The first shock over, however, the litter cleared up, the rooms dressed, he almost relished12 the hush13 and peace to which the going of wife and children had left him. For one thing, he could rest on the knowledge that he had done for them all that was humanly possible. In return, he would, for several weeks to come, be spared the mute reproach of two wan14 little faces, and a mother’s haggard eyes. Nor need he crack his brains for a time over the problem of an education for the children in this wilderness15, or be chafed16 by Mary’s silent but pregnant glosses17 on the practice. In a word he was FREE . . . free to exist unobserving and unobserved.
But his satisfaction was short-lived: by the end of the second day the deathlike stillness had begun to wear him down. Maria was shut off in the detached kitchen; and on getting home of a late afternoon he knew that, but for the final mill-screech, and the distant rumble18 of the ten-o’clock train, no mortal sound would reach his ears the long night through. The silence gathered, descended19 and settled upon him, like a fog or a cloud. There was something ominous20 about it, and instead of reading he found himself listening . . . listening. Only very gradually did the thought break through that he had something to listen for. Dark having fallen, might not a tiny ghost, a little spirit that had not yet found rest afar from those it loved, flit from room to room in search of them? What more likely indeed? He strained his ears. But only his pulses buzzed there. On the other hand, about eleven o’clock one night, on coming out of the surgery to cross to the bedroom, he could have sworn to catching21 a glimpse of a little shape . . . vague, misty22 of outline, gone even as he saw it, and yet unmistakable . . . vanishing in the doorway23 of the children’s room. His heart gave a great leap of joy and recognition. Swiftly following, he called a name; but on the empty air: the room had no occupant. For two nights after he kept watch, to waylay24 the apparition25 should it come; but, shy of human eyes, it did not show itself again. Not to be baulked, he tried a fresh means: taking a sheet of paper he let his hand lie lightly along the pencil. And, lo and behold26! at the second trial the pencil began to move, seemed to strive to form words; while by the fourth evening words were coming through. HER MAMMA . . . HER LUCE . . . WANTS HER MAMMA.
The kitchen clock had stopped: Maria, half undressed, stealing tiptoe into the house to see the time, a tin lamp with a reflector in her hand, was pulled up short, half-way down the passage, by the sound of voices. Hello! who was Doctor talking to? A patient at this hour? But nobody had knocked at the door. And what . . . oh, crikey! whatever was he saying? The girl’s eyes and mouth opened, and her cheeks went pale, as the sense of what she heard broke on her. Pressing herself against the wall, she threw a terrified glance over her shoulder into the inky shadows cast by the lamp. ——
“Ma! I was fair skeered out of me senses. To hear ’im sitting there a-talkin’ to that pore little kid, what’s been dead and buried this month and more! An’ him calling her by her name, and saying her Ma would soon be back, and then she wouldn’t need to feel lonely any more — why, I tell yer, even this mornin’ in broad daylight I found meself lookin’ behind me the whole time. — Go back? Stop another night there? Not me! I couldn’t, Ma. I’m SKEERED.”
“You great ninny, you! What could ‘urt yer, I’d like to know? . . . as long as you say yer prayers reg’lar and tells the troof. Ghosts, indeed! I’ll ghost you!”— But Maria, more imaginatively fibred, was not to be won over.
Mahony listened to the excuses put forward by her mother on his reaching home that evening: listened with the kindly27 courtesy he kept for those beneath him who met him civilly and with respect. Maria’s plea of loneliness was duly weighed. “Though I must say I think she has hardly given the new conditions a fair trial. However, she has always been a good girl, and the plan you propose, Mrs. Beetling28, will no doubt answer very well during my wife’s absence.”
It not only answered: it was an improvement. Breakfast was perhaps served a little later than usual, and the cooking proved rather coarser than Maria’s, who was Mary-trained. But it was all to the good that, supper over, Mrs. Beetling put on her bonnet29 and went home, leaving the place clear. His beloved little ghost was then free to flit as it would, without fear of surprise or disturbance30. He continually felt its presence — though it did not again materialise — and message after message continued to come through. Written always by a third person, in an unfamiliar31 hand . . . as was only to be expected, considering that the twins still struggled with pothooks and hangers32 . . . they yet gave abundant proof of their authorship.
Such a proof, for instance, as the night when he found that his script ran: HER BABY . . . NOSE . . . KITCHEN FIRE.
