He landed in Scotland, and tramped from Granton to Yorkshire, where an accidental encounter with an old acquaintance tempted6 him to linger at Raynham. The two tramps, scoundrels both, and both alike penniless and shoeless, had stood side by side at the gates of the park, to see the stately funeral train pass out.
And thus Thomas Milsom had beheld7 her whom he called his daughter — the girl who had fled, with her old grandfather, from the shelter of his fatal roof three years before.
After that unprofitable interview with Honoria, Thomas Milsom his face Londonwards.
“The day will come when you and I will square accounts, my lady,” he muttered, as he looked up to those battlemented turrets8, with a blasphemous9 curse, and then turned his back upon Raynham Castle, and the peaceful little village beneath it.
The direction in which Mr. Milsom betook himself, after he passed the border-land of waste ground and newly-built houses which separates London from the country, was the direction of Ratcliff Highway. He walked rapidly through the crowded streets, in which the crowd grew thicker as he approached the regions of the Tower. But rapidly as he walked, the steps of Time were faster. It had been bright noon when he entered the quiet little town of Barnet. It was night when he first heard the scraping fiddles10 and stamping feet of Ratcliff Highway. He went straight to the ‘Jolly Tar11’.
Here all was unchanged. There were the flaring12 tallow candles, set in a tin hoop13 that hung from the low ceiling, dropping hot grease ever and anon on the loungers at the bar. There was the music — the same Scotch14 reels and Irish jigs15, played on squeaking16 fiddles, which were made more inharmonious by the accompaniment of shrill17 Pandean pipes. There was the same crowd of sailors and bare-headed, bare-armed, loud-voiced women assembled in the stifling18 bar, the same cloud of tobacco-smoke, the same Babel of voices to be heard from the concert-room within; while now and then, amongst the shouts and the laughter, the oaths and the riot, there sounded the tinkling19 of the old piano, and the feeble upper notes of a very poor soprano voice.
Black Milsom had drawn20 his hat over his eyes before entering the “Jolly Tar.”
The bar of that tavern21 was sunk considerably22 below the level of the street, and standing23 on the uppermost of the steps by which Mr. Wayman’s customers descended24 to his hospitable25 abode26, Black Milsom was able to look across the heads of the crowd to the face of the landlord busy behind his bar.
In that elevated position Black Milsom waited until Dennis Wayman happened to look up and perceive the stranger on the threshold.
As he did so, Thomas Milsom drew the back of his hand rapidly across his mouth, with a gesture that was evidently intended as a signal.
The signal was answered by a nod from Wayman, and then Black Milsom descended the three steps, and pushed his way to the bar.
“Can I have a bed, mate, and a bit of supper?” he asked, in a voice that was carefully disguised.
“Ay, ay, to be sure you can,” answered Wayman; “you can have everything that is comfortable and friendly by paying for it. This house is one of the most hospitable places there is — to those that can pay the reckoning.”
This rather clumsy joke was received with an applauding guffaw27 by the sailors and women next the bar.
“If you’ll step through that door yonder, you’ll find a snug28 little room, mate,” said Dennis Wayman, in the tone which he might have used in speaking to a stranger; “I’ll send you a steak and a potato as soon as they can be cooked.”
Thomas Milsom nodded. He pushed open the rough wooden door which was so familiar to him, and went into the dingy29 little den5 which, in the ‘Jolly Tar’, was known as the private parlour.
It was the room in which he had first seen Valentine Jernam. Two years and a half had passed since he had last entered it; and during that time Mr. Milsom had been paying the penalty of his misdeeds in Van Dieman’s Land. This dingy little den, with its greasy30 walls and low, smoky ceiling, was a kind of paradise to the returned wanderer. Here, at least, was freedom. Here, at least, he was his own master: free to enjoy strong drinks and strong tobacco — free to be lazy when he pleased, and to work after the fashion that suited him best.
