It was like the awakening2 from some entrancing dream.
For three days Mary and I had been alone together, and for three days life had been to us as a garden full of the most beautiful flowers.
With nothing in the world to disturb us or break into our peace, we had been supremely3 happy, and both of us realised we could never have quite such happy times again.
We had never once been outside our own gate, and myself I quite dreaded4 the time when we should have to return to the every day life again.
I knew it was bound to leak out soon that we had not gone away at all, and then would gradually commence again the round of social life and business affairs that would in a way so take us from each other.
But I certainly didn’t expect the end to come so quickly, or in so disagreeable a manner as it did.
We had been married on the Thursday, and on the Sunday night about ten o’clock I was alone in the garden, having a last cigarette before turning in. Mary had just left me, and I was thinking for about the thousandth time that day what an angel she was, when a low whistle at the gates at the end of the drive arrested my attention.
I walked slowly down, wondering if my fancy had misled me, when suddenly I heard some one calling me quietly by name.
“Mr. Stratton. Mr. Stratton,” the voice said, “can I speak to you a moment, please?”
Approaching close to the locked gates I saw in the shadows outside, a man with a bicycle.
“Well, what is it?” I said rather crossly. “I’m Mr. Stratton, what do you want with me?”
“I’m Harker, sir; you remember me, one of the plainclothes men from headquarters. I spoke5 to you once in the Arcade6, and afterwards was at Gawler with you.”
“Oh, yes,” I laughed, “but you needn’t be so soft about it. You mean you were one of the men who arrested me that day and took me to the Chief. Now what do you want?”
“Well, I’ve rather unpleasant news, sir. That McSwiney affair has cropped up again.”
“What the deuce do you mean?” I asked quickly, a lump in my throat.
“Well, sir, last Thursday a small revolver was brought to us. It had been found on Henley Beach. They had been moving one of the bathing huts and it was found behind one of the supports. The people brought it to us, because as they said, they thought perhaps it might have something to do with that affair on the beach of over a year ago.”
“But what’s that to do with me?” I said, after a pause in which I had been thinking very hard.
The man moved out of the shadows, and in the moonlight I could see every line of a face which looked very grave and uncomfortable.
He looked round stealthily, and didn’t speak for a moment, then he said slowly and almost in a whisper:—
“The revolver had the initials J.S. cut into the barrel, sir.”
A feeling of horrible sickness came over me — I knew, of course, the revolver must be mine. It was the one I had killed McSwiney with, and so foolishly, I now realised, buried near the scene of the shooting. What idiocy7 I thought, had ever made me cut my initials on the barrel. I remembered doing it one afternoon to while away a lazy hour, and that foolishness was apparently8 now to be my undoing9 and bring at best a horrible scandal upon Mary and Sir Henry.
But I wasn’t going to let the man see my distress10 and after a few moments’ thought I said sharply:
“Well, that won’t affect me — I’m not the only J.S. in the world, and if I were, who is there to prove the revolver ever belonged to me?”
“But that isn’t all, sir,” went on the man, and he looked at me narrowly, “the revolver was shown round Finney’s lodging-house on Friday, and Nat Saunders swears he remembers it as belonging to a man who stayed there once, called Rob Turner. He says he distinctly remembers him having it out to clean one day, and he remarked then, he says, upon the difference in the initials.”
My feeling of sickness became worse. Nat Saunders was quite right. I had cleaned it in front of them all one day, but up to that very moment I had forgotten all about it. What on earth was going to happen now?
“But, look here,” I said brusquely, “who’s raking up all this, and why have you come up here to tell me? You’ve not been sent, have you?”
“Good Lord, no, sir,” denied the man warmly, “I’m risking everything in coming up to warn you. If it were known I was up here I should not only get dismissed from the force, but probably get a term of imprisonment11 as well. I’ve come up here because I reckoned you saved my life at Gawler that afternoon. I was right in front of Hunter, and should have been the first man shot for sure. Besides that — I think it’s a dirty trick they’re doing you. I was in the confidence of the Chief over that McSwiney affair, and know quite well what he promised you. This would never have happened if he’d not been away.”