For a long time he could make nothing of this, though he twisted it this way and that. Then, however, it flashed upon him that the twins had nursed large waxen dolls clad as infants; and straightway he rose to look for the one that had been Lallie’s. After a lengthy33 search by the light of a single candle, in the course of which he ransacked34 various drawers and boxes, he found the object in question . . . tenderly wrapped and hidden away in Mary’s wardrobe. He drew it forth35 in its white trappings and, upon his soul, when he held it up to the candle to examine it, he found that one side of the effigy’s nose had run together in a kind of blob . . . MELTED . . . no doubt through having been left lying in the sun, or — yes, OR held too close to a fire! Of a certainty he had known nothing of this: never a word had been said, in HIS hearing, of the accident to so expensive a plaything. At the time of purchase he had been wroth with Mary over the needless outlay36. Now . . . now . . . oh! there’s a divinity that shapes our ends . . . now it served him as an irrefragable proof.
In his jubilation37 he added a red-hot postscript38 to his daily letter. I HAVE GREAT— GREAT AND JOYFUL— NEWS FOR YOU, MY DARLING. BUT I SHALL KEEP IT TILL YOU COME BACK. IT WILL BE SOMETHING FOR YOU TO LOOK FORWARD TO, ON YOUR RETURN TO THIS DREADFUL PLACE.
To which Mary replied: YOU MAKE ME VERY CURIOUS, RICHARD. CAN NORTH LONG TUNNELS HAVE STRUCK THE REEF AT LAST?
And he: SOMETHING FAR, FAR NEARER OUR HEARTS, MY DEAR, THAN MONEY AND SHARES. I REFER TO NEWS COMPARED WITH WHICH EVERYTHING EARTHLY FADES INTO INSIGNIFICANCE39.
Alas40! he roused no answering enthusiasm. NOW, RICHARD, DON’T DELUDE41 YOURSELF . . . OR LET YOURSELF BE DELUDED42. OF COURSE YOU KNEW ABOUT THAT DOLL’S NOSE. LALLIE CRIED AND WAS SO UPSET. I’M SURE WHAT’S HAPPENING IS ALL YOUR OWN IMAGINATION. I DO THINK ONE CAN GROSSLY DECEIVE ONESELF— ESPECIALLY NOW YOU’RE QUITE ALONE. BUT OH DON’T TRIFLE WITH OUR GREAT SORROW. I COULDN’T BEAR IT. IT’S STILL TOO NEAR AND TOO BITTER.
Of his little ghostly visitant he asked that night: HOW SHALL WE EVER PROVE, LOVE, TO DEAR MAMMA THAT YOU ARE REALLY AND TRULY HER LOST DARLING?
To which came the oddly disconcerting, matter-of-fact reply: USELESS. OTHER THINGS TO DO. COME NATURAL TO SOME. NOT TO HER. But Mahony could not find it in his heart to let the matter rest there. So fond a mother, and to be unwilling43 . . . not to dare to TRUST herself . . . to believe!
And believe what, too? Why, merely that their little one, in place of becoming a kind of frozen image of the child they had known, and inhabiting remote, fantastic realms to which they might some day laboriously44 attain45: that she was still with them, close to them, loving and clinging, and as sportive as in her brief earthly span. It was no doubt this homely46, UNDIGNIFIED aspect of the life-to-come that formed the stumbling-block: for people like Mary, death was inconceivable apart from awfulness and majesty47: in this guise48 alone had it been rung and sung into them. For him, the very lack of dignity was the immense, consoling gain. Firmly convinced of the persistence49 of human individuality subsequent to the great change, he had now been graciously permitted to see how thin were the walls between the two worlds, how interpenetrable the states. And he rose of a morning, and lay down at night, his heart warm with gratitude50 to the Giver of knowledge.
But a little child-ghost, no longer encased in the lovely rounded body that had enhanced its baby prattle51 and, as it were, decked it out: a little ghost had, after all, not very much to say. A proof of identity given, assurances exchanged that it still loved and was loved, and the talk trickled52 naturally to an end. You could not put your arms round it, and hold it to you in a wordless content. Also, as time passed and Lallie grew easier in her new state, it was not to be denied that she turned a trifle freakish. She would not always come when called, and, pressed as to where she lingered, averred53 through her mentor54 that she was “fossicking.” An attempt to get at the meaning of this involved Mahony in a long, rambling55 conversation with the elder ghost, that was dreary56 in the extreme. For it hinged mainly on herself and her own affairs. And, grateful though he was to her for her goodness to his child, he took no interest in her personally; and anything in the nature of a discussion proved disastrous57. For she had been but a seamstress in her day, and a seamstress she remained; having, it would seem, gained nothing through her translation, either in knowledge or spirituality.