He seated himself in one chair, and planted his legs on another. Then he took a short clay pipe from his pocket, filled and lighted it, and began to smoke, in a slow meditative31 manner, stopping every now and then to mutter to himself, between the puffs32 of tobacco.
Mr. Milsom had finished his second pipe of shag tobacco, and had given utterance33 to more than one exclamation34 of anger and impatience35, when the door was opened, and Dennis Wayman made his appearance, bearing a tray with a couple of covered dishes and a large pewter pot.
“I thought I’d bring you your grub myself, mate,” he said; “though I’m precious busy in yonder. I’m uncommonly36 glad to see you back again. I’ve been wondering where you was ever since you disappeared.”
“You’d have left off wondering if you’d known I was on the other side of this blessed world of ours. I thought you knew I was —”
Mr. Milsom’s delicacy37 of feeling prevented his finishing this speech.
“I knew you had got into trouble,” answered Mr. Wayman. “At least, I didn’t know for certain, but I guessed as much; though sometimes I was half inclined to think you had turned cheat, and given me the slip.”
“Bolted with the swag, I suppose you mean?”
“Precisely!” answered Dennis Wayman, coolly.
“Which shows your suspicious nature,” returned Milsom, in a sulky tone. “When an unlucky chap turns his back upon his comrades, the worst word in their mouths isn’t half bad enough for him. That’s the way of the world, that is. No, Dennis Wayman; I didn’t bolt with the swag — not sixpence of Valentine Jernam’s money have I had the spending of; no even what I won from him at cards. I was nobbled one day, without a moment’s warning, on a twopenny-halfpenny charge of burglary — never you mind whether it was true, or whether it was false — that ain’t worth going into. I was took under a false name, and I stuck to that false name, thinking it more convenient. I should have sent to let you know, if I could have found a safe hand to take my message; but I couldn’t find a living creature that was anything like safe — so there I was, remanded on a Monday, tried on a Tuesday, and then a fortnight after shipped off like a bullock, along of so many other bullocks; and that’s the long and the short of it.”
After having said which, Mr. Milsom applied38 himself to his supper, which consisted of a smoking steak, and a dish of still more smoking potatoes.
Dennis Wayman sat watching him for some minutes in thoughtful silence. The intent gaze with which he regarded the face of his friend, was that of a man who was by no means inclined to believe every syllable39 he had heard. After Milsom had devoured40 about a pound of steak, and at least two pounds of potatoes, Mr. Wayman ventured to interrupt his operations by a question.
“If you didn’t collar the money, what became of it?” he asked.
“Put away,” returned the other man, shortly; “and as safe as a church, unless my bad luck goes against me harder than it ever went yet.”
“You hid it?” said Wayman, interrogatively.
“I did.”
“Where?”
Mr. Milsom looked at his friend with a glance of profound cunning.
“Wouldn’t you like to know — oh, wouldn’t you just like to know, Mr. Wayman?” he said. “And wouldn’t you just dose me with a cup of drugged coffee, and cut off to ransack41 my hiding-place while I was lying helpless in your hospitable abode. That’s the sort of thing you’d do, if I happened to be a born innocent, isn’t it, Mr. Wayman? But you see I’m not a born innocent, so you won’t get the chance of doing anything of the kind.”
“Don’t be a fool,” returned Dennis Wayman, in a surly tone. “You’ll please to remember that one half of Valentine Jernam’s money belongs to me, and ought to have been in my possession long before this. I was an idiot to trust it in your keeping.”
“You trusted it in my keeping because you were obliged to do so,” answered Black Milsom, “and I owe you no gratitude42 for your confidence. I happened to know a Jew who was willing to give cash for the notes and bills of exchange; and you trusted them to me because it was the only way to get them turned into cash.”
The landlord of the ‘Jolly Tar’ nodded a surly assent43 to this rather cynical44 statement.
“I saw my friend the Jew, and made a very decent bargain,” resumed Milsom. “I hid the money in a convenient place, intending to bring you your share at the earliest opportunity. I was lagged that very night, and had no chance of touching45 the cash after I had once stowed it away. So, you see, it was no fault of mine that you didn’t get the money.”