“Well, but who’s stirring all this up?” I asked, impressed by the man’s earnestness.
“It’s the Acting12 Deputy Chief Inspector13 Rubens, Mr. Stratton. He’s doing it all. He’s a very ambitious man, and thinks he’s got hold of a case to make a splash with, now the Chief’s away. Of course, he knows all about you, and he thinks what a fine advertisement it would be for him, to have a man in your position arrested, in the middle of his honeymoon14. That’s what it is, that’s all.”
“But he knows well enough,” I argued, “that even if they brought it home to me — which I still deny — there would be no punishment for me — McSwiney was at best a murderer and an outlaw15.”
“Yes, Sir, that’s quite true, but it’s the inquest verdict he’s going on, ‘Murder against some person or persons unknown.’ He knows quite well all you did for us afterwards, and the Chief’s promise to you, too. I told him about it straight.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, he said the Chief’s promise wasn’t binding16 on him.”
There was a long pause, and I stood there weighing things up.
“Well, what’s he going to do?” I asked presently. “You know, Harker, guilty or not guilty, it would make a horrible scandal for me. Look how terrible for my wife.”
“Yes, I know that, sir, and I feel as wild about it as you do.”
“Well, what’s he going to do — is he going to arrest me?”
“No, I don’t think he’s going to do that yet. He’s waiting now for Inspector Kitson. He’s written to the Inspector — I know that for certain, for I saw the letter — and until he gets an answer I’m sure he’ll not move. He doesn’t know you’re here. I didn’t know it myself. I only came up on the chance to see if I could get your address from any one who was looking after the house.”
“Well, Harker, I’m very much obliged to you. Be sure you let me know anything that happens. I’ll see you don’t lose by it.”
“Very good, sir — look out for me any evening about this time. Good-night.” And the man disappeared into the darkness. I went slowly into the house with a great load of anxiety in my heart. It was not for myself I cared a rap. Even if I were arrested, I had only to tell my tale openly, and I knew perfectly18 well there would be no penalty at all. But for Mary and poor Sir Henry the scandal would be awful.
Pulling myself together I went into our room, and I always think back now with pride that Mary all along never had the slightest inkling of any trouble affecting me.
I lay awake a lot that night, scheming and thinking what I could possibly do. The situation was certainly rather an alarming one, but still at the same time I believed if it were handled boldly I might yet escape, as I had done once before.
The next day the servants all came back, and Mary and I went shopping in the car, much to the interest of all who saw us.
I felt so proud of my wife. The crisp autumn air gave a lovely colour to her face, and she looked so radiantly happy as she sat by my side. I didn’t wonder at all that everyone had a good stare at us wherever we went.
On the Tuesday night near about ten o’clock I went down again to the gates and almost immediately Harker glided20 up like some ghostly minister of fate.
He had some news to tell me. Inspector Kitson had written back promptly21 to the Deputy Commissioner22, and according to Harker had thrown a lot of cold water upon any idea of reopening the case of McSwiney. The authorities, he wrote had had all along a pretty shrewd idea as to how the man had met his death, and even were sufficient new evidence now unearthed23 to unerringly bring home the affair to me, nothing would in the end be gained. Nothing but a foolish error of judgment24 in hiding the body could at best be proved against me, and in the light of my subsequent services to the State in the matter of discovering the other man, in his opinion — it would be a piece of culpable25 bad taste to interfere26 with me again.
“At any rate,” concluded Harker, “he’s given Chief Inspector Rubens a nasty snub, and as good as told him to shut up.”
“But what does Rubens say now,” I asked. “Is he going to drop it, do you think?”