He flagged. To grip him, an occupation needed to be meaty — to give him something with which to tease his brains. And his present one, supplying none, began little by little to pall58, leaving him to the melancholy59 reflection that, for all their aliveness, our lost ones were truly lost to us, because no longer entangled60 in the web called living. Impossible for those who had passed on to continue to grieve for a broken doll; to lay weight on the worldly triumphs and failures that meant so much to us; to concern themselves with the changing seasons, the rising up and lying down, the palaver61, pother and ado that made up daily life. Though the roads to be followed started from a single point, they swiftly branched off at right angles, never to touch again while we inhabited our earthly shell . . . and in this connection, he fell to thinking of people long dead, and of how out of place, how IN THE WAY they would be, did they now come back to earth. We mortals were, for worse or better, ever on the move. Impossible for us to return to the stage at which THEY had known us.
And so it came about that one evening when, with many a silent groan62, he had for close on half an hour transcribed63 the seamstress’s platitudes64 (if it was himself who wrote, as Mary averred, then God help him! . . . he was in, beyond question, for cerebral65 softening) with never a word or a sign from Lallie: on this evening he abruptly66 threw the pencil from him, pushed back his chair and strode out on the verandah. He needed air, fresh air; was ravenous67 for it . . . to feel his starved lungs fill and expand. But the December night was hotter even than the day had been; and what passed for air was stale and heavy with sunbaked dust. The effort of inhaling68 it, the repugnance69 this smell roused in him brought him to. Like a man waking from a trance, he looked round him with dazed eyes, and ran a confused hand over his forehead. And in this moment the dreams and shadows of the past two weeks scattered70, and he faced reality: it was near midnight, and he stood alone on the ramshackle verandah, with its three broken steps leading down to the path; with the drooping71, dust-laden shrubs72 of the garden before him; the bed of dust that formed the road beyond. He had come to earth again — and with a bump.
A boundless73 depression seized him: a sheerly intolerable flatness, after the mood of joyous74 elation75 that had gone before. He felt as though he had been sucked dry: what remained of him was but an empty shell. Empty as the house which, but for a single lamp, lay dark and tenantless76, and silent as the grave. Since the first night of Mary’s departure, he had not visualised it thus. Now he was dismayed by it — and by his own solitude77. To rehearse the bare facts: wife and children were a hundred and fifty miles away; his other little child lay under the earth; even the servant had deserted78: with the result that there was now not a living creature anywhere within hail. This miserable79 Lagoon80, this shrunken pool of stagnant81 water, effectually cut him off from human company. If anything should happen to him, if he should be taken ill, or break a limb, he might lie where he fell till morning, his calls for help unheard. And the thought of this utter isolation82, once admitted, swelled83 to alarming proportions. His brain raced madly — glancing at fire . . . murder . . . sudden death. Why, not a soul here would be able even to summon Mary back to him . . . no one so much as knew her address. Till he could bear it no longer: jumping out of bed, he ran to the surgery and wrote her whereabouts in large letters on a sheet of paper, which he pinned up in a conspicuous84 place.
The first faint streaks85 of daylight, bringing relief on this score, delivered him up to a new — and anything but chimerical86 — anxiety. What was happening . . . what in the name of fortune was happening to the practice? Regarding for the first time the day and the day’s business other than as something to be hurried through, that he might escape to his communion with the unseen, he was horrified87 to see how little was doing, how scanty88 the total of patients for the past fortnight. And here Mary was writing that she would shortly need more money.
Nobody at all put in an appearance that morning — though he sat out his consulting-hour to the bitter end. By this time he had succeeded in convincing himself that the newcomer, Mrs. Beetling, was to blame for the falling-off. Untrained to the job, she had very probably omitted to note, on the slate89 provided for the purpose, the names of those who called while he was absent. Either she had trusted to her memory and forgotten; or had been out when she ought to have kept the house; or had failed to hear the bell. The dickens! What would people think of him, for neglecting them like this?
By brooding over it, he worked himself into a state of nervous agitation90; and directly half-past ten struck pushed back his chair and stalked out, to take the culprit to task.
Mrs. Beetling was scrubbing the verandah, her sleeves rolled up above her elbows, arms and hands newborn-looking from hot water and soda92. At Mahony’s approach, she sat back on her heels to let him by; then, seeing that he intended to speak to her, scrambled93 to her feet and dried her hands on her apron94.
“I wish to have a word with you, Mrs. Beetling.”
“Yes, sir?”
She was civil enough, he would say that for her. In looking up at him, too, she smiled with a will: a pleasant-faced woman, and ruddy of cheek . . . another anomaly in this pale country.
But he fronted her squarely for the first time: at their former interview he had been concerned only to cut her wordiness short. And this broad smile of hers advertised the fact that she had gums bare almost as a babe’s; was toothless, save for a few black and rotten stumps95 in the lower jaw96.