“Humph!” muttered Mr. Wayman. “It has been rather hard lines for me to be kept out of it so long. And now you have come back, I suppose you can take me at once to the hiding place. I want money very badly just now.”
“Do you?” said Thomas Milsom, with a sneer46. “That’s a complaint you’re rather subject to, isn’t it — the want of money? Now, as I’ve answered your questions, perhaps you’ll answer mine. Has there been much stir down this way while I’ve been over the water?”
“Very little; things have been as dull as they well could be.”
“Ah! so you’ll say, of course. Can you tell me whether any one has lived in my old place while my back has been turned?”
The landlord of the ‘Jolly Tar’ started with a gesture of alarm.
“It wasn’t there you hid the money, was it?” he asked, eagerly.
“Suppose it was, what then?”
“Why every farthing of it is lost. The place has been taken by a man, who has pulled the best part of it down, and rebuilt it. If you hid your money there, there’s little chance of your ever seeing it again,” said Wayman.
Black Milsom’s dark face grew livid, as he started from his chair and dragged on the crater47 coat which he had taken off on entering the room.
“It would be like my luck to lose that money,” he said; “it would be just like my luck. Come, Wayman. What are you staring at, man?” he cried impatiently. “Come.”
“Where?”
“To my old place. You can tell me all about the changes at we go. I must see to this business at once.”
The moon was shining over the masts and rigging in the Pool, and over the house-tops of Bermondsey and Wapping, as Black Milsom and his companion started on their way to the old house by the water.
They went, as on a former occasion, in that vehicle which Mr. Wayman called his trap; and as they drove along the lonely road, across the marshy48 flat by the river, Dennis Wayman told his companion what had happened in his absence.
“For a year the house stood empty,” he said; “but at the end of that time an old sea-captain took a fancy to it because of the water about it, and the view of the Pool from the top windows. He bought it, and pulled it almost all to pieces, rebuilt it, and I doubt if there is any of the old house standing. He has made quite a smart little place of it. He’s a queer old chap, this Cap’en Duncombe, I’m told, and rather a tough customer.”
“I’ll see the inside of his house, however tough he may be,” answered Milsom, in a dogged tone. “If he’s a tough customer, he’ll find me a tougher. Has he got any family?”
“One daughter — as pretty a girl as you’ll see within twenty miles of London!”
“Well, we’ll go and have a look at his place to-night. We’d better put up your trap at the ‘Pilot Boat.’”
Mr. Wayman assented49 to the wisdom of this arrangement. The “Pilot Boat” was a dilapidated-looking, low-roofed little inn, where there were some tumble-down stables, which were more often inhabited by bloated grey water-rats than by horses. In these stables Mr. Wayman lodged50 his pony51 and vehicle, while he and Milsom walked on to the cottage.
“Why I shouldn’t have known the place!” cried Milsom, as his companion pointed52 to the captain’s habitation.
The transformation53 was, indeed, complete. The dismal54 dwelling55, which had looked as if it were, in all truth, haunted by a ghost, had been changed into one of the smartest little cottages to be seen in the suburbs of eastern London.
The ditch had been narrowed and embanked, and two tiny rustic56 bridges, of fantastical wood-work, spanned its dark water. The dreary57 pollard~willows had vanished, and evergreens58 occupied their places. The black rushes had been exchanged for flowers. A trim little garden appeared where all had once been waste ground; and a flag-staff, with a bit of bunting, gave a naval59 aspect to the spot.
All was dark; not one glimmer60 of light to be seen in any of the windows.
The garden was secured by an iron gate, and surrounded by iron rails on all sides, except that nearest the river. Here, the only boundary was a hedge of laurels61, which were still low and thin; and here Dennis Wayman and his companion found easy access to the neatly-kept pleasure-ground.
With stealthy footsteps they invaded Captain Duncombe’s little domain62, and walked slowly round the house, examining every door and window as they went.