“No, sir, I’m afraid not — in fact, I’m sure not. He’s rather spiteful about it, and says for some reason Inspector Kitson is trying to shield you. His opinion is, however, that the possession of the revolver is a trump27 card, and there will be no getting away from the verdict of the coroner’s jury.”
“Well, what’s he going to do then?”
“Oh, he believes there’s no immediate19 hurry, and he’s waiting now for the return from Perth of another plain clothes man who worked on the case with me last year. This man, Clark, will be back on Friday week, and I think, sir, he intends to arrest you the next day at the races at Morphettville.”
“The damned blackguard,” I swore.
“Yes, sir, he made inquiries28 today, and found out you are running a horse in the Welter there on Saturday week, and he thinks it would be very dramatic to serve the warrant on the course, perhaps just before the race. He says he intends to make it as public as possible.”
For a moment I was dumbfounded with the news. The man’s cynical29 and brutal30 disregard of all nice feeling and decency31 made me quite speechless with anger.
I could picture it all in my mind — the bright afternoon at Morphettville — the happy crowds at the meeting — my horse being saddled for the race — Mary and I amongst all our friends and then — this brute32 having me arrested in so shameful33 and public a manner that whatever happened afterwards the shame and horror of it all would be for ever uppermost in men’s minds when they either thought or spoke of me.
But the very vileness34 of the man’s intention steeled me to a resolution that to carry through I might otherwise have lacked strength.
All my nervousness left me, and I became at once cold, calculating, and full of resource.
“Now, look here, Harker,” I said bluntly, with no mincing35 of my words, “Money’s no object to me — I’ve got to get hold of that revolver somehow. Can it be done? Think carefully. I don’t mind what it costs.”
The man was silent for quite a full minute, then he said, speaking very deliberately37, “It might be done, Mr. Stratton, but it’ll be a very difficult business. In any case, I don’t want any money from you. Anything I do will be just because you helped the force so finely last year, besides saving me at Gawler. I’ll help you all I can, but the worst of it is I don’t see where to commence.”
“Well, to begin with,” I asked quickly, “has the revolver been photographed?”
“No, ‘I don’t think so; in fact, I’m quite sure it hasn’t; I should know at once because”— with an amused smile —“I’ve practically got charge of the case.”
“Where’s it kept?”
“In the safe in the Chief’s room.”
“And the key of the safe?”
“On a bunch with other keys at the end of a chain in Chief Inspector Rubens’ pocket.”
“Hum! Is the safe a good one?”
“Not particularly, but still I don’t know of the man who could open it quietly — without a key?”
“Well, who has access to the Chief’s room?”
“Oh, plenty of us; the door’s seldom kept locked. As you know, the room’s right in the middle of the building, and to get to it one has to go along a passage and through two other rooms, where there are always several men on duty. I’m afraid it’s a hard nut to crack.”
“Well, Harker,” I said after a long pause, “let’s both think it over. At any rate, I take it I can depend on you to give me at least a little warning before I’m tapped on the shoulder again — that is so, isn’t it?”
“For sure, Mr. Stratton, I can promise you faithfully nothing shall be sprung on you. You shall know beforehand, and in plenty of time too. But I’ll come up and see you again on Friday.”
The ensuing few days were ones of great anxiety to me, but I never for a moment allowed myself to lose heart.
One thing I was fully36 resolved on. If the worst came to the worst, and I knew for certain my arrest was determined38 on, I would myself precipitate39 matters and make public in my own way a full account of my adventure with Tod McSwiney.
I would get in touch with the Adelaide press, and lay bare my whole part in that unfortunate affair.
It would, I knew, make good copy, for, as an owner of racehorses, I was, of course, a public man, and apart from that, Adelaide had a certain measure of pride in me because as an unknown Australian soldier I had wooed and married one of the most beautiful and richest English girls in Australia.
The days rolled by.