Now Mahony was what Mary called a “fad of the first water” with regard to the care of the mouth. He never tired of fulminating against the colonial habit of suffering the untold97 agonies of toothache, letting the teeth rot in the head rather than have them medically attended. And the sight here presented to him so exasperated98 him that he clean forgot what he had come out to say, his irritation99 hurling100 itself red-hot against this fresh object of offence.
As though he had a meek101 and timid patient before him, he now said sternly: “Open your mouth . . . wide!”
“SIR!” Mrs. Beetling’s smile faded in amazement102. Instinctively103 pinching her lips, she blinked at Mahony, turned red, and fell to twiddling with a corner of her apron. (So far she had turned a deaf ear to the tales that were going the round about “the ol’ doctor.” Now . . . she wondered.)
“Your mouth . . . open your mouth!” repeated Mahony, with the same unnecessary harshness. Then, becoming vaguely104 aware of the confusion he was causing, he trimmed his sails. “My good woman . . . I have only this moment noticed the disgraceful state of your teeth. Why, you have not a sound one left in your head! What have you been about? . . . never to consult a dentist?”
“Dentist, sir? Not me! Not if I was paid for it! No one’ll ever get me to any dentist.”
“Tut, tut, you fool!” He snapped his fingers; and went on snapping them, to express what he thought of her. And Mrs. Beetling, growing steadily105 sulkier and more aggrieved106, was now forced to stand and listen to a fierce tirade107 on the horrors of a foul108 mouth and foul breath, on the harm done to the digestive system, the ills awaiting her in later life. Red as a peony she stood, her apron still twisting in her fingers, her lips glued tight; once only venturing a protest. “I never bin91 ill in me life!” and still more glumly109: “I suppose me teeth’s me own. I kin2 do what I like with ’em.” To and fro paced Mahony, his hands clasped behind his back, his face aflame; thus ridding himself, on his bewildered hearer, of his own distractedness, the over-stimulation of his nerves; and ending up by vowing110 that, if she had a grain of sense in her, she would come to the surgery and let him draw from her mouth such ruins as remained. At which Mrs. Beetling, reading this as a threat, went purplish, and backed away in real alarm. — Not till he was some distance off on his morning round, did it occur to him that he had forgotten his original reason in seeking her out. Never a word had he said of her carelessness in writing up the patients! The result was another wild bout5 of irritation — this time with himself — and he had to resist an impulse to turn on his heel. What the deuce would he do next? What tricks might his failing memory not play him?
On her side also, Mrs. Beetling yielded to second thoughts. Her first inclination111 had been to empty her bucket on the garden-bed, let down her skirts, tie on her bonnet and bang the gate behind her. But she bit it back. The place was a good one: it ‘ud be lunatic not to keep it warm for Maria. No sooner, though, did she see Mahony safely away, than she let her indignation fly, and at the top of her voice. “Well, I’m blowed . . . blowed, that’s what I am! Wants to pull out all me teef, does he? . . . the BUTCHER! Blackguardin’ me like that. Of all the lousy ol’ ranters . . .”
“Eh, ma?” said a floury young mill-hand, and leant in passing over the garden gate. “What’s up with you? Bin seein’ one of the spooks?”
“You git along with you, Tom Dorrigan. And take yer arms off that gate.”
“They do say Maria seed one widout a head and all. Holy Mother o’ God protect us!”— and the lad crossed himself fearfully as he went.
While Mrs. Beetling, still blown with spite and anger, gathered her skirt in both hands, and charging at a brood of Brahmapootras that had invaded the garden to scratch up a bed, scuttled112 them back into the yard.
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1
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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13
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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glosses
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| n.（页末或书后的）注释( gloss的名词复数 )；（表面的）光滑；虚假的外表；用以产生光泽的物质v.注解( gloss的第三人称单数 )；掩饰（错误）；粉饰；把…搪塞过去 | |
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rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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waylay
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| v.埋伏，伏击 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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hangers
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| n.衣架( hanger的名词复数 )；挂耳 | |
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lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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jubilation
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| n.欢庆，喜悦 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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45
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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48
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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50
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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51
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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52
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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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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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
palaver
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| adj.壮丽堂皇的；n.废话，空话 | |
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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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transcribed
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的过去式和过去分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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65
cerebral
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| adj.脑的，大脑的；有智力的，理智型的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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tenantless
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| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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chimerical
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| adj.荒诞不经的，梦幻的 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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99
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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100
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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101
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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102
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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103
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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104
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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105
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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106
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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107
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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108
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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glumly
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| adv.忧郁地，闷闷不乐地；阴郁地 | |
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vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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111
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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