“Is the captain a rich man?” asked Milsom.
“Yes; I believe he’s pretty well off — some say uncommonly well off. He spent over a thousand pounds on this place.”
“Curse him for his pains!” returned Black Milsom, savagely63. “He knows how to take care of his property. It would be a very clever burglar that would get into that house. The windows are all secured with outside shutters65, that seem as solid as if they were made of iron, and the doors don’t yield the twentieth part of an inch.”
Then, after completing his examination of the house, Milsom exclaimed, in the same savage64 tone —
“Why, the man has swept away every timber of the place I lived in.”
“I told you as much,” answered Wayman; “I’ve heard say there was nothing left of old Screwton’s house but a few solid timbers and a stack of chimneys.”
Screwton was the name of the miser67 whose ghost had been supposed to haunt the old place.
Black Milsom gave a start as Dennis uttered the words “stack of chimneys.”
“Oh!” he said, in an altered tone; “so they left the chimney-stack, did they?”
Mr. Wayman perceived that change of tone.
“I begin to understand,” he said; “you hid that money in one of the chimneys.”
“Never you mind where I hid it. There’s little chance of its being found there, after bricklayers pulling the place to pieces. I must get into that house, come what may.”
“You’ll find that difficult,” answered Wayman.
“Perhaps. But I’ll do it, or my name’s not Black Milsom.”
Captain Joseph Duncombe, or Joe Duncombe, as he generally called himself, was a burly, rosy68-faced man of fifty years of age; a hearty69, honest fellow. He was a widower70, with only one child, a daughter, whom he idolized.
Any father might have been forgiven for being devotedly71 fond of such a daughter as Rosamond Duncombe.
Rosamond was one of those light-hearted, womanly creatures who seem born to make home a paradise. She had a sweet temper; a laugh which was like music; a manner which was fascination72 itself.
When it is also taken into consideration that she had a pretty little nose, lips that were fresh and rosy as ripe red cherries, cheeks that were like dewy roses, newly-gathered, and large, liquid eyes, of the deepest, clearest blue, it must be confessed that Rosamond Duncombe was a very charming girl.
If Joseph Duncombe doted on this bright-haired, blue-eyed daughter, his love was not unrecompensed. Rosamond idolized her father, whom she believed to be the best and noblest of created beings.
Rosamond’s remembrance of her mother was but shadowy. She had lost that tender protector at a very early age.
Within the last year and a half her father had retired73 from active service, after selling his vessel74, the “Vixen,” for a large price, so goodly a name had she borne in the merchant service.
This retirement75 of Captain Duncombe’s was a sacrifice which he made for his beloved daughter.
For himself, the life of a seaman76 had lost none of its attractions. But when he saw his fair young daughter of an age to leave school, he determined77 that she should have a home.
He had made a very comfortable little fortune during five-and-thirty years of hard service. But he had never made a sixpence the earning of which he need blush to remember. He was known in the service as a model of truth and honesty.
Driving about the eastern suburbs of London, he happened one day to pass that dreary plot of waste ground on which the miser’s tumble-down dwelling had been built. It was a pleasant day in April, and the place was looking less dreary than usual. The spring sunshine lit up the broad river, and the rigging of the ships stood out in sharp black lines against a bright blue sky.
A board against the dilapidated palings announced that the ground was to be sold.
Captain Duncombe drew up his horse suddenly.
“That’s the place for me!” he exclaimed; “close by the old river, whose tide carried me down to the sea on my first voyage five-and-thirty years ago — within view of the Pool, and all the brave old ships lying at anchor. That’s the place for me! I’ll sweep away that old ramshackle hovel, and build a smart water-tight little cottage for my pet and me to live in; and I’ll stick the union Jack78 on a main-top over our heads, and at night, when I lie awake and hear the water rippling79 by, I shall fancy I’m still at sea.”