Harker came up according to promise on the Friday, but he had no more news except to give me the positive assurance that the warrant was not going to be applied40 for until that day week, and that he himself then, accompanied by two constables42 in uniform, would be detailed43 to execute it the following day in the paddock at Morphettville just before the third race.
He wanted to know if I had thought further of any plan of getting hold of the revolver, but I put him off and told him I had decided44 nothing yet.
As a matter of fact in the past few hours I had practically arranged all the details of my intended plan of campaign.
It had suddenly dawned upon me what a suicidal business it was to think of burgling the police station for the incriminating evidence of my guilt17.
Unless in every particular successful, it would only land me further in the mud, and even if I did manage to get hold of the revolver there would still be always the uncertainty45 of something else turning up to bring me into the limelight again.
No, I would make a clean breast of it, I had resolved, and in so open a manner that the sting of anything anyone might do afterwards would be taken away from me for ever.
To begin with, I told Mary all about Tod McSwiney, just in a casual sort of way, as if I were thinking to interest her. She shuddered46 prettily47 when I explained how I had buried him, and when I came to my first interview with the Chief, she clapped her hands at hearing how I had managed at first to outwit him, and after to earn his lasting48 friendship and regard.
Then I brought up the matter on the Sunday evening to Sir Henry. I told him how I had first come to know the Brigadier, and dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s of the narrative49 the Chief had once given them, the night of the dinner, at Admiral James’. Of course, Sir Henry was most interested, and for a long while we energetically discussed the pros50 and cons41 of what I had best have done after I had shot the would-be assassin.
Then, I replied to an invitation I had received two days before to attend and speak at a public dinner to be given to the returned soldiers of A.I.F. at the City Town Hall, on the following Wednesday evening. I had been asked to reply for ‘The Returned Soldiers of South Australia.’
Then, I got into communication with Harker at his private address, and just told him I was going to leave things as they were, but at the same time I didn’t really think now he’d ever have to execute the warrant on me.
The eventful Wednesday evening arrived at last, and at half-past seven I was seated three chairs off the Governor of the State, who was himself presiding at the dinner.
Mine was the most important toast of the evening, and it had only been given me, I knew, because of my relationship now to Sir Henry.
All the big men and the little men of Adelaide were present, and only a few chairs down from me the spiteful face of the Deputy Chief Commissioner of the Police was sourly taking in the happenings of the occasion.
He had nodded to me before dinner in the reception room, and regarded me later, when he thought I wasn’t looking, with an acid and partly triumphant51 smile.
But it was quite impossible, however, to damp my spirits that evening. I felt I was in first-rate fighting trim, and was sure that the master trump was in my own hand.
In due time the Governor rose to propose my toast. He spoke to some length of the part Australia had played in the Great War, and he referred in the warmest and most generous terms possible to the unfailing valour of the Australian soldier. At the end of his speech he coupled with the subject of his toast “Captain John Stratton, not only an officer of distinguished52 career, but also a citizen of sound judgment and good patriotism53, a gentleman who when he sees anything good coming into the State makes certain that it shall not go out again.”
This delicate allusion54 to my marriage with Sir Henry’s daughter was received with some laughter and cheers, and it was to a very sympathetic audience that I, in turn, rose to reply.
For a moment my knees shook under me, and I felt as horribly nervous as could be, but the sudden thought of Mary sitting up for me at home in her dressing55 gown, waiting to know how I had got on, and the sight of Sir Henry’s anxious and rather white face close beside me, steadied me in a flash, and I opened my reply in tones of perfect and easy confidence.
Now, I am never at any time a bad speaker, and that night the desire to thwart56 the plan of the Chief Inspector near me, the great importance of all my speech might mean to me, and the undoubted sympathy of the audience I was appealing to, all nerved me to my utmost, and I flatter myself I was never in better form or in a more fluent vein57.
I commenced by thanking the Governor for the very nice things he had said about us, and assured him that every Australian soldier, from the highest to the lowest, had always endeavoured not to be unworthy of the great traditions handed down along the ages by the Anglo–Saxon race.
