, absolutely infamous!" he muttered.
"Hush80, Alan. You have saved my life," said Dorian.
"Your life? Good heavens! what a life that is! You have gone from corruption81 to corruption, and now you have culminated82 in crime. In doing what I am going to do--what you force me to do-- it is not of your life that I am thinking."
"Ah, Alan," murmured Dorian with a sigh, "I wish you had a thousandth part of the pity for me that I have for you." He turned away as he spoke and stood looking out at the garden. Campbell made no answer.
After about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant entered, carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, with a long coil of steel and platinum83 wire and two rather curiously shaped iron clamps.
"Shall I leave the things here, sir?" he asked Campbell.
"Yes," said Dorian. "And I am afraid, Francis, that I have another errand for you. What is the name of the man at Richmond who supplies Selby with orchids84?"
"Harden, sir."
"Yes--Harden. You must go down to Richmond at once, see Harden personally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I ordered, and to have as few white ones as possible. In fact, I don't want any white ones. It is a lovely day, Francis, and Richmond is a very pretty place-- otherwise I wouldn't bother you about it."
"No trouble, sir. At what time shall I be back?"
Dorian looked at Campbell. "How long will your experiment take, Alan?" he said in a calm indifferent voice. The presence of a third person in the room seemed to give him extraordinary courage.
Campbell frowned and bit his lip. "It will take about five hours," he answered.
"It will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven, Francis. Or stay: just leave my things out for dressing85. You can have the evening to yourself. I am not dining at home, so I shall not want you."
"Thank you, sir," said the man, leaving the room.
"Now, Alan, there is not a moment to be lost. How heavy this chest is! I'll take it for you. You bring the other things." He spoke rapidly and in an authoritative86 manner. Campbell felt dominated by him. They left the room together.
When they reached the top landing, Dorian took out the key and turned it in the lock. Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his eyes. He shuddered87. "I don't think I can go in, Alan," he murmured.
"It is nothing to me. I don't require you," said Campbell coldly.
Dorian half opened the door. As he did so, he saw the face of his portrait leering in the sunlight. On the floor in front of it the torn curtain was lying. He remembered that the night before he had forgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas, and was about to rush forward, when he drew back with a shudder.
What was that loathsome88 red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening89, on one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How horrible it was!--more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the silent thing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing whose grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted90 carpet showed him that it had not stirred, but was still there, as he had left it.
He heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and with half-closed eyes and averted91 head, walked quickly in, determined that he would not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down and taking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung it right over the picture.
There he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed92 themselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. He heard Campbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other things that he had required for his dreadful work. He began to wonder if he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had thought of each other.
"Leave me now," said a stern voice behind him.
He turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been thrust back into the chair and that Campbell was gazing into a glistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs, he heard the key being turned in the lock.
It was long after seven when Campbell came back into the library. He was pale, but absolutely calm. "I have done what you asked me to do," he muttered "And now, good-bye. Let us never see each other again."
"You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that," said Dorian simply.
As soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a horrible smell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had been sitting at the table was gone.
收听单词发音 |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince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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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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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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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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prescriptions
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| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
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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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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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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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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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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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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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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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enrage
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| v.触怒，激怒 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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platinum
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| n.白金 | |
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84
orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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88
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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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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