A landsman would most likely have stopped to consider that the neighbourhood was lonely, the ground damp and marshy, the approach to this solitary80 cross-road through the most disreputable part of London. Captain Duncombe considered nothing, except two facts — first the river, then the view of the ships in the Pool.
He drove back to Wapping, where he found the house-agent who was commissioned to sell old Screwton’s dwelling. That gentleman was only too glad to get a customer for a place which no one seemed inclined to have on any terms. He named his price. The merchant-captain did not attempt to make a bargain; but agreed to buy the place, and to give ready money for it, as soon as the necessary deeds were drawn up and signed. In a week this was done, and the captain found himself possessor of a snug little freehold on the banks of the Thames.
He lost no time in transforming the place into an abode of comfort, instead of desolation. It was only when the transformation was complete, and Captain Duncombe had spent upwards81 of a thousand pounds on his folly82, that he became acquainted with the common report about the place.
Sailors are proverbially superstitious83. After hearing that dismal story, Joseph Duncombe was rather inclined to regret the choice he had made; but he resolved to keep the history of old Screwton a secret from his daughter, though it cost him perpetual efforts to preserve silence on this subject.
In spite of his precaution, Rosamond came to know of the ghost. Visiting some poor cottagers, about a quarter of a mile from River View, she heard the whole story — told her unthinkingly by a foolish old woman, who was amongst the recipients84 of her charity.
Soon after this, the story reached the ears of the two servants — an elderly woman, called Mugby, who acted as cook and housekeeper85; and a smart girl, called Susan Trott.
Mrs. Mugby pretended to ridicule86 the idea of Screwton’s ghost.
“I’ve lived in a many places, and I’ve heard tell of a many ghostes,” she said; “but never yet did I set eyes on one, which my opinion is that, if people will eat cold pork for supper underdone, not to mention crackling or seasoning87, and bottled stout88, which is worse, and lies still heavier on the stomach — unless you take about as much ground ginger89 as would lie on a sixpence, and as much carbonate of soda90 as would lie on a fourpenny-bit — and go to bed upon it all directly afterwards, they will see no end of ghostes. I have never trifled with my digestion91, and no ghostes have I ever seen.”
The girl, Susan Trott, was by no means so strong-minded. The idea of Miser Screwton’s ghost haunted her perpetually of an evening; and she would no more have gone out into the captain’s pretty little garden after dark, than she would have walked straight to the mouth of a cannon92.
Rosamond Duncombe affected93 to echo the heroic sentiments of the housekeeper, Mrs. Mugby. There never had been such things as ghosts, and never would be; and all the foolish stories that were told of phantoms94 and apparitions96, had their sole foundation in the imaginations of the people who told them.
Such was the state of things in the household of Captain Duncombe at the time of Black Milsom’s return from Van Diemen’s Land.
It was within two nights after that return, that an event occurred, never to be forgotten by any member of Joseph Duncombe’s household.
The evening was cold, but fine; the moon, still at its full, shone bright and clear upon the neat garden of River View Cottage. Captain Duncombe and his daughter were alone in their comfortable sitting-room97, playing the Captain’s favourite game of backgammon, before a cheery fire. The housekeeper, Mrs. Mugby, had complained all day of a touch of rheumatism98, and had gone to bed after the kitchen tea, leaving Susan Trott, the smart little parlour-maid, to carry in the pretty pink and gold china tea-service, and hissing99 silver tea-kettle, to Miss Rosamond and her papa in the sitting-room.
Thus it was that, after having removed the tea-tray, and washed the pretty china cups and saucers, Susan Trott seated herself before the fire, and set herself to trim a new cap, which was designed for the especial bewilderment of a dashing young baker100.
The dashing young baker had a habit of lingering at the gate of River View Cottage a good deal longer than was required for the transaction of his business; and the dashing young baker had more than once hinted at an honourable101 attachment102 for Miss Susan Trott.
Thinking of the baker, and of all the tender things and bright promises of a happy future which he had murmured in her ear, as they walked home from church on the last Sunday evening, Susan found the solitary hours pass quickly enough. She looked up suddenly as the clock struck ten, and found that she had let the fire burn out.