I continued, I was glad to think that the high opinion he held of our fighting qualities, was now shared with at least equal force by the German people themselves.
I said wherever we had gone and on whatever field of battle we had fought, we had always surely left behind us the impression that in the defence of our beloved Motherland there were no sacrifices we were not prepared to make.
I spoke shortly of the ghastly horrors of war, and then turning to the brighter side, extolled58 the educational value of our times of campaigning. I said we must all of us have returned with wider sympathies, and broader views, and were, in fact, in almost every way more capable and more resourceful than when we had first joined up.
Speaking for myself, and I apologised for dropping into a personal vein, I should not indeed have been there amongst them that night, if it had not been for the powers of observation I had cultivated in the course of my military career.
In support of this, I would tell them, I said, an interesting little story about myself.
I told them how about eighteen months previously59, one day I had won a lot of money at the races. I told them how quite unknown to myself, I had been marked down by one of two men who were already deep in crime and murder and hunted by the police. I told them of the lonely beach near Henley. I pictured to them the sandhills by the sea — the crimson60 setting sun and myself, as lying prone61 upon the sands watching the squabbling seagulls at the margin62 of the waves.
Then I described how the seagulls had suddenly flown away, and how my war-trained brain had instantly set me asking myself why.
Then I told how I had sprung up in a flash, to find the shoeless white-faced murderer right upon me with his paling and his knife.
I described how in a second I had saved myself and shot him, and yet how then foolishly — to save the annoyance63 of explaining everything — I had hidden away my revolver and covered the dead man over with sand.
I told them I had gone away, confident that I should never be found out — that I had left no clue behind me, and that all trace of my participation64 in the man’s death would be, I was sure, as much a thing unnoticed as a passing shadow on the shore or a ripple65 on the wave.
I went on — that, however, I had reckoned entirely66 without my host and miscalculated the wonderful sagacity of Brigadier–General Edis and the long arm of the City of Adelaide Police.
“Within a few hours, gentlemen,” I cried, “although no one had ever seen or heard of me before — with no apparent clue to guide them, I was yet standing67 before the Chief Commissioner of Police, and he was thundering in my ears:—
“‘John Stratton, why did you shoot Tod McSwiney — why did you kill the Mount Gambier murderer?’”
When I had got as far as this — I paused in my recital68 and looked round.
A profound and startled interest I could see was gripping every one in the room. Every head was bent69 towards me, and every eye was fastened intently on my face. I went on — but now smiling and in much lighter70 tones.
“Well, gentlemen — the Chief Commissioner of Police and the great Melbourne detective, Inspector Kitson, who was also present, didn’t quite know what to do with me at first.
“They weren’t quite decided as to whether I ought to be hanged straightway out of hand, or failing that — be taken into the Adelaide Police Force as a temporary auxiliary71 to help hunt down the other man.
“You see, they were in a bit of a hole. The other much wanted Mount Gambier murderer was at large in the city here, and I was the only person who knew him by sight. I had seen him at the races with the man who tried afterwards to kill me.
“Well, as I say, the police were perplexed72. I was the only person who could be of use to them, and they couldn’t very well hang their trump card. So ultimately they made a detective of me, and for three days I roamed the city here, followed everywhere by a bigger and, I am sure, a much better disguised escort than is ever accorded to any reigning73 sovereign or Prime Minister.”
I paused here for a moment, really to take breath, but my audience thought I was stopping, and a lot of them called out, “Go on — go on John.”
I went on with my adventure to the end, finishing up by remarking that one of my most treasured possessions would always be, the revolver given me jointly74 by Brigadier General Edis and Chief Inspector Kitson to — in their own words —“replace the old one I had unhappily mislaid.”
I then concluded my speech with a carefully prepared peroration75, in which I stated that always and under any circumstances the world would surely find, that any services we might be able to give, would always unreservedly be offered to the great Motherland oversea, or to this fair land of ours, that here had given us birth.
