But at night the boy became once more free, and again wandered about the streets. About nine o’clock he watched, from afar off, the baked-potato man wheel up his oven and settle down at the wonted corner, but he approached no nearer.
During the next few days Bill Blatherwick once more resumed his professional duties, and from morning to night Arthur guided his blind and maimed parent along the snowbound streets, suffering the extremes of cold and hunger, as well as all the tortures which the brutal14 ingenuity of his master could conceive, and singing a hundred times a day the hymn15 about the lilies of the field and the birds of the air.
Very frequently a passer-by would turn to look at his pale and wan13 features, admiring the beauty of their outlines, and the thick golden hair which fell almost to his shoulders and was apparent through the rents of his cap.
Bill soon learned the value of the boy’s personal appearance; he had gained twice as much money daily since Arthur had been with him than he had previously16 been accustomed to. Yet he seemed every day to grow more malicious17 towards him, taking a keener delight in making him endure hunger and thirst, at times almost laming18 him with savage19 kicks or blows, and always threatening the most terrific penalties if ever he should complain of the treatment he received.
Arthur’s nature was long-suffering, but not unconscious of resentment20, and at length Bill perpetrated on him a piece of cruelty which roused all the indignation lurking21 in his child’s heart, and for the moment revealed an intensity22 of passion in his character which had never before made itself known.
Bill was partaking of a glass of his favourite beverage23 in a public-house one noon and had left Arthur standing outside. The boy was tortured with a terrible thirst, of which he had not dared to complain to Bill; but now that the latter’s back was turned he seized the opportunity, and bent24 to drink the puddly25 water of a horse-trough which stood at the edge of the pavement. He was in the midst of a long draught26 when a hand suddenly descended28 on the back of his neck, and, before he was aware, plunged29 him overhead in the trough. The street was a small one, and Bill had taken advantage of its loneliness to indulge himself in a congenial amusement.
But he had driven his jocosity30 too far. Starting to his feet, the boy turned and sprang like a young leopard31 upon his persecutor32; sprang at his head, clutched him round the neck, and fixed33 with his teeth fiercely in the bully’s cheek, whilst with his feet he belaboured the mendicant34’s lower extremities35.
Bill roared like a bull, thus drawing forth36 several men from the public-house, who laughed heartily37, and began to make bets on the event of the struggle. It was, of course, too uneven38 for the result to be long doubtful. For a moment Arthur’s madness gave him an energy which repelled39 all the man’s efforts to free himself; he ground his teeth deep into the flesh with the ferocity of a wild beast.
But in a few minutes Bill shook him off with a desperate effort, dashed him on the ground, trod upon him with his heavy clogs40, and began to beat him about the head with his stick, when the men from the public-house interfered41 and stayed his hand. It was then found that the boy had fainted. He was carried into the house, and Bill followed him.
Whilst Arthur was being attended to by a compassionate42 barmaid, the mendicant bound up the wound in his cheek as well as he could, sticking-plaster having been forthcoming (for a due consideration) from the landlord. It did not appear very serious; Bill was in the habit of receiving far worse damage than this in his nightly brawls44. But the exhaustion45 of the affair had naturally resulted in thirst, and Bill was easily persuaded by the other men present to resume his previous seat and call for a copious46 joram of the “same as before.”
Arthur, on recovering, was accommodated with a seat between his master and the wall, where he sat with his eyes closed and his face deadly pale, the constant object of Bill’s ominous47 observation.
So productive of amusing conversation was the little episode that the shades of the December night had already begun to darken upon the City before Bill could prevail upon himself to leave his place and bid Arthur precede him into the street. The mendicant’s walk was not quite so steady as it might have been, and there was a curious look in his bloodshot eyes when he regarded his little companion, which suggested the possibility of drink having made his usually malicious nature absolutely dangerous.
It was against Bill’s ordinary habits to partake of liquor in the daytime; the practice was, to say the least of it, destructive to the interests of his profession. When he once began to drink it was extremely difficult for him to abstain48 till he had reached the state of insensibility, and such proved the case on the present occasion.
On leaving the public-house he had promised himself that he would avoid entering another till he had reached home and taken measures for the suitable punishment of his assailant. But he had already taken too much to allow of his adhering to a resolution.