It was rather an awful sensation to be alone in the lower part of the house after every one else had gone to bed; but Susan Trott was very anxious to finish the making of the new cap; so she went back to the kitchen, and seated herself once more at the table.
She had scarcely taken up her scissors to cut an end of ribbon, when a low, stealthy tapping sounded on the outer wooden shutter66 of the window behind her.
Susan gave a little shriek103 of terror, and dropped the scissors as if they had been red-hot. What could that awful sound mean at ten o’clock at night?
For some moments the little parlour-maid was completely overcome by terror. Then, all at once, her thoughts flew back to the person whose image had occupied her mind all that evening. Was it not just possible that the dashing young baker might have something very particular to say to her, and that he had come in this mysterious manner to say it?
Again the same low, stealthy tapping sounded on the shutter.
This time Susan Trott plucked up a spirit, took the bright brass104 candlestick in her hand, and went to the little door leading from the scullery to the back garden.
She opened the door and peered cautiously out. No one was to be seen — that tiresome105 baker was indulging in some practical joke, no doubt, and trying to frighten her.
Susan was determined not to be frightened by her sweet-heart’s tricks, so she tripped boldly out into the garden, still carrying the brass candlestick.
At the first step the wind blew out the candle; but, of course, that was of very little consequence when the bright moonlight made everything as clearly visible as at noon.
“I know who it is,” cried Susan, in a voice intended to reach the baker; “and it’s a great shame to try and frighten a poor girl when she’s sitting all alone by herself.”
She had scarcely uttered the words when the candlestick fell from her extended hand, and she stood rooted to the gravel106 pathway — a statue of fear.
Exactly opposite to her, slowly advancing towards the open door of the scullery, she saw an awful figure — whose description was too familiar to her.
There it was. The ghost — the shadowy image of the man who had destroyed himself in that house. A tall, spectral107 figure, robed in a long garment of grey serge; a scarlet108 handkerchief twisted round the head rendered the white face whiter by contrast with it.
As this awful figure approached, Susan Trott stepped backwards109 on the grass, leaving the pathway clear for the dreadful visitant.
The ghostly form stalked on with slow and solemn steps, and entered the house by the scullery door. For some minutes Susan remained standing on the grass, horror-struck, powerless to move. Then all at once feminine curiosity got the better even of terror, and she followed the phantom95 figure into the house.
From the kitchen doorway110 she beheld the figure standing on the hearth111, his arms stretched above the fireplace, as if groping for something in the chimney.
Doubtless this had been the miser’s hiding-place for his hoarded112 gold, and the ghost returned to the spot where the living man had been accustomed to conceal113 his treasures.
Susan darted114 across the hall, and ran upstairs to her master’s room. She knocked loudly on the door, crying —
“The ghost, master! the ghost! the old miser’s ghost is in the kitchen!”
“What?” roared the captain, starting suddenly from his peaceful slumbers115.
The girl repeated her awful announcement. The captain sprang out of bed, dressed himself in trousers and dressing-gown, and ran down~stairs, the girl close behind him.
They were just in time to see the figure, in the red head-gear and long grey dressing-gown, slowly stalking from the scullery door.
The captain followed the phantom into the garden; but held himself at a respectful distance from the figure, as it slowly paced along the smooth gravel pathway leading towards the laurel hedge.
The figure reached the low boundary that divided the garden from the river bank, crossed it, and vanished amongst the thick white mists that rose from the water.
Joseph Duncombe trembled. A ghost was just the one thing which could strike terror to the seaman’s bold heart.
When the figure had vanished, Captain Duncombe went to the spot where it had passed out of the garden.
Here he found the young laurels beaten and trampled116 down, as if by the heavy feet of human intruders.
This was strange.
He then went to the kitchen, accompanied by Susan Trott, who, although shivering like an aspen tree, had just sufficient strength of mind to find a lucifer and light her candle.