I sat down amid a perfect storm of clapping. Nearly everyone stood up and cheered. They enthusiastically gave me “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” and then some one called out vociferously76 for a tip.
Everyone laughing took it up at once, and the walls echoed with their cries. “Tip, Mr. Stratton — tip, John, tip.”
An inspiration seized me, and I jumped up smiling to my feet. Instantly the great hall was hushed.
“Gentlemen,” I said laughingly, “you ask me for a tip. Well, it has just been brought to my notice that the Deputy Commissioner of Police is present among us to-night (here every one looked at Chief Inspector Rubens), and it is possible that after, perhaps, my too full confession77, I may be arrested tomorrow.”
Everyone at once laughed in great enjoyment78 and I went on, still smiling, “But if I’m not arrested, gentlemen, Oban’s Pride is, as you know, running on Saturday. He’s out to win, as my horses always are. If he doesn’t win it’ll be because he’s not good enough. So, there you are, help yourselves,” and I sat down feeling I had played a good card.
The face of Chief Inspector Rubens was a study. It was flushed and angry looking. With all his self-control every one could see he was mightily79 put out. He frowned thoughtfully at his plate, and do as I would, I couldn’t catch his eye. In a little while he got up without a word and left the hall.
Saturday was a great day for me at Morphettville. Oban’s Pride won in gallant80 fashion, to the delight of the cheering crowds on the course and in the stands.
Everybody crowded round to congratulate me, and it was quite the standing joke of the afternoon, for people to come up and ask me if I had been arrested yet.
I saw Harker in the paddock, and was going to speak to him, but he cut me dead. I didn’t understand why, until I saw the sour face of the Deputy Commissioner of Police just behind him.
During the afternoon my father-in-law put his arm affectionately in mine and drew me slightly on one side, out of earshot of my friends.
“Do you know, John,” he said smilingly, “I’m really very proud of you. I thought you were rather rambling81 in that fine speech of yours the other night but I understand things now. A brother J.P. here has just told me that but for what you made public, Rubens was going to make a mess of you here this afternoon. The fellow was actually going to take you up.
“Now, my colleague says there’s not a J.P. in the whole State of South Australia who would dare put his name to a warrant for your arrest. He’s positive they’d lynch him if he did.”
About three months later the dear old Chief returned. He came up a lot to Mitcham, and was always just as nice as usual.
One day he remarked to me quite casually82. “Yes, John, you’re a smart fellow right enough. You ought to go into Parliament or get made a bishop83 or something. I’ve been reading over that old speech of yours at the returned soldiers’ dinner. The idea was very clever, John, and it certainly got you out of an awkward situation. But you stretched things a little bit my boy, didn’t you? However, I’ve forgiven you. I don’t suppose we shall ever quite find out how you got your information about what my deputy was going to do. Myself, I suspect at least eleven of my men here. However, it’s all over now, and you need never worry any more. The ghost of Tod is lain for ever.” And the Chief swung off in his usual happy way.
All these things happened a little time ago, and I must finish my story now.
P.S. — Mary hasn’t been to any races lately.
The End
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收听单词发音
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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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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arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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9
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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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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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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unearthed
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| 出土的（考古） | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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vileness
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| n.讨厌，卑劣 | |
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mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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cons
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| n.欺骗，骗局( con的名词复数 )v.诈骗，哄骗( con的第三人称单数 ) | |
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constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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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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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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pros
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| abbr.prosecuting 起诉；prosecutor 起诉人；professionals 自由职业者；proscenium （舞台）前部n.赞成的意见( pro的名词复数 )；赞成的理由；抵偿物；交换物 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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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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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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extolled
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| v.赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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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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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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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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auxiliary
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| adj.辅助的，备用的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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peroration
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| n.（演说等之）结论 | |
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vociferously
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| adv.喊叫地，吵闹地 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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