They were threading the neighbourhood of Saffron Hill on their way citywards (Bill always preferred these backways to the more open thoroughfares), when he was hailed by a “pal” from the doorway50 of a dram-shop, and, wholly unable to resist the temptation, he dragged Arthur along after him (when he reached these localities he always threw aside the various items of his disguise) and entered.
More than an hour was spent here, and before he departed Bill was completely drunk. He told the story of the attack made upon him, and amused himself and his companions by occasionally administering severe blows to Arthur either with his stick or his fist.
The boy’s blood boiled within him, but he remained silent and motionless. When at length they once more issued into the street Bill staggered along in the darkness, supporting himself on the boy’s shoulder, shouting out curses with what voice he had left, and perpetually slipping over the ice and snow, which the bitter frost-wind bound harder every moment on the narrow paths. They lost their way, for Arthur was totally strange in the neighbourhood, and Bill was quite incapable of guiding himself.
When at length they turned into an alley52 darker than any yet, the passion brooding in Arthur’s breast rose lightning-like to his brain in the form of a fierce thought. Glancing around, he saw at once that not a soul was near. It needed but a slight push — a weaker hand than Arthur’s would have sufficed — and the sot reeled and fell heavily to the ground.
Acting53 in pursuance of instinct rather than upon deliberate reflection, the boy groped for the leather bag which held the day’s harvest of coppers54, wrenched55 it in a moment off the drunkard’s neck, and bounded away through the darkness.
Not for a moment did he look back, but pursued his breathless course along streets he had no knowledge of, turning out of one into another from a blind impulse which bade him thus avoid pursuit. He fancied he could hear Bill’s voice yelling after him; once or twice he seemed to hear rapid footsteps close upon his heels; but he never turned to look round. He did not stop in his headlong course till, slipping on the ice, he fell violently, and lay almost senseless on the pavement.
After a few moments he crept into a doorway, and there lay panting. With this one great effort of escaping his strength seemed to have deserted56 him; he felt unable to rise to his feet. He was not cold now he did not feel hungry; all his body seemed consumed with a terrific thirst. On looking round him he saw the flaring57 front of a public-house at a few yards’ distance, and a longing58 for drink — drink warm and sweet, like that they had given him when he recovered from his fainting fit — came irresistibly59 upon him.
With trembling hands he hid the wallet as well as he could under his rags, having first taken out a few coppers, which he held clenched60 in his fist. After one or two efforts he succeeded in staggering to his feet, crossed the road, and, hesitating but for a moment, pushed open the door of the public-house and entered the bar. Pressing through a crowd of drinkers, he succeeded in giving an order which he had often heard Bill give, and was quickly supplied with a smoking tumbler.
The men around him looked at the slight, childish form, and began to laugh and joke. One of them, who seemed good-tempered in his cups, lifted the boy on to his knee and played with his fine hair, whilst another proposed to “stand” him another glass. Arthur wished for nothing better. His tongue was now loosened, and his native timidity had given place to a boldness which shrank from nothing. He drank the second glass, and after that a third, then offered to pay for glasses round to the group of men who were amusing themselves with him. This nearly exhausted61 his stock of coppers. Then he sang, he danced, he shouted; and at length, though quite unconscious of how or why it came about, he felt a heavy grasp on his shoulder, and the next moment found himself lying on the pavement in the open air.
For a moment the recollection of Bill Blatherwick flashed upon his mind, and, starting to his feet, he endeavoured to run. Again and again he fell his whole length, the last time he did so, feeling something warm on his face, which he tried to, wipe off with his hand, and became half conscious that it was blood.
Then a long period seemed to pass, in which he was conscious of nothing; and after that he suddenly found himself standing by a small fire, with someone speaking to him. There was a pleasant. smell in the air, too, and at length he recognized his friend the baked-potato man.
“An’ what a’ you been a doin’ of, eh?” asked the man, eyeing Arthur suspiciously. “Come, you get orff ‘ome, d’ye ‘ear?”
The child endeavoured to reply in a long, stammering62 account of his sufferings, of the cruelties he had received at the hands of the Blatherwicks, of many other things that were nothing at all to the purpose, talking all the time as if in a dream, and once on the point of falling into the red-hot grate, had not the man held him up. Then again he became quite unconscious of everything, and so he remained for many hours.
When he once more came to his senses it was about nine o’clock on New Year’s morning. He was lying on a straw mattress63, well covered up with warm clothes, in a little room directly under the rafters of the house.
It was a fine morning, and the sun, though with but little warmth in its beams, threw a cheerful light on a prospect64 of chimneys and slated65 roofs. Arthur looked around him in surprise and fright, for the room was quite strange to him. He rose with difficulty to his feet, and, as the sunlight met his eyes, staggered back as if suddenly smitten66 on the head. His senses reeled; his mouth and throat were so parched67 that he could scarcely fetch his breath; he felt so utterly68, miserably69 ill that, falling back upon his bed again, he began to moan and cry in the extremity70 of his suffering.
There was another bed in the room which had evidently been occupied during the night, but beyond this there was no furniture. Outside the window, however, were hung two or three bird-cages containing canaries, which so far enjoyed the sunshine as to be doing their best to sing a little, despite the sharp morning air which ruffled71 their yellow plumage and made them keep continually hopping72 about for the sake of warmth. A stronger roulade than usual from one of them had succeeded at length in attracting his attention, when the door suddenly opened, and a man entered, whom he at once recognised as his friend of the baked-potatoes.
“Well, young un, how goes it?” shouted the man in a cheerful voice.
“I feel very bad,” groaned73 Arthur, in reply. “Where have I got to, sir? This isn’t Mrs. Blatherwick’s, is it?”
The other having reassured74 him on this point, Arthur was persuaded to dress, an operation which, as may be imagined, did not, in his case, require any great length of time. His friend then conducted him out of the room, and down several flights of dark and creaking stairs, till he found himself in a small parlour, very comfortably furnished, where a bright fire was burning, and the table was covered with preparations for breakfast. Two or three little children were running in and out of the room, all dressed in that humble75 sort of finery which even the poorest can procure76 at the cost of a few pence expended77 in various coloured ribbons, and all evidently in a delighted state of mind highly befitting the morning of a New Year.
At the table sat the father of the family, waited upon by a very young and sickly-looking woman, whom it was hard to believe to be the mother of the boisterous78 children, though such was the fact. He was a short but broad-shouldered man, with an extremely red face, which would have borne a highly comic expression, had not the absence of one eye given it a touch of repulsiveness79. As it was, his countenance80 was decidedly grotesque81, and, as he ate, which he did voraciously82, he twisted it into such a variety of extraordinary shapes that, had it not been for the absence of spectators, one would have believed he was doing it to excite amusement. We may as well state at once that his name was Michael Rumball.
The nature of Mr. Rumball’s business was pretty clearly indicated by the objects surrounding him. All round the parlour walls were suspended bird-cages, mostly occupied; some large and evidently used for the purposes of breeding, others only containing a single singing-bird. The room had two doors, one that by which Arthur and his guide had entered, the other looking into the shop, which a glance showed to be filled with all manner of live-stock, not birds alone, but rabbits, hares, guinea-pigs and many other species dear to amateur naturalists83. For the locality was Little St. Andrew Street, and Mr. Rumball’s shop was one of many similar for which the neighbour hood49 is noted84. The situation of the parlour, just in the rear of such a miscellaneous collection, certainly had its disadvantages, among them the constant impregnation of the atmosphere with a most potent85 and peculiar86 odour; but probably in this matter, as in all others, habit became a second nature, and nobody seemed at all offended by the scents87.
“Well, Mike,” exclaimed the baked-potato man, as he drew the boy in by the shoulders and thrust him, with a rough sort of kindness, into a chair, “’ere’s the young shaver as I carried ‘ome last night. And pretty down in the mouth he do look! Cheer up, young ’un!”
The baked-potato man, who rejoiced in the name of Ned Quirk89, spoke90 in a hearty91 and jovial5 voice, though the tones were terribly husky. The huskiness was not, as is so often the case, the result of drink, for Ned was a strictly92 temperate93 man, but was simply the result of his trade; for, whilst turning an honest penny by his potatoes at night, he exercised during the day the business of a costermonger, hawking94 vegetables and the like about the streets and thundering out the qualities and prices of his wares95 in tones which had but few rivals, even among the coster fraternity. To the same cause was due a peculiar twist in his mouth, which gave to his face a curious expression. This slight deformity is no uncommon96 thing amongst men of his trade, and results from the habit of constant shouting.
“Can you eat a bit?” continued Ned, eyeing the boy with kindly97 compassion43.
“I’m not hungry,” replied Arthur, turning away from the food. “My head’s so bad.”
“Ah!” interposed Mike Rumball, in a cracked voice, with one of his drollest facial twists, “you’ve been a departin’ from the ways of right’ousness, an’ a sittin’ in the seat of the scornful, young un. Come now, hain’t you?”
“Now don’t go on with the boy, Mike, there’s a good fellow,” said Mrs. Rumball, whose maternal98 heart was touched with pity at Arthur’s sad plight99. “I always will say as Ned Quirk is a good-‘arted fellow, an’ it was like him to bring the boy along with him. What’s yer name, my poor boy?”
“Arthur Golding,” replied the boy, continuing to stare in the utmost surprise at all around him.
“Well now, Arthur, you’ll drink a cup o’ tea, and may be you’ll feel better for it. There now.”
Arthur drank the grateful fluid, and after a few minutes certainly did begin to feel better. In the meanwhile the three children had gathered round him, and were watching him curiously100 as he swallowed the last drop out of the half-pint mug.
“Run out into the street, all o’ you!” cried Mrs. Rumball. “Play there till Mr. Quirk’s ready for you. He won’t be so long I dare say.”
“Not two minutes, young ‘uns,” cried Ned Quirk. “An’ now,” he added, turning to Arthur, “dy yer think as you can find yer way ‘ome, my lad?”
“I — I have no real home, sir,” stammered101 Arthur, terrified at the idea of being taken back to Mrs. Blatherwick’s.
“How’s that?” broke in Mike. “Foxes has ‘oles, an’ the birds o’ the air has nests, yer know — leastwise most on ’em — an’ I can’t b’lieve as you’re a hexception to the rule.”
Then Arthur took courage and repeated in more connected language what he had already told Ned Quirk half unconsciously on the preceding night, relating all the sufferings he had undergone at the hands of the Blatherwicks, but carefully abstaining102 from giving precise information as to those amiable103 persons’ whereabouts, and remaining equally silent on the subject of his brief stay with Mr. Norman.
“It’s a ‘ard case,” said Ned Quirk, reflectively, and he drew on a very big overcoat. “What can we do with the lad, Mike?”
“Well, yer know, Ned, charity covers a multitude o’ sins. Maybe we could find him a job. How old are you, young un?”
“Nearly nine, sir.”
“Hum! Old enough to be gettin’ yer livin’, my lad.”
“I tell you what, Mike,” said Ned Quirk, “I mustn’t keep these ’ere young uns o’ yourn waitin’; they’ll tear me to pieces else. You keep Arthur ’ere till I come back, an’ that’s about four this arternoon, if the weather ‘olds up. Then we’ll talk the matter over. Don’t be afear’d to give him somethin’ to eat; I’ll stand to that, old boy.”
The explanation of Ned Quirk’s hurry was this. In his quality of itinerary104 tradesman he was possessed105 of a small cart and a smaller donkey, both of which he was in the habit of utilising on special occasions for the purpose of small pleasure-trips, being most frequently accompanied in the same by the three children of his friend, Michael Rumball. Now, today, being at one and the same time Sunday and New Year’s Day, and the weather being unusually propitious for the time of year, an excursion extraordinary had been planned to no less a distance than Hampstead Heath, with the purpose, as we have heard, of lasting106 the whole day. The diminutive107 but well-fed and sprightly-looking donkey had already been standing harnessed at the door for nearly a quarter of an hour, and was evidently growing impatient to show his holiday mettle108. So as soon as Ned had wrapped himself in his great coat — which, bye-the-by, had been so often and so variously patched as almost to resemble the coat of many colours worn by Joseph of old — he was dragged to the door by the noisy youngsters, and followed thither109 at a more leisurely110 pace by Mr. and Mrs. Rumball. In a minute the children had climbed into the two-wheeled vehicle, ensconcing themselves in the receptacles appropriated on week-days to potatoes, herrings, &c., and now sat hallooing their delight to a whole crowd of dirty-faced little ragamuffins who stood around with envious111 looks, though the eldest112 of them did not hesitate to make sarcastic113 remarks on the general appearance of the turnout. Ned Quirk was not behindhand, but sprang to his wonted seat in front, rested his legs wide apart on the shafts114, grasped the rope-reins, twitched115 the donkey’s cars with a stick of holly51, and away they went at a sharp pace, pursued to the end of the street by a swarm116 of yelling tatterdemalions.
Michael Rumball (who, bye-the-by, had been in his youth a shining light among the Ranter fraternity, and had often uplifted his voice at the street corners, or amid the sanctified enthusiasm of camp-meetings,) reflected much during the day, taking counsel at times with his wife. The result of it all he expressed the same evening, when, Ned Quirk having returned and the children having been sent to bed, the two friends sat over their pipes, with Arthur between them.
“You see, young un,” began Mr. Rumball, “we don’t want for to turn you out o’ doors, ‘specially in winter time when the nights is cold; but you see we ain’t great nobs as ‘as got their ten thousand a year, so no more we can’t be expected to keep you in lux’ry, you see. An’ then I’m not by any means sewer117 as it ‘ud be a good thing for you if we could; I myself believe in workin’ for one’s livin’, it comes sweeter like. You remember the hymn:
How doth the little busy bee,
Improve each shinin’ hower?
“Well, that’s always been my motto, you see, young un; at least sin’ I left off certain practices, as Mrs. Rumball wouldn’t thank me for referrin’ tew. Then there’s that other passage, as no doubt you knows very well, about what I did when I was a child, and ‘ow I come to alter my ways when I grow’d to be a man; and as you’re growin’ to be a man, you see, it’s time you bore that passage in mind. Well, the long an’ short of it all is, that Ned Quirk and me, we thinks we see our way to put you into the line of a honest livin’; and as you seem to a’ been ‘itherto in rayther queerish ‘ands, maybe you won’t be sorry to hear it. Now, if we do this for you, I’ve one thing to ask. Will you hengage to give my missus there all you earn every night, or every Saturday night, as may be, an’ trust to us to find you bed an’ board? Is it a fair bargain?”
“Yes, sir, thank you,” replied Arthur, overjoyed in his heart to think he had found such good friends.
“Well, then, we won’t say any more about it — but shake hands. There, Ned Quirk, I hain’t made so long a speech not sin’ I called upon the Almighty118 in public prayer for two hours and a half, by Aldgate Pump, some two-an’-twenty years gone by.”
Ned nodded approval, and the counsel shortly broke up. Arthur went to the truckle bed he had occupied on the previous night with a lighter119 heart than he had perhaps ever known. But before he went to sleep his thoughts wandered, as was their wont10, to that garret in Whitecross Street and the face he had seen there for the last time, still and cold, and he sobbed120 himself into forgetfulness.
On the morrow began the work-a-day New Year, and with it Arthur’s first real entrance upon the business of life. Two doors off Mike Rumball’s shop was a small greengrocer’s, where not only vegetables and coals were sold, but also cat’s meat, the sale of the latter generally constituting so important a business as alone to suffice for the energies of one tradesman. But the energies of Mrs. Hannah Clinkscales were not to be gauged121 by the ordinary standards.
She was a notable woman who had, like Dogberry, “had losses,” and to whom the sole result of three marriages remained in the shape of her little daughter, Lizzie; to this child her mother was devoted122 heart and soul. No toil123 was too severe to undertake, no pinching too much to suffer, no meanness too low to practise, inasmuch as the one end of them all, that which hallowed the means, was the future happiness of Lizzie.
Mrs. Clinkscales happened to be in want of a lad, to assist her in the shop. The daughter, Lizzie, though nearly eleven years old, was never allowed to do anything resembling menial work. She kept the books, and did it, too, in a very beautiful little hand which was her mother’s envy and delight, but below this she could not be allowed to descend27. When Mike Rumball first offered Arthur’s services Mrs. Clinkscales was doubtful. The lad was incapable of carrying half a hundred of coals, that was clear, and he had no experience whatever in weighing out goods or cutting up cat’s-meat; but after a little persuasive124 conversation on Mike’s part, an arrangement was somehow come to and Arthur was to be engaged. His duties were numerous. In the morning he went round a large circle of customers carrying a cat’s-meat basket on his arm, and, that accomplished125, he weighed out coals, occasionally made a sale, kept the shop clean, chopped up old wood to sell by the pound, and perpetually ran errands; so that the day was amply filled up, and his weekly remuneration was, to begin with, five shillings — payment which Mrs. Clinkscales always spoke of on Saturday night as “extravagant to a degree.”
In those days there were no school-boards, and impertinencies, such as the arts of reading and writing, the uselessness, nay126, the deleteriousness, of which cannot but be patent to all admirers of the good old times, including all those individuals who — not without reason — dread127 the growth of democratic principles among the poor; these arts were far from interfering128 with Arthur’s honest diligence. He had not remained long enough under the tutorship of Mr. Orlando Whiffle to greatly benefit thereby129, and, though he had at first made promising130 progress with his letters, the reading of words of one syllable131 and the designing of very questionable132 pot-hooks had been the most that it had been his privilege to attain133. And now in a very short time the pressure of new occupations had driven even that little out of his head. But the few weeks of his abode134 at Bloomford Rectory had not been unimportant in the boy’s life. The recollection of those days long continued to linger in his memory, as a sweet scent88 will sometimes cling to a handkerchief which has grown old and been made to serve ignoble135 uses. So short had been the period, and so severe the sufferings which had suddenly succeeded upon it, that the memory was little more to him than that of a vision seen in sleep, but nevertheless, it was a delight. He had not enjoyed it at the time, for that he had been too distressed136 in mind; he had not felt at home among those novel scenes; but now, when they at times recurred137 to him, they brought with them a sense of beauty and peace, of the joys belonging to a higher existence, something which he could never have conceived of but for that experience, but which mingled138 a secret discontent, a half-felt longing, with the menial toil of his present every-day life. He thought of Mr. Norman and his kind grave tone, and felt an emotion of gratitude139 well in his heart; he thought of little Helen Norman, and wished he could again walk hand-inhand with her along the spacious140 lawn.
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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differentiated
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| 区分，区别，辨别( differentiate的过去式和过去分词 )； 区别对待； 表明…间的差别，构成…间差别的特征 | |
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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melodiously
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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comatose
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| adj.昏睡的，昏迷不醒的 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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laming
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| 瘸的( lame的现在分词 )； 站不住脚的； 差劲的； 蹩脚的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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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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puddly
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| adj.多泥水坑的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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30
jocosity
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| n.诙谐 | |
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31
leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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34
mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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35
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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37
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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38
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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39
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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40
clogs
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| 木屐； 木底鞋，木屐( clog的名词复数 ) | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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42
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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43
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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44
brawls
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| 吵架，打架( brawl的名词复数 ) | |
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45
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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46
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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47
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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48
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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49
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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50
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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51
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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52
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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53
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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54
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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55
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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56
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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57
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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58
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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59
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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60
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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62
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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63
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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64
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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65
slated
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| 用石板瓦盖( slate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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67
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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68
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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69
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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71
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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72
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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73
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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74
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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75
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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76
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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77
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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78
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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79
repulsiveness
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80
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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81
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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82
voraciously
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| adv.贪婪地 | |
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83
naturalists
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| n.博物学家( naturalist的名词复数 )；（文学艺术的）自然主义者 | |
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84
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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85
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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86
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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87
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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88
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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89
quirk
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| n.奇事，巧合；古怪的举动 | |
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90
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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91
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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92
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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93
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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94
hawking
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| 利用鹰行猎 | |
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95
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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96
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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97
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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98
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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99
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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100
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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101
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
abstaining
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| 戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的现在分词 )； 弃权（不投票） | |
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103
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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104
itinerary
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| n.行程表，旅行路线；旅行计划 | |
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105
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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106
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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107
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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108
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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109
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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110
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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111
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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112
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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113
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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114
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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115
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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116
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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117
sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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118
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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119
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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120
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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121
gauged
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| adj.校准的；标准的；量规的；量计的v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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122
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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123
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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124
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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125
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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126
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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127
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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128
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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129
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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130
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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131
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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132
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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133
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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134
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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135
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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136
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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137
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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138
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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139
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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140
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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