He ripped off the flap and took out the message. He read it quickly, first glancing at the signature. It was from his Uncle Mark Joyner:
“YOUR AUNT MAW DIED LAST NIGHT STOP FUNERAL THURSDAY IN LIBYA HILL STOP COME HOME IF YOU CAN.”
That was all. No explanation of what she had died of. Old age, most likely. Nothing else could have killed her. She hadn’t been sick or’ they would have let him know before this.
The news shook him profoundly. But it was not grief he felt so much as a deep sense of loss, almost impersonal6 in its quality — a sense of loss and unbelief such as one might feel to discover suddenly that some great force ‘in nature had ceased to operate. He couldn’t take it in. Ever since his mother had died when he was only eight years old, Aunt Maw had been the most solid and permanent fixture7 in his boy’s universe. She was a spinster, the older sister of his mother and of his Uncle Mark, and she had taken charge of him and brought him up with all the inflexible8 zeal9 of her puritanical10 nature. She had done her best to make a Joyner of him and a credit to the narrow, provincial11, mountain clan12 to which she belonged.-In this she had failed, and his defection from the ways of Joyner righteousness had caused her deep pain. He had known this for a long time; but now he realised, too, more clearly than he had, ever done before, that she had never faltered13 in her duty to him as she saw it. As he thought about her life the felt an inexpressible pity for her, and a surge of tenderness and affection almost choked him.
As far back as he could remember, Aunt Maw had seemed to him an ageless crone, as old as God. He could still hear her voice — that croaking14 monotone which had gone on and on in endless stories of her past, peopling his childhood world with the whole host of Joyners dead and buried in the hills of Zebulon in ancient days before the Civil War. And almost every tale she had told him was a chronicle of sickness, death, and sorrow. She had known about all the Joyners for the last hundred years, and whether they had died of consumption, typhoid fever, pneumonia17, meningitis, or pellagra, and she had relived each incident in their lives with an air of croaking relish18. From her he had got a picture of his mountain kinsmen19 that was constantly dark with the terrors of misery20 and sudden death, a picture made ghostly at frequent intervals21 by supernatural revelations. The Joyners, so she thought, had been endowed with occult powers by the Almighty22, and weft for ever popping up on country roads and speaking to people as they passed, only to have it turn out later that they had been fifty miles away at the time. They were for ever hearing voices and receiving premonitions. If a neighbour died suddenly, the Joyners would flock from miles around ‘to sit up with the corpse24, and in the flickering25 light of pine logs on the hearth26 they would talk unceasingly through the night, their droning voices punctuated27 by the crumbling28 of the ash as they told how they had received intimations of the impending29 death a week before it happened.
This was the image of the Joyner world which Aunt Maw’s tireless memories had built up in the mind and spirit of the boy. And he had felt somehow that although other men would live their day and die, the Joyners were a race apart, not subject to this law. They fed on death and were triumphant30 over it, and the Joyners would go on for ever. But now Aunt Maw the oldest and most death-triumphant Joyner of them all, was dead . . .
The funeral was to be on Thursday. This was Tuesday. If he took the train today, he would arrive tomorrow. He knew that all the Joyners from the hills of Zebulon County in Old Catawba would be gathering31 even now to hold their tribal32 rites33 of death and sorrow, and if he got there so soon he would not be able to escape the horror of their brooding talk. It would be better to wait a day and turn up just before the funeral.
It was now early September. The new term at the School for Utility Cultures would not begin until after the middle of the month, George had not been back to Libya Hill in several years, and he thought he might remain a week or so to see the town again. But he dreaded the prospect34 of staying with his Joyner relatives, especially at a time like this. Then he remembered Randy Shepperton, who lived next door. Mr. and Mrs. Shepperton were both dead now, and the older girl had married and moved away. Randy had a good job in the town and lived on in the family place with his sister Margaret, who kept house for him. Perhaps they could put him up. They would understand his feelings. So he sent a telegram to Randy, asking for his hospitality, and telling what train he would arrive on.
By the next afternoon, when George went to Pennsylvania Station to catch his train, he had recovered from the first shock of Aunt Maw’s death. The human mind is a fearful instrument of adaptation, and in nothing is this more clearly shown than in its mysterious powers of resilience, self-protection, and self-healing. Unless an event completely shatters the order of one’s life, the mind, if it has youth and health and time enough, accepts the inevitable35 and gets itself ready for the next happening like a grimly dutiful American tourist who, on arriving at a new town, looks around him, takes his bearings, and says, “Well, where do I go from here?” So it was with George. The prospect of the funeral filled him with dread5, but that was still a day off; meanwhile he had a long train ride ahead of him, and he pushed his sombre feelings into the background and allowed himself to savour freely the eager excitement which any journey by train always gave him.
The station, as he entered it, was murmurous37 with the immense and distant sound of time. Great; slant38 beams of mottled light fell ponderously39 athwart the station’s floor, and the calm voice of time hovered40 along the walls and ceiling of that mighty23 room, distilled42 out of the voices and movements of the people who swarmed43 beneath. It had the murmur36 of a distant sea, the languorous44 lapse45 and flow of waters on a beach. It was elemental, detached, indifferent to the lives of men. They contributed to it as drops of rain contribute to a river that draws its flood and movement majestically46 from great depths, out of purple hills at evening.
Few buildings are vast enough to hold the sound of time, and now it seemed to George that there was a superb fitness in the fact that the one which held it better than all others should be a railway station. For here, as nowhere else on earth, men were brought together for a moment at the beginning or end of their innumerable journeys, here one saw their greetings and farewells, here, in a single instant, one got the entire picture of the human destiny. Men came and went, they passed and vanished, and all were moving through the moments of their lives to death, all made small tickings in the sound of time — but the voice of time remained aloof47 and unperturbed, a drowsy48 and eternal murmur below the immense and distant roof.
Each man and woman was full of his own journey. He had one way’ to go, one end to reach, through all the shifting complexities49 of the crowd. For each it was his journey, and he cared nothing about the journeys of the others. Here, as George waited, was a traveller who was afraid that he would miss his train. He was excited, his movements were feverish50 and abrupt51, he shouted to his porter, he went to the window to buy his ticket, he had to wait in line, he fairly pranced52 with nervousness and kept looking at the clock. Then his wife came quickly towards him over the polished floor. When she was still some distance off, she shouted:
“Have you got the tickets? We haven’t much time! We’ll miss the train!”
“Don’t I know it?” he shouted back in an annoyed tone. “I’m doing the best I can!”’ Then he added bitterly and loudly: “We may make it if this man in front of me ever gets done buying his ticket!”
The man in front turned on him menacingly. “Now wait a minute, wait a minute!” he said. “You’re not the only one who has to make a train, you know! I was here before you were! You’ll have to wait your tarn53 like everybody else!”
A quarrel now developed between them. The other travellers who were waiting for their tickets grew angry and began to mutter. The ticket agent drummed impatiently on his window and peered out at them with a sour visage. Finally some young tough down the line called out in tones of whining54 irritation55:
“Aw, take it outside f’ Chris’ sake! Give the rest of us a chance! You guys are holdin’ up the line!”
At last the man got his tickets and rushed towards his porter, hot and excited. The negro waited suave56 and smiling, full of easy reassurance57:
“You folks don’t need to hurry now. You got lotsa time to make that train. It ain’t goin’ away without you.”
Who were these travellers for whom time lay coiled in delicate twists of blue steel wire in each man’s pocket? Here were a few of them: a homesick nigger going back to Georgia; a rich young man from an estate on the Hudson who was going to visit his mother in Washington; a district superintendent58, and three of his agents, of a farm machinery59 company, who had been attending a convention of district leaders in the city; the president of a bank in an Old Catawba town which was tottering60 on the edge of ruin, who had come desperately61, accompanied by two local politicians, to petition New York bankers for a loan; a Greek with tan shoes, a cardboard valise; a swarthy face, and eyes glittering with mistrust, who had peered in through the ticket seller’s window, saying: “How mucha you want to go to Pittsburgh, eh?”; an effeminate young man from one of the city universities who was going to make his weekly lecture on the arts of the theatre to a dub62 of ladies in Trenton, New Jersey63; a lady poetess from a town in Indiana who had been to New York for her yearly spree of “bohemianism”; a prize-fighter and his manager on their way to a fight in St. Louis; some Princeton boys just back from a summer in Europe, on their way home for a short visit before returning to college; a private soldier in the United States army, with the cheap, tough, and slovenly64 appearance of a private soldier in the United States army; the president of a state university in the Middle West who had just made an eloquent65 appeal for funds to the New York alumni; a young married couple from Mississippi, with everything new — new clothes, new baggage — and a shy, hostile, and bewildered look; two little Filipinos, brown as berries and with the delicate bones of birds, dressed with the foppish66 perfection of manikins; women from the suburban67 towns of New Jersey who had come to the city to shop; women and girls from small towns in the South and West, who had come for holidays, sprees, or visits; the managers and agents of clothing stores in little towns all over the country who had come to the city to buy new styles and fashions; New Yorkers of a certain class, flashily dressed, sensual, and with a high, hard finish, knowing and assured, on their way to vacations in Atlantic City; jaded68, faded, bedraggled women, scolding and jerking viciously at the puny69 arms of dirty children; swarthy, scowling70, and dominant-looking Italian men with their dark, greasy71, and flabby-looking women, sullen72 but submissive both to lust73 and beatings; and smartly-dressed American women, obedient to neither bed nor whip, who had assertive74, harsh voices, bold glances, and the good figures but not the living curves, either of body or of spirit, of love, lust, tenderness, or any female fullness of the earth whatever.
There were all sorts and conditions of men and travellers: poor people with the hard, sterile75 faces of all New Jerseys76 of the flesh and spirit; shabby and beaten-looking devils with cheap suitcases containing a tie, a collar, and a shirt, who had a look of having dropped for ever off of passing trains into the dirty cinders77 of new towns and the hope of some new fortune; the shabby floaters and drifters of the nation; suave, wealthy, and experienced people who had been too far, too often, on too many costly78 trains and ships, and who never looked out of windows any more; old men and women from the country on first visits to their children in the city, who looked about them constantly and suspiciously with the quick eyes of birds and animals, alert, mistrustful, and afraid. There were people who saw everything, and people who saw nothing; people who were weary, sullen, sour, and people who laughed, shouted, and were exultant79 with the thrill of the voyage; people who thrust and jostled, and people who stood quietly and watched and waited; people with amused, superior looks, and people who glared and bristled80 pugnaciously81. Young, old, rich, poor, Jews, Gentiles, Negroes, Italians, Greeks, Americans — they were all there in the station, their infinitely82 varied83 destinies suddenly harmonised and given a moment of intense and sombre meaning as they were gathered into the murmurous, all-taking unity84 of time.
George had a berth85 in car K19. It was not really different in any respect from any other pullman car, yet for George it had a very special quality and meaning. For every day K19 bound together two points upon the continent — the great city and the small town of Libya Hill where he had been born, eight hundred miles away. It left New York at one-thirty-five each afternoon, and it arrived in Libya Hill at eleven-twenty the next morning.
The moment he entered the pullman he was transported instantly from the vast allness of general humanity in the station into the familiar geography of his home town. One might have been away for years and never have seen ‘an old familiar face; one might have wandered to the far ends of the earth; one might have got with child a mandrake root, or heard mermaids86 singing, or known the words and music of what songs the Sirens sang; one might have lived and worked alone for ages in the canyons87 of Manhattan until the very memory of home was lost and far as in a dream: yet the moment that he entered K19 it all came back again, his feet touched earth, and he was home.
It was uncanny. And what was most wonderful and mysterious about it was that one could come here to this appointed meeting each day at thirty-five minutes after one o’clock, one could come here through the humming traffic of the city to the gigantic portals of the mighty station, one could walk through the concourse for ever swarming88 with its bustle89 of arrival and departure, one could traverse the great expanses of the station, peopled with Everybody and haunted by the voice of time — and then, down those steep stairs, there in the tunnel’s depth, underneath90 this hive-like universe of life, waiting in its proper place, no whit91 different outwardly from all its other grimy brethren, was K19.
The beaming porter took his bag with a cheerful greeting: “Yes, suh, Mistah Webbah! Glad to see you, suh! Comin’ down to see de folks?”
And as they made their way down the green aisle92 to his seat, George told him that he was going home to his aunt’s funeral. Instantly the negro’s smile was blotted93 out, and his face took on an expression of deep solemnity and respect.
“I’se sorry to hear dat, Mistah Webbah,” he said, shaking his head. “Yes, suh, I’se pow’ful sorry to hear you say dat.”
Even before these words, were out of mind, another voice from the seat behind was raised in greeting, and George did not have to turn to know who it was. It was Sol Isaacs, of The Toggery, and George knew that he had been up to the city on a buying trip, a pilgrimage that he made four times a year. Somehow the knowledge of this commercial punctuality warmed the young man’s heart, as did the friendly beak-nosed face, the gaudy94 shirt, the bright neck-tie, and the dapper smartness of the light grey suit — for Sol was what is known as “a snappy dresser”.
George looked around him now to see if there were any others that he knew. Yes, there was the tall, spare, brittle95, sandy-complexioned figure of the banker, Jarvis Riggs, and on the seat opposite, engaged in conversation with him, were two other local dignitaries. He recognized the round-featured, weak amiability96 of the Mayor, Baxter Kennedy; and, sprawled97 beside him, his long, heavy shanks thrust out into the aisle, the bald crown of his head with its tonsured98 fringe of black hair thrown back against the top of the seat, his loose-jowled face hanging heavy as he talked, was the large, well-oiled beefiness of Pa on Flack, who manipulated the politics of Libya Hill and was called “Parson” because he never missed a prayer-meeting at the Campbellite Church. They were talking earnestly and loudly, and George could overhear fragments of their conversation:
“Market Street — oh, give me Market Street any day!”
“Gay Rudd is asking two thousand a front foot for his. He’ll get it, too. I wouldn’t take a cent less than twenty-five, and I’m not selling anyway.”
“You mark my word, she’ll go to three before another year is out! And that’s not Al! That’s only the beginning!”
Could this be Libya Hill that they were talking about? It didn’t sound at all like the sleepy little mountain town he had known all his life. He rose from his seat and went over to the group.
“Why, hello, Webber! Hello, son!” Parson Flack screwed up his face into something that was meant for an ingratiating smile and showed his big yellow teeth. “Glad to see you. How are you, son?”
George shook hands all round and stood beside them a moment.
“We heard you speaking to the porter when you came in,” said the Mayor, with a look of solemn commiseration99 on his weak face. “Sorry, son. We didn’t know about it. We’ve been away a week. Happen suddenly? . . . Yes, yes, of course. Well, your aunt was pretty old. Got to expect that sort of thing at her time of life. She was a good woman, a good woman. Sorry, son, that such a sad occasion brings you home.”
There was a short silence after this, as if the others wished it understood that the Mayor had voiced their sentiments, too. Then, this mark of respect to the dead being accomplished100, Jarvis Riggs spoke101 up heartily102:
“You ought to stay around a while, Webber. You wouldn’t know the town. Things are booming down our way. Why, only the other day Mack Judson paid three hundred thousand for the Draper Block. The building is a dump, of course — what he paid for was the land. That’s five thousand a foot. Pretty good for Libya Hill, eh? The Reeves estate has bought up all the land on Parker Street below Parker Hill. They’re going to build the whole thing up with business property. That’s the way it is all over town. Within a few years Libya Hill is going to be the largest and most beautiful city in the state. You mark my words.”
“Yes,” agreed Parson Flack, nodding his head ponderously, knowingly, “and I hear they’ve been trying to buy your uncle’s property on South Main Street, there at the corner of the Square. A syndicate wants to tear down the hardware store and put up a big hotel. Your uncle wouldn’t sell. He’s smart.”
George returned to his seat feeling confused and bewildered. He was going back home for the first time in several years, and he wanted to see the town as he remembered it. Evidently he would find it considerably103 changed. But what was this that was happening to it? He couldn’t make it out. It disturbed him vaguely104, as one is always disturbed and shaken by the sudden realisation of Time’s changes in something that one has known all one’s life.
The train had hurtled like a projectile105 through its tube beneath the Hudson River to emerge in the dazzling sunlight of a September afternoon, and now it was racing106 across the flat desolation of the Jersey meadows. George sat by the window and saw the smouldering dumps, the bogs107, the blackened factories slide past, and felt that one of the most wonderful things in the world is the experience of being on a train. It is so different from watching a train go by. To anyone outside, a speeding train is a thunderbolt of driving rods, a hot hiss108 of steam, a blurred109 flash of coaches, a wall of movement and of noise, a shriek111, a wail112, and then just emptiness and absence, with a feeling of “There goes everybody!” without knowing who anybody is. And all of a sudden the watcher feels the vastness and loneliness of America, and the nothingness of all those little lives burled past upon the immensity of the continent. But if one is inside the train, everything is different. The train itself is a miracle of man’s handiwork, and everything about it is eloquent of human purpose and direction. One feels the brakes go on when the train is coming to a river, and one knows that the old gloved hand of cunning is at the throttle113. One’s own sense of manhood and of mastery is heightened by being on a train. And all the other people, how real they are! One sees the fat black porter with his ivory teeth and the great swollen114 gland115 on the back of his neck, and one warms with friendship for him. One looks at all the pretty girls with a sharpened eye and an awakened116 pulse. One observes all the other passengers with lively interest, and feels that he has known them for ever. In the morning most of them will be gone out of his life; some will drop out silently at night through the dark, drugged snoring of the sleepers117; but now all are caught upon the wing and held for a moment in the peculiar118 intimacy119 of this pullman-car which has become their common home for a night.
Two travelling salesmen have struck up a chance acquaintance in the smoking-room, entering immediately the vast confraternity of their trade, and in a moment they are laying out the continent as familiarly as if it were their own backyard. They tell about running into So-and-So in St. Paul last July, and ——
“Who do you suppose I met coming out of Brown’s Hotel in Denver just a week ago?”
“You don’t mean it! I haven’t seen old Joe in years!”
“And Jim Withers121 — they’ve transferred him to the Atlanta office!”
“Going to New Orleans?”
“No, I’ll make it this trip. I was there in May.”
With such talk as this one grows instantly familiar. One enters naturally into the lives of all these people, caught here for just a night and hurtled down together across the continent at sixty miles an hour, and one becomes a member of the whole huge family of the earth.
Perhaps this is our strange and haunting paradox122 here in America — that we are fixed123 and certain only when we are in movement. At any rate, that is how it seemed to young George Webber, who was never so assured of his purpose as when he was going somewhere on a train. And he never had the sense of home so much as when he felt that he was going there. It was only when he got there that his homelessness began.
At the far end of the car a man stood up and started back down the aisle towards the washroom. He walked with a slight limp and leaned upon a cane124, and with his free hand he held on to the backs of the seats to brace125 himself against the lurching of the train. As he came abreast127 of George, who sat there gazing out the window, the man stopped abruptly128. A strong, good-natured voice, warm, easy, bantering129, unafraid, unchanged — exactly as it was when it was fourteen years of age — broke like a flood of living light upon his consciousness:
“Well I’ll be dogged! Hi, there, Monkus! Where you goin’?”
At the sound of the old jesting nickname George looked up quickly. It was Nebraska Crane. The square, freckled132, sunburned visage had the same humorous friendliness133 it had always had, and the tar-black Cherokee eyes looked out with the same straight, deadly fearlessness. The big brown paw came out and they clasped each other firmly. And, instantly, it was like coming home to a strong and friendly place. In another moment they were seated together, talking with the familiarity of people whom no gulf134 of years and distance could alter or separate.
George had seen Nebraska Crane only once in all the years since he himself had first left Libya Hill and gone away to college. But he had not lost sight of him. Nobody had lost sight of Nebraska Crane. That wiry, fearless little figure of the Cherokee boy who used to comedown the hill on Locust135 Street with the bat slung136 over his shoulder and the well-oiled fielder’s mitt137 protruding138 from his hip-pocket had been prophetic of a greater destiny, for Nebraska had become a professional baseball player, he had crashed into the big leagues, and his name had been emblazoned in the papers every day.
The newspapers had had a lot to do with his seeing Nebraska that other time. It was in August 1925, just after George had returned to New York from his first trip abroad. That very night, in fact, a little before midnight, as he was seated in a Childs Restaurant with smoking wheatcakes, coffee, and an ink-fresh copy of next morning’s Herald–Tribune before him, the headline jumped out at him: “Crane Slams Another Homer”. He read the account of the game eagerly, and felt a strong desire to see Nebraska again and to get back in his blood once more the honest tang of America. Acting139 on a sudden impulse, he decided140 to call him up. Sure enough, his name was in the book, with an address way up in the Bronx. He gave the number and waited. A man’s voice answered the phone, but at first he didn’t recognise it.
“Hello! . . . Hello! . . . Is Mr. Crane there? . . . Is that you, Bras?”
“Hello.” Nebraska’s voice was hesitant, slow, a little hostile, touched with the caution and suspicion of mountain people when speaking to a stranger. “Who is that? . . . Who? . . . Is that you, Monk131?”— suddenly and quickly, as he recognised who it was. “Well I’ll be dogged!” he cried. His tone was delighted, astounded141, warm with friendly greeting now, and had the somewhat high and faintly howling quality that mountain people’s voices often have when they are talking to someone over the telephone: the tone was full, sonorous142, countrified, and a little puzzled, as if he were yelling to someone on an adjoining mountain peak on a gusty143 day in autumn when the wind was thrashing through the trees. “Where’d you come from? How the hell are you, boy?” he yelled before George could answer. “Where you been all this time, anyway?”
“I’ve been in Europe. I just got back this morning.”
“Well I’ll be dogged!”— still astounded, delighted, full of howling friendliness. “When am I gonna see you? How about comin’ to the game tomorrow? I’ll fix you up. And say,” he went on rapidly, “if you can stick aroun’ after the game, I’ll take you home to meet the wife and kid. How about it?”
So it was agreed. George went to the game and saw Nebraska knock another home run, but he remembered best what happened afterwards. When the player had had his shower and had dressed, the two friends left the ball park, and as they went out a crowd of young boys who had been waiting at the gate rushed upon them. They were those dark-faced, dark-eyed, dark-haired little urchins144 who spring up like dragon seed from the grim pavements of New York, but in whose tough little faces and raucous145 voices there still remains146, curiously, the innocence147 and faith of children everywhere.
“It’s Bras!” the children cried. “Hi, Bras! Hey, Bras!” In a moment they were pressing round him in a swarming horde148, deafening149 the ears with their shrill150 cries, begging, shouting, tugging151 at his sleeves, doing everything they could to attract his attention, holding dirty little scraps152 of paper towards him, stubs of pencils, battered153 little note-books, asking him to sign his autograph.
He behaved with the spontaneous warmth and kindliness154 of his character. He scrawled155 his name out rapidly on a dozen grimy bits of paper, skilfully156 working his way along through the yelling, pushing, jumping group, and all the time keeping up a rapid fire of banter130, badinage157, and good-natured reproof158:
“All right — give it here, then! . . . Why don’t you fellahs pick on somebody else once in a while? . . . Say, boy!” he said suddenly, turning to look down at one unfortunate child, and pointing an accusing finger at him —“What you doin’ aroun’ here again, today? I signed my name fer you at least a dozen times!”
“No sir, Misteh Crane!” the urchin126 earnestly replied. “Honest — not me!”
“Ain’t that right?” Nebraska said, appealing to the other children. “Don’t this boy keep comin’ back here every day?”
They grinned, delighted at the chagrin159 of their fellow petitioner160. “Dat’s right, Misteh Crane! Dat guy’s got a whole book wit’ nuttin’ but yoeh name in it!”
“Ah-h!” the victim cried, and turned upon his betrayers bitterly. “What youse guys tryin’ to do — get wise or somep’n? Honest, Misteh Crane!”— he looked up earnestly again at Nebraska —“Don’t believe ’em! I jest want yoeh ottygraph! Please, Misteh Crane, it’ll only take a minute!”
For a moment more Nebraska stood looking down at the child with an expression of mock sternness; at last he took the outstretched note-book, rapidly scratched his name across a page, and handed it back. And as he did so, he put his big paw on the urchin’s head and gave it a clumsy pat; then, gently and playfully, he shoved it from him, and walked off down the street.
The apartment where Nebraska lived was like a hundred thousand others in the Bronx. The ugly yellow brick building had a false front, with meaningless little turrets161 at the corners of the roof, and a general air of spurious luxury about it. The rooms were rather small and cramped162, and were made even more so by the heavy, over-stuffed Grand Rapids furniture. The walls of the living-room, painted a mottled, rusty163 cream, were bare except for a couple of sentimental164 coloured prints, while the place of honour over the mantel was reserved for an enlarged and garishly165 tinted166 photograph of Nebraska’s little son at the age of two, looking straight and solemnly out at all comers from a gilded167 oval frame.
Myrtle, Nebraska’s wife, was small and plump, and pretty in a doll-like way. Her corn-silk hair was frizzled in a halo about her face, and her chubby168 features were heavily accented by rouge169 and lipstick170. But she was simple and natural in her talk and bearing, and George liked her at once. She welcomed him with a warm and friendly smile and said she had heard a lot about him.
They all sat down. The child, who was three or four years old by this time, and who had been shy, holding on to his mother’s dress and peeping out from behind her, now ran across the room to his father and began climbing all over him. Nebraska and Myrtle asked George a lot of questions about himself, what he had been doing, where he had been, and especially what countries he had visited in Europe. They seemed to think of Europe as a place so far away that anyone who had actually been there was touched with an unbelievable aura of strangeness and romance.
“Whereall did you go over there, anyway?” asked Nebraska.
“Oh, everywhere, Bras,” George said —“France, England, Holland, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Italy — all over the place.”
“Well I’ll be dogged!”— in frank astonishment171. “You sure do git aroun’, don’t you?”
“Not the way you do, Bras. You’re travelling most of the time.”
“Who — me? Oh, hell, I don’t git anywhere — just the same ole places. Chicago, St. Looie, Philly — I seen ’em all so often I could find my way blindfolded172!” He waved them aside with a gesture of his hand. Then, suddenly, he looked at George as though he were just seeing him for the first time, and he reached over and slapped him on the knee and exclaimed: “Well I’ll be dogged! How you doin’, anyway, Monkus?”
“Oh, can’t complain. How about you? But I don’t need to ask that. I’ve been reading all about you in the papers.”
“Yes, Monkus,” he said. “I been havin’ a good year. But, boy!”— he shook his head suddenly and grinned —“Do the ole dogs feel it!” He was silent a moment, then he went on quietly:
“I been up here since 1919 — that’s seven years, and it’s a long time in this game. Not many of ’em stay much longer. When you been shaggin’ flies as long as that you may lose count, but you don’t need to count — your legs’ll tell you.”
“But, good Lord, Bras, you’re all right! Why, the way you got around out there today you looked like a colt!”
“Yeah,” Nebraska said, “maybe I looked like a colt, but I felt like a plough horse.” He fell silent again, then he tapped his friend gently on the knee with his brown hand and said abruptly: “No, Monkus. When you been in this business as long as I have, you know it.”
“Oh, come on, Bras, quit your kidding!” said George, remembering that the player was only two years older than himself. “You’re still a young man. Why, you’re only twenty-seven!”
“Sure, sure,” Nebraska answered quietly. “But it’s like I say. You cain’t stay in this business much longer than I have. Of course, Cobb an’ Speaker an’ a few like that — they was up here a long time. But eight years is about the average, an’ I been here seven already. So if I can hang on a few years more, I won’t have no kick to make . . . Hell!” he said in a moment, with the old hearty173 ring in his voice, “I ain’t got no kick to make, no-way. If I got my release tomorrow, I’d still feel I done all right . . . Ain’t that so, Buzz?” he cried genially174 to the child, who had settled down on his knee, at the same time seizing the boy and cradling him comfortably in his strong arm. “Ole Bras has done all right, ain’t he?”
“That’s the way me an’ Bras feel about it,” remarked Myrtle, who during this conversation had been rocking back and forth175, placidly176 ruminating178 on a wad of gum. “Along there last year it looked once or twice as if Bras might git traded. He said to me one day before the game, ‘Well, ole lady, if I don’t git some hits today somethin’ tells me you an’ me is goin’ to take a trip.’ So I says, ‘Trip where?’ An’ he says, ‘I don’t know, but they’re goin’ to sell me down the river if I don’t git goin’, an’ somethin’ tells me it’s now or never!’ So I just looks at him,” continued Myrtle placidly, “an’ I says, ‘Well, what do you want me to do? Do you want me to come today or not?’ You know, gener’ly, Bras won’t let me come when he ain’t hittin’— he says it’s bad luck. But he just looks at me a minute, an’ I can see him sort of studyin’ it over, an’ all of a sudden he makes up his mind an’ says, ‘Yes, come on if you want to; I couldn’t have no more bad luck than I been havin’, no-way, an’ maybe it’s come time fer things to change, so you come on.’ Well, I went — an’ I don’t know whether I brought him luck or not, but somethin’ did,” said Myrtle, rocking in her chair complacently179.
“Dogged if she didn’t!” Nebraska chuckled180. “I got three hits out of four times up that day, an’ two of ’em was home runs!”
“Yeah,” Myrtle agreed, “an’ that Philadelphia fast-ball thrower was throwin’ ’em, too.”
“He sure was!” said Nebraska.
“I know,” went on Myrtle, chewing placidly, “because I heard some of the boys say later that it was like he was throwin’ ’em up there from out of the bleachers, with all them men in shirt-sleeves right behind him, an’ the boys said half the time they couldn’t even see the ball. But Bras must of saw it — or been lucky — because he hit two home runs off of him, an’ that pitcher181 didn’t like it, either. The second one Bras got, he went stompin’ an’ tearin’ around out there like a wild bull. He sure did look mad,” said Myrtle in her customary placid177 tone.
“Maddest man I ever seen!” Nebraska cried delightedly. “I thought he was goin’ to dig a hole plumb182 through to China . . . But that’s the way it was. She’s right about it. That was the day I got goin’. I know one of the boys said to me later, ‘Bras,’ he says, ‘we all thought you was goin’ to take a ride, but you sure dug in, didn’t you?’ That’s the way it is in this game. I seen Babe Ruth go fer weeks when he couldn’t hit a balloon, an’ all of a sudden he lams into it. Seems like he just cain’t miss from then on.”
All this had happened four years ago. Now the two friends had met again, and were seated side by side in the speeding train, talking and catching183 up on one another. When George explained the reason for his going home, Nebraska turned to him with open-mouthed astonishment, genuine concern written in the frown upon his brown and homely184 face.
“Well, what d’you know about that!” he said. “I sure am sorry, Monk.” He was silent while he thought about it, and embarrassed, not knowing what to say. Then, after a moment: “Gee!”— he shook his head —“your aunt was one swell185 cook! I never will fergit it! Remember how she used to feed us kids — every danged one of us in the whole neighbourhood?” He paused, then grinned up shyly at his friend: “I sure wish I had a fistful of them good ole cookies of hers right this minute!”
Nebraska’s right ankle was taped and bandaged; a heavy cane rested between his knees. George asked him what had happened.
“I pulled a tendon,” Nebraska said, “an’ got laid off. So I thought I might as well run down an’ see the folks. Myrtle, she couldn’t come — the kid’s got to git ready fer school.”
“How are they?” George asked.
“Oh, fine, fine. All wool an’ a yard wide, both of ’em!” He was silent for a moment, then he looked at his friend with a tolerant Cherokee grin and said: “But I’m crackin’ up, Monkus. Guess I cain’t stan’ the gaff much more.”
Nebraska was only thirty-one now, and George was incredulous. Nebraska smiled good-naturedly again:
“That’s an ole man in baseball, Monk. I went up when I was twenty-one. I been aroun’ a long time.”
The quiet resignation of the player touched his friend with sadness. It was hard and painful for him to face the fact that this strong and fearless creature, who had stood in his life always for courage and for victory, should now be speaking with such ready acceptance of defeat.
“But, Bras,” he protested, “you’ve been hitting just as well this season as you ever did! I’ve read about you in the papers, and the reporters have all said the same thing.”
“Oh, I can still hit ’em,” Nebraska quietly agreed. “It ain’t the hittin’ that bothers me. That’s the last thing you lose, anyway. Leastways, it’s goin’ to be that way with me, an’ I talked to other fellahs who said it was that way with them.” After a pause he went on in a low tone: “If this ole leg heals up in time, I’ll go on back an’ git in the game again an’ finish out the season. An’ if I’m lucky, maybe they’ll keep me on a couple more years, because they know I can still hit. But, hell,” he added quietly, “they know I’m through. They already got me all tied up with string.”
As Nebraska talked, George saw that the Cherokee in him was the same now as it had been when he was a boy. His cheerful fatalism had always been the source of his great strength and courage. That was why he had never been afraid of anything, not even death. But, seeing the look of regret on George’s face, Nebraska smiled again and went on lightly:
“That’s the way it is, Monk. You’re good up there as long as you’re good. After that they sell you down the river. Hell, I ain’t kickin’. I been lucky. I had ten years of it already, an’ that’s more than most. An’ I been in three World’s Serious. If I can hold on fer another year or two — if they don’t let me go or trade me — I think maybe we’ll be in again. Me an’ Myrtle has figgered it all out. I had to help her people some, an’ I bought a farm fer Mama an’ the Ole Man — that’s where they always wanted to be. An’ I got three hundred acres of my own in Zebulon — all paid fer, too! — an’ if I git a good price this year fer my tobacco, I Stan’ to clear two thousand dollars. So if I can git two years more in the League an’ one more good World’s Serious, why”— he turned his square face towards his friend and grinned his brown and freckled grin, just as he used to as a boy —“we’ll be all set.”
“And — you mean you’ll be satisfied?”
“Huh? Satisfied?” Nebraska turned to him with a puzzled look. “How do you mean?”
“I mean after all you’ve seen and done, Bras — the big cities and the crowds, and all the people shouting — and the newspapers, and the headlines, and the World’s Series — and — and — the first of March, and St. Petersburg, and meeting all the fellows again, and spring training ——”
Nebraska groaned186.
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“Spring trainin’.”
“You mean you don’t like it?”
“Like it! Them first three weeks is just plain hell. It ain’t bad when you’re a kid. You don’t put on much weight durin’ the winter, an’ when you come down in the spring it only takes a few days to loosen up an’ git the kinks out. In two weeks’ time you’re loose as ashes. But wait till you been aroun’ as long as I have!” He laughed loudly and shook his head. “Boy! The first time you go after a grounder you can hear your joints187 creak. After a while you begin to limber up — you work into it an’ git the soreness out of your muscles. By the time the season starts, along in April, you feel pretty good. By May you’re goin’ like a house a-fire, an’ you tell yourself you’re good as you ever was. You’re still goin’ strong along in June. An’ then you hit July, an’ you git them double-headers in St. Looie! Boy, oh boy!” Again he shook his head and laughed, baring big square teeth. “Monkus,” he said quietly, turning to his companion, and now his face was serious and he had his black Indian look —“you ever been in St. Looie in July?”
“No.”
“All right, then,” he said very softly and scornfully. “An’ you ain’t played ball there in July. You come up to bat with sweat bustin’ from your ears. You step up an’ look out there to where the pitcher ought to be, an’ you see four of him. The crowd in the bleachers is out there roastin’ in their shirt-sleeves, an’ when the pitcher throws the ball it just comes from nowheres — it comes right out of all them shirt-sleeves in the bleachers. It’s on top of you before you know it. Well, anyway, you dig in an’ git a toe-hold, take your cut, an’ maybe you connect. You straighten out a fast one. It’s good fer two bases if you hustle188. In the old days you could’ve made it standin’ up. But now — boy!” He shook his head slowly. “You cain’t tell me nothin’ about that ball park in St. Looie in July! They got it all growed out in grass in April, but after July first”— he gave a short laugh —“hell! — it’s paved with concrete! An’ when you git to first, them dogs is sayin’, ‘Boy, let’s stay here!’ But you gotta keep on goin’— you know the manager is watchin’ you — you’re gonna ketch hell if you don’t take that extra base, it may mean the game. An’ the boys up in the press-box, they got their eyes glued on you, too — they’ve begun to say old Crane is playin’ on a dime189 — an’ you’re thinkin’ about next year an’ maybe gittin’ in another Serious — an’ you hope to God you don’t git traded to St. Looie. So you take it on the lam, you slide into second like the Twentieth Century comin’ into the Chicago yards — an’ when you git up an’ feel yourself all over to see if any of your parts is missin’, you gotta listen to one of that second baseman’s wisecracks: ‘What’s the hurry, Bras? Afraid you’ll be late fer the Veterans’ Reunion?’”
“I begin to see what you mean, all right,” said George.
“See what I mean? Why, say! One day this season I ast one of the boys what month it was, an’ when he told me it was just the middle of July, I says to him: ‘July, hell! If it ain’t September I’ll eat your hat!’ ‘Go ahead, then,’ he says, ‘an’ eat it, because it ain’t September, Bras — it’s July.’ ‘Well,’ I says, ‘they must be havin’ sixty days a month this year — it’s the longest damn July I ever felt!’ An’ lemme tell you, I didn’t miss it fer, either — I’ll be dogged if I did! When you git old in this business, it may be only July, but you think it’s September.” He was silent for a moment. “But they’ll keep you in there, gener’ly, as long as you can hit. If you can smack190 that ole apple, they’ll send you out there if they’ve got to use glue to keep you from fallin’ apart. So maybe I’ll git in another year or two if I’m lucky. So long’s I can hit ’em, maybe they’ll keep sendin’ me out there till all the other players has to grunt191 every time ole Bras goes after a ground ball!” He laughed. “I ain’t that bad yet, but soon’s I am, I’m through.”
“You won’t mind it, then, when you have to quit?”
He didn’t answer at once. He sat there looking out the window at the factory-blighted landscape of New Jersey. Then he laughed a little wearily:
“Boy, this may be a ride on the train to you, but to me — say! — I covered this stretch so often that I can tell you what telephone post we’re passin’ without even lookin’ out the window. Why, hell yes!”— he laughed loudly now, in the old infectious way —“I used to have ’em numbered — now I got ’em named!”
“And you think you can get used to spending all your time out on the farm in Zebulon?”
“Git used to it?” In Nebraska’s voice there was now the same note of scornful protest that it had when he was a boy, and for a moment he turned and looked at his friend with an expression of astonished disgust. “Why, what are you talkin’ about? That’s the greatest life in the world!”
“And your father? How is he, Bras?”
The player grinned and shook his head: “Oh, the Ole Man’s happy as a possum. He’s doin’ what he wanted to do all his life.”
“And is he well?”
“If he felt any better he’d have to go to bed. Strong as a bull,” said Nebraska proudly. “He could wrastle a bear right now an’ bite his nose off! Why, hell yes!” the player went on with an air of conviction —“he could take any two men I know today an’ throw ’em over his shoulder!”
“Bras, do you remember when you and I were kids and your father was on the police force, how he used to wrestle192 all those professionals that came to town? There were some good ones, too!”
“You’re damn right there was!” said the player, nodding his head. “Tom Anderson, who used to be South Atlantic champion, an’ that fellah Petersen — do you remember him?”
“Sure. They called him the Bone–Crushing Swede — he used to come there all the time.”
“Yeah, that’s him. He used to wrastle all over the country — he was way up there, one of the best in the business. The Ole Man wrastled him three times, an’ throwed him once, too!”
“And that big fellow they called the Strangler Turk ——”
“Yeah, an’ he was good, too! Only he wasn’t no Turk — he only called hisself one. The Ole Man told me he was some kind of Polack or Bohunk from the steel mills out in Pennsylvania, an’ that’s how he got so strong.”
“And the Jersey Giant ——”
“Yeah ——”
“And Cyclone193 Finnegan ——”
“Yeah ——”
“And Bull Dakota — and Texas Jim Ryan — and the Masked Marvel194? Do you remember the Masked Marvel?”
“Yeah — only there was a whole lot of them — guys cruisin’ all over the country callin’ theirselves the Masked Marvel. The Ole Man wrastled two of ’em. Only the real Masked Marvel never came to town. The Ole Man told me there was a real Masked Marvel, but he-was too damn good, I guess, to come to Libya Hill.”
“Do you remember the night, Bras, up at the old City Auditorium195, when your father was wrestling one of these Masked Marvels196, and we were there in the front row rooting for him, and he got a strangle hold on this fellow with the mask, and the mask came off — and the fellow wasn’t the Masked Marvel at all, but only that Greek who used to work all night at the Bijou Café for Ladies and Gents down by the depot197?”
“Yeah — haw-haw!” Nebraska threw back his head and laughed loudly. “I’d clean fergot that damn Greek, but that’s who it was! The whole crowd hollered frame-up an’ tried to git their money back — I’ll swear, Monk! I’m glad to see you!” He put his big brown hand on his companion’s knee. “It don’t seem no time, does it? It all comes back!”
“Yes, Bras”— for a moment George looked out at the flashing landscape with a feeling of sadness and wonder in his heart —“it all comes back.”
George sat by the window and watched the stifled198 land stroke past him. It was unseasonably hot for September, there had been no rain for weeks, and all afternoon the contours of the eastern seaboard faded away into the weary hazes199 of the heat. The soil was parched200 and dusty, and under a glazed201 and burning sky coarse yellow grasses and the withered202 stalks of weeds simmered and flashed beside the tracks. The whole continent seemed to be gasping203 for its breath. In the hot green depths of the train a powder of fine cinders beat in through the meshes204 of the screens, and during the pauses at stations the little fans at both ends of the car hummed monotonously205, with a sound that seemed to be the voice of the heat itself. During these intervals when the train stood still, enormous engines steamed slowly by on adjacent tracks, or stood panting, passive as great cats, and their engineers wiped wads of blackened waste across their grimy faces, while the passengers fanned feebly with sheaves of languid paper or sat in soaked and sweltering dejection.
For a long time George sat alone beside his window. His eyes took in every detail of the changing scene, but his thoughts were turned inward, absorbed in recollections which his meeting with Nebraska Crane had brought alive again. The great train pounded down across New Jersey, across Pennsylvania, across the tip of Delaware, and into Maryland. The unfolding panorama206 of the land was itself like a sequence on the scroll207 of time. George felt lost and a little sick. His talk with his boyhood friend had driven him back across the years. The changes in Nebraska and his quiet acceptance of defeat had added an undertone of sadness to the vague, uneasy sense of foreboding which he had got from his conversation with the banker, the politician, and the Mayor.
At Baltimore, when the train slowed to a stop in the gloom beneath the station, he caught a-momentary glimpse of a face on the platform as it slid past his window. All that he could see was a blur110 of thin, white features and a sunken mouth, but at the corners of the mouth he thought he also caught the shadow of a smile — faint, evil, ghostly — and at sight of it a sudden and unreasoning terror seized him. Could that be Judge Rumford Bland208?
As the train started up again and passed through the tunnel on the other side of the city, a blind man appeared at the rear of the car. The other people were talking, reading, or dozing209, and the blind man came in so quietly that none of them noticed him enter. He took the first seat at the end and sat down. When the train emerged into the waning210 sunlight of this September day, George looked round and saw him sitting there. He just sat quietly, gripping a heavy walnut211 walking-stick with a frail212 hand, the sightless eyes fixed in vacancy213, the thin and sunken face listening with that terrible intent stillness that only the blind know, and around the mouth hovered that faint suggestion of a smile, which, hardly perceptible though it was, had in it a kind of terrible vitality214 and the mercurial215 attractiveness of a ruined angel. It was Judge Rumford Bland!
George had not seen him in fifteen years. At that time he was not blind, but already his eyes were beginning to fail. George remembered him as he was then, and remembered, too, how the sight of the man, frequently to be seen prowling the empty streets of the night when all other life was sleeping and the town was dead, had struck a nameless terror into his boy’s heart. Even then, before blindness had come upon him, some nocturnal urge had made him seek deserted216 pavements beneath the blank and sterile corner lights, past windows that were always dark, past doors that were for ever locked.
He came from an old and distinguished218 family, and, like all his male ancestors for one hundred years or more, he had been trained in the profession of the law. For a single term he had been a police-court magistrate219, and from then on was known as “Judge” Bland. But he had fallen grievously from the high estate his family held. During the period of George Webber’s boyhood he still professed220 to be a lawyer. He had a shabby office in a disreputable old building which he owned, and his name was on the door as an attorney, but his living was earned by other and more devious221 means. Indeed, his legal skill and knowledge had been used more for the purpose of circumventing222 the law and defeating justice than in maintaining them. Practically all his “business” was derived223 from the negro population of the town, and of this business the principal item was usury224.
On the Square, in his ramshackle two-storey building of rusty brick, was “the store”. It was a second-hand225 furniture store, and it occupied the ground floor and basement of the building. It was, of course, nothing but a blind for his illegal transactions with the negroes. A hasty and appalled226 inspection227 of the mountainous heap of ill-smelling junk which it contained would have been enough to convince one that if the owner had to depend on the sale of his stock he would have to close his doors within a month. It was incredible. In the dirty window was a pool table, taken as brutal228 tribute from some negro billiard parlour. But what a pool table! Surely it had not a fellow in all the relics229 in the land. Its surface was full of lumps and dents230 and ridges231. Not a pocket remained without a hole in the bottom big enough to drop a baseball through. The green cloth-covering had worn through or become unfixed in a dozen places. The edges of the table and the cloth itself were seared and burnt with the marks of innumerable cigarettes. Yet this dilapidated object was by all odds232 the most grandiose233 adornment234 of the whole store.
As one peered back into the gloom of the interior he became aware of the most fantastic collection of nigger junk that was ever brought together in one place. On the street floor as well as in the basement it was piled up to the ceiling, and all jumbled235 together as if some gigantic steam-shovel had opened its jaws236 and dumped everything just as it was. There were broken-down rocking-chairs, bureaus with cracked mirrors and no bottoms in the drawers, tables with one, two, or three of their legs missing, rusty old kitchen stoves with burnt-out grates and elbows of sooty pipe, blackened frying pans encased in the grease of years, flat irons, chipped plates and bowls and pitchers238, washtubs, chamber-pots, and a thousand other objects, all worn out, cracked, and broken.
What, then, was the purpose of this store, since it was filled with objects of so little value that even the poorest negroes could get slight use from them? The purpose, and the way Judge Rumford Bland used it, was quite simple:
A negro in trouble, in immediate120 need of money to pay a police-court fine, a doctor’s bill, or some urgent debt, would come to see Judge Bland. Sometimes he needed as little as five or ten dollars, occasionally as much as fifty dollars, but usually it was less than that. Judge Bland would then demand to know what security he had. The negro, of course, had none, save perhaps a few personal possessions and some wretched little furniture — a bed, a chair, a table, a kitchen stove. Judge Bland would send his collector, bulldog, and chief lieutenant239 — a ferret-faced man named Clyde Beals — to inspect these miserable240 possessions, and if he thought the junk important enough to its owner to justify241 the loan, he would advance the money, extracting from it, however, the first instalment of his interest.
From this point on, the game was plainly and flagrantly usurious. The interest was payable242 weekly, every Saturday night. On a ten-dollar loan Judge Bland extracted interest of fifty cents a week; on a twenty-dollar loan, interest of a dollar a week; and so on. That is why the amount of the loans was rarely as much as fifty dollars. Not only were the contents of most negro shacks243 less than that, but to pay two dollars and a half in weekly interest was beyond the capacity of most negroes, whose wage, if they were men, might not be more than five or six dollars a week, and if they were women — cooks or house-servants in the town — might be only three or four dollars. Enough had to be left them for a bare existence or it was no game. The purpose and skill of the game came in lending the negro a sum of money somewhat greater than his weekly wage and his consequent ability to pay back, but also a sum whose weekly interest was within the range of his small income.
Judge Bland had on his books the names of negroes who had paid him fifty cents or a dollar a week over a period of years, on an original loan of ten or twenty dollars. Many of these poor and ignorant people were unable to comprehend what had happened to them. They could only feel mournfully, dumbly, with the slave-like submissiveness of their whole training and conditioning, that at some time in the distant past they had got their money, spent it, and had their fling, and that now they must pay perpetual tribute for that privilege. Such men and women as these would come to that dim-lit place of filth244 and misery on Saturday night, and there the Judge himself, black-frocked, white-shirted, beneath one dingy245, fly-specked bulb, would hold his private court:
“What’s wrong, Carrie? You’re two weeks behind in your payments. Is fifty cents all you got this week?”
“It doan seem lak it was three weeks. Musta slipped up somewheres in my countin’.”
“You didn’t slip up. It’s three weeks. You owe a dollar fifty. Is this all you got?”
With sullen apology: “Yassuh.”
“When will you have the rest of it?”
“Dey’s a fellah who say he gonna give me ——”
“Never mind about that. Are you going to keep up your payments after this or not?”
“Dat’s whut Ah wuz sayin’. Jus’ as soon as Monday come, an’ dat fellah ——”
Harshly: “Who you working for now?”
“Doctah Hollandah ——”
“You cooking for him?”
Sullenly246, with unfathomable negro mournfulness: “Yassuh.”
“How much is he paying you?”
“Three dollahs.”
“And you mean you can’t keep up? You can’t pay fifty cents a week?”
Still sullen, dark, and mournful, as doubtful and confused as jungle depths of Africa: “Doan know . . . Seem lak a long time since Ah started payin’ up ——”
Harshly, cold as poison, quick as a striking snake: “You’ve never started paying up. You’ve paid nothing. You’re only paying interest, and behind in that.”
And still doubtfully, in black confusion, fumbling247 and fingering and bringing forth at last a wad of greasy little receipts from the battered purse: “Doan know, seem lak Ah got enough of dese to’ve paid dat ten dollahs up long ago. How much longer does Ah have to keep on payin’?”
“Till you’ve got ten dollars . . . All right, Carrie: here’s your receipt. You bring that extra dollar in next week.”
Others, a little more intelligent than Carrie, would comprehend more dearly what had happened to them, but would continue to pay because they were unable to get together at one time enough money to release them from their bondage248. A few would have energy and power enough to save their pennies until at last they were able to buy back their freedom. Still others, after paying week by week and month by month, would just give up in despair and would pay no more. Then, of course, Clyde Beals was on them like a vulture. He nagged249, he wheedled250, and he threatened; and if, finally, he saw that he could get no more money from them, he took their household furniture. Hence the chaotic251 pile of malodorous junk which filled the shop.
Why, it may be asked, in a practice that was so flagrantly, nakedly, and unashamedly usurious as this, did Judge Rumford Bland not come into collision with the law? Did the police not know from what sources, and in what ways, his income was derived?
They knew perfectly252. The very store in which this miserable business was carried on was within twenty yards of the City Hall, and within fifty feet of the side entrance to the town calaboose, up whose stone steps many of these same negroes had time and again been hauled and mauled and hurled253 into a cell. The practice, criminal though it was, was a common one, winked254 at by the local authorities, and but one of many similar practices by which unscrupulous white men all over the South feathered their own nests at the expense of an oppressed and ignorant people. The fact that such usury was practised chiefly against “a bunch of niggers” to a large degree condoned255 and pardoned it in the eyes of the law.
Moreover, Judge Rumford Bland knew that the people with whom he dealt would not inform on him. He knew that the negro stood in awe237 of the complex mystery of the law, of which he understood little or nothing, or in terror of its brutal force. The law for him was largely a matter of the police, and the police was a white man in a uniform, who had the power and authority to arrest him, to beat him with his fist or with a club, to shoot him with a gun, and to lock him up in a small, dark cell. It was not likely, therefore, that any negro would take his troubles to the police. He was not aware that he had any rights as a citizen, and that Judge Rumford Bland had violated those rights; or, if he was aware of rights, however vaguely, he was not likely to ask for their protection by a group of men at whose hands he had known only assault, arrest, and imprisonment256.
Above the shambles257 of the nigger junk, upon the second floor, were Judge Bland’s offices. A wooden stairway, worn by the tread of clay-booted time, and a hand-rail, loose as an old tooth, smooth, besweated by the touch of many a black palm, led up to a dark hallway. Here, in Stygian gloom, one heard the punctual monotone of a single and regularly repeated small drop of water dripping somewhere in the rear, and caught the overpowering smell of the tin urinal. Opening off of this hall-way was the glazed glass of the office door, which bore the legend in black paint, partly flaked258 off:
RUMFORD BLAND ATTORNEY AT LAW
Within, the front room was furnished with such lumber259 as lawyers use. The floor was bare, there were two roll-top desks, black with age, two bookcases with glass doors, filled with battered volumes of old pigskin brown, a spittoon, brass-bodied and capacious, swimming with tobacco juice, a couple of ancient swivel chairs, and a few other nondescript straight-backed chairs for visitors to sit and creak in. On the walls were several faded diplomas — Pine Rock College, Bachelor of Arts; The University of Old Catawba, Doctor of Laws; and a certificate of The Old Catawba Bar Association. Behind was another room with nothing in it but some more bookcases full of heavy tomes in musty calf260 bindings, a few chairs, and against the wall a plush sofa — the room, it was whispered, “where Bland took his women”. Out front, in the windows that looked on the Square, their glass unwashed and specked with the ghosts of flies that died when Gettysburg was young, were two old, frayed261, mottled-yellow window shades, themselves as old as Garfield, and still faintly marked with the distinguished names of “Kennedy and Bland”. The Kennedy of that old law firm had been the father of Baxter Kennedy, the Mayor, and his partner, old General Bland, had been Rumford’s father. Both bad been dead for years, but no one had bothered to change the lettering.
Such were the premises262 of Judge Rumford Bland as George Webber remembered them. Judge Rumford Bland —“bondsman”, “furniture dealer”, usurious lender to the blacks. Judge Rumford Bland — son of a brigadier of infantry263, C.S.A., member of the bar, wearer of immaculate white and broadcloth black.
What had happened to this man that had so corrupted264 and perverted266 his life from its true and honourable267 direction? No one knew. There was no question that he possessed268 remarkable269 gifts. In his boyhood George had heard the more reputable attorneys of the town admit that few of them would have been Judge Bland’s match in skill and ability had he chosen to use his talents in an honest way.
But he was stained with evil. There was something genuinely old and corrupt265 at the sources of his life and spirit. It had got into his blood, his bone, his flesh. It was palpable in the touch of his thin, frail hand when he greeted you, it was present in the deadly weariness of his tone of voice, in the dead-white texture270 of his emaciated271 face, in his lank217 and lustreless272 auburn hair, and, most of all, in his sunken mouth, around which there hovered constantly the ghost of a smile. It could only be called the ghost of a smile, and yet, really, it was no smile at all. It was, if anything, only a shadow at the corners of the mouth. When one looked closely, it was gone. But one knew that it was always there — lewd273, evil, mocking, horribly corrupt, and suggesting a limitless vitality akin15 to the humour of death, which welled up from some secret spring in his dark soul.
In his early manhood Judge Bland had married a beautiful but dissolute woman, whom he shortly divorced. The utter cynicism that marked his attitude towards women was perhaps partly traceable to this source. Ever since his divorce he had lived alone with his mother, a stately, white-haired lady to whom he rendered at all times a faithful, solicitous274, exquisitely275 kind and gentle duty. Some people suspected that this filial devotion was tinged276 with irony277 and contemptuous resignation, but certainly the old lady herself had no cause to think so. She occupied a pleasant old house, surrounded with every comfort, and if she ever guessed by what dark means her luxuries had been assured, she never spoke of it to her son. As for women generally, Judge Bland divided them brutally278 into two groups — the mothers and the prostitutes — and, aside from the single exception in his own home, his sole interest was in the second division.
He had begun to go blind several years before George left Libya Hill, and the thin, white face, with its shadowy smile, had been given a sinister279 enhancement by the dark spectacles which he then wore. He was under treatment at the Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, and made trips there at intervals of six weeks, but his vision was growing steadily280 worse, and the doctors had already told him that his condition was practically hopeless. The malady281 that was destroying his sight had been brought on by a loathsome282 disease which he thought had been checked long since, and which he frankly283 admitted had been engendered284 in his eyes.
In spite of all these sinister and revolting facts of character, of spirit, and of person, Judge Bland, astonishing as it may seem, had always been an enormously attractive figure. Everyone who met him knew at once that the man was bad. No, “bad” is not the word for it. Everyone knew that he was evil — genuinely, unfathomably evil — and evil of this sort has a grandeur285 about it not unlike the grandeur of supreme286 goodness. And indeed, there was goodness in him that had never altogether died. In his single term upon the bench as a police-court magistrate, it was universally agreed that Judge Bland had been fair and wise in his disposal of swift justice. Whatever it was that had made this fact possible — and no one pretended to understand it — the aura of it still clung to him. And it was for just this reason that people who met him were instantly, even if they fought against it, captivated, drawn287 close to him, somehow made to like him. At the very moment that they met him, and felt the force of death and evil working in him, they also felt — oh, call it the phantom288, the radiance, the lost soul, of an enormous virtue289. And with the recognition of that quality came the sudden stab of overwhelming regret, the feeling of “What a loss! What a shame!” And yet no one could say why.
As the early dusk of approaching autumn settled swiftly down, the train sped southward towards Virginia. George sat by the window watching the dark shapes of trees flash by, and thought back over all that he had ever known about Judge Rumford Bland. The loathing290 and terror and mysterious attraction which the man had always had for him were now so great that he felt he could not sit alone there any longer. Midway in the car the other people from Libya Hill had gathered together in a noisy huddle291. Jarvis Riggs, Mayor Kennedy, and Sol Isaacs were sitting down or sprawling292 on the arms of the seats, and Parson Flack was standing293 in the aisle, leaning over earnestly as he talked, with arms outstretched on the backs of the two seats that enclosed the group. In the centre of this huddle, the focus of all their attention, was Nebraska Crane. They had caught him as he went by, and now they had him cornered.
George rose and went over to join them, and as he did so he glanced again in the direction of Judge Bland. He was dressed with old-fashioned fastidiousness, just as he had always dressed, in loose-fitting garments of plain and heavy black, a starched294 white shirt, a low collar and a black string neck-tie, and a wide-brimmed Panama hat which he had not removed. Beneath the brim of the hat his once auburn hair was now a dead, and lifeless white. This and the sightless eyes were the only changes in him. Otherwise he looked just as he had looked fifteen years ago. He had not stirred since he came in. Ha sat upright, leaning a little forward on his cane, his blindly staring eyes fixed before him, his white and sunken face held in an attitude of intense, listening stillness.
As George joined the group in the middle of the car, they were excitedly discussing property values — all of them, that is, except Nebraska Crane. Parson Flack would bend over earnestly, showing his big teeth in a smile and tell about some recent deal, and what a certain piece of land had sold for —“Right out there on Charles Street, not far from where you used to live, Bras!” To each of these new marvels the player’s response was the same:
“Well I’ll be dogged!” he said, astounded. “What d’you know about that!”
The banker now leaned forward and tapped Nebraska confidentially296 on the knee. He talked to him persuasively297, in friendly wise, urging him to invest his savings298 in the real estate speculations299 of the town. He brought up all his heaviest artillery300 of logic301 and mathematics, drawing forth his pencil and note-book to figure out just how much a given sum of money could be increased if it was shrewdly invested now in this or that piece of property, and then sold when the time was right.
“You can’t go wrong!” said Jarvis Riggs, a little feverishly302. “The town is bound to grow. Why, Libya Hill is only at the beginning of its development. You bring your money back home, my boy, and let it go to work for you! You’ll see!”
This went on for some time. But in the face of all their urgings Nebraska remained his characteristic self. He was respectful and good-natured, but a little dubious303, and fundamentally stubborn.
“I already got me a farm out in Zebulon,” he said, and, grinning —“It’s paid fer, too! When I git through playin’ baseball, I’m comin’ back an’ settle down out there an’ farm it. It’s three hundred acres of the purtiest bottom land you ever seen. That’s all I want. I couldn’t use no more.”
As Nebraska talked to them in his simple, homely way, he spoke as a man of the earth for whom the future opened up serenely304, an independent, stubborn man who knew what he wanted, a man who was firmly rooted, established, secure against calamity305 and want. He was completely detached from the fever of the times — from the fever of the boom-mad town as well as from the larger fever of the nation. The others talked incessantly306 about land, but George saw that Nebraska Crane was the only one who still conceived of the land as a place on which to live, and of living on the land as a way of life.
At last Nebraska detached himself from the group and said he was going back to take a smoke. George started to follow him. As he passed down the aisle behind his friend and came abreast of the last seat, suddenly a quiet, toneless voice said:
“Good evening, Webber.”
He stopped and spun307 round. The blind man was seated there before him. He had almost forgotten about him. The blind man had not moved as he spoke. He was still leaning a little forward on his cane, his thin, white face held straight before him as if he were still listening for something. George felt now, as he had always felt, the strange fascination308 in that evil shadow of a smile that hovered about the corners of the blind man’s mouth. He paused, then said:
“Judge Bland.”
“Sit down, son.” And like a child under the spell of the Pied Piper, he sat down. “Let the dead bury their dead. Come sit among the blind.”
The words were uttered tonelessly, yet their cruel and lifeless contempt penetrated309 nakedly throughout the car. The other men stopped talking and turned as if they had received an electric shock. George did not know what to say; in the embarrassment310 of the moment he blurted311 out:
“I— I— there are a lot of people on the train from home. I— I’ve been talking to them — Mayor Kennedy, and ——”
The blind man, never moving, in his terrible toneless voice that carried to all ears, broke in:
“Yes, I know. As eminent312 a set of sons-of-bitches as were ever gathered together in the narrow confines of a single pullman-car.”
The whole car listened in an appalled silence. The group in the middle looked at one another with fear in their eyes, and in a moment they began ‘talking feverishly again.
“I hear you were in France again last year,” the voice now said. “And did you find the French whores any different from the homegrown variety?”
The naked words, with their toneless evil, pierced through the car like a flash of sheer terror. All conversation stopped. Everyone was stunned313, frozen into immobility.
“You’ll find there’s not much difference,” Judge Bland observed calmly and in the same tone. “Syphilis makes the whole world kin16. And if you want to lose your eyesight, you can do it in this great democracy as well as anywhere on earth.”
The whole car was as quiet as death. In another moment the stunned faces turned towards one another, and the men began to talk in furtive314 whispers.
Through all of this the expression on that white and sunken face had never altered, and the shadow of that ghostly smile still lingered around the mouth. But now, low and casually315, he said to the young man:
“How are you, son? I’m glad to see you.” And in that simple phrase, spoken by the blind man, there was the suggestion of a devilish humour, although his expression did not change a bit.
“You — you’ve been in Baltimore, Judge Bland?”
“Yes, I still come up to Hopkins now and then. It does no good, of course. You see, son,” the tone was low and friendly now, “I’ve gone completely blind since I last saw you.”
“I didn’t know. But you don’t mean that you ——”
“Oh, utterly316! Utterly!” replied Judge Bland, and all at once he threw his sightless face up and laughed with sardonic317 glee, displaying blackened rims318 of teeth, as if the joke was too good to be kept. “My dear boy, I assure you that I am utterly blind. I can no longer distinguish one of our most prominent local bastards319 two feet off —Now, Jarvis!” he suddenly cried out in a chiding320 voice in the direction of the unfortunate Riggs, who had loudly resumed his discussion of property values —“you know that’s not true! Why, man, I can tell by the look in your eyes that you’re lying!” And again he lifted his face and was shaken by devilish, quiet laughter. “Excuse the interruption, son,” he went on. “I believe the subject of our discourse321 was bastardy322. Why, can you believe it?”— he leaned forward again his long fingers playing gently on the polished ridges of his stick —“where bastardy is concerned, I find I can no longer trust my eyes at all. I rely exclusively on the sense of smell. And”— for the first time his face was sunken deliberately323 in weariness and disgust —“it is enough. A sense of smell is all you need.” Abruptly changing now, he said: “How are the folks?”
“Why — Aunt Maw’s dead. I— I’m going home to the funeral.”
“Dead, is she?”
That was all he said. None of the usual civilities, no expression of polite regret, just that and nothing more. Then, after a moment:
“So you’re going down to bury her.” It was a statement, and he said it reflectively, as though meditating324 upon it; then —“And do you think you can go home again?”
George was a little startled and puzzled: “Why — I don’t understand. How do you mean, Judge Bland?”
There was another flare325 of that secret, evil laughter. “I mean, do you think you can really go home again?” Then, sharp, cold, peremptory326 —“Now answer me! Do you think you can?”
“Why — why yes! Why