By the light of this candle Captain Buncombe examined the kitchen.
On the hearth, at his feet, he saw something gleaming in the uncertain light. He stooped to pick up this object, and found that it was a curious gold coin — a foreign coin, bent117 in a peculiar118 manner.
This was even yet more strange.
The captain put the coin in his pocket.
“I’ll take good care of this, my girl,” he said. “It isn’t often a ghost leaves anything behind him.”
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
condemned
|
|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
consummate
|
|
| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
hypocrisy
|
|
| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
contrived
|
|
| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
den
|
|
| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
tempted
|
|
| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
beheld
|
|
| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
turrets
|
|
| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
blasphemous
|
|
| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
fiddles
|
|
| n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 )；欺诈；（需要运用手指功夫的）细巧活动；当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
tar
|
|
| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
flaring
|
|
| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
hoop
|
|
| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
scotch
|
|
| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
jigs
|
|
| n.快步舞（曲）极快地( jig的名词复数 )；夹具v.（使）上下急动( jig的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
squeaking
|
|
| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
shrill
|
|
| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
stifling
|
|
| a.令人窒息的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
tinkling
|
|
| n.丁当作响声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
tavern
|
|
| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
considerably
|
|
| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
descended
|
|
| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
hospitable
|
|
| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
abode
|
|
| n.住处，住所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
guffaw
|
|
| n.哄笑；突然的大笑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
snug
|
|
| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
dingy
|
|
| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
greasy
|
|
| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
meditative
|
|
| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
puffs
|
|
| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
utterance
|
|
| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
exclamation
|
|
| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
impatience
|
|
| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
uncommonly
|
|
| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
applied
|
|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
syllable
|
|
| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
devoured
|
|
| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
ransack
|
|
| v.彻底搜索，洗劫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
gratitude
|
|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
assent
|
|
| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
cynical
|
|
| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
sneer
|
|
| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
crater
|
|
| n.火山口，弹坑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
marshy
|
|
| adj.沼泽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
assented
|
|
| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
lodged
|
|
| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
pony
|
|
| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
transformation
|
|
| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
dismal
|
|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
dwelling
|
|
| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
rustic
|
|
| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
evergreens
|
|
| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
naval
|
|
| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
glimmer
|
|
| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
laurels
|
|
| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
domain
|
|
| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
savagely
|
|
| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
savage
|
|
| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
shutters
|
|
| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
shutter
|
|
| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
miser
|
|
| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
rosy
|
|
| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
hearty
|
|
| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
widower
|
|
| n.鳏夫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
devotedly
|
|
| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
fascination
|
|
| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
vessel
|
|
| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
retirement
|
|
| n.退休，退职 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
seaman
|
|
| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
jack
|
|
| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
rippling
|
|
| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
upwards
|
|
| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
folly
|
|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
superstitious
|
|
| adj.迷信的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
recipients
|
|
| adj.接受的；受领的；容纳的；愿意接受的n.收件人；接受者；受领者；接受器 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
housekeeper
|
|
| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
ridicule
|
|
| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
seasoning
|
|
| n.调味；调味料；增添趣味之物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
ginger
|
|
| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
soda
|
|
| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
digestion
|
|
| n.消化，吸收 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
cannon
|
|
| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
affected
|
|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
phantoms
|
|
| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
phantom
|
|
| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
apparitions
|
|
| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
sitting-room
|
|
| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
rheumatism
|
|
| n.风湿病 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
hissing
|
|
| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
baker
|
|
| n.面包师 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
honourable
|
|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
attachment
|
|
| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
shriek
|
|
| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
brass
|
|
| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
tiresome
|
|
| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
gravel
|
|
| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
spectral
|
|
| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
scarlet
|
|
| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
backwards
|
|
| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
doorway
|
|
| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
hearth
|
|
| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
hoarded
|
|
| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
conceal
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
darted
|
|
| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
slumbers
|
|
| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
trampled
|
|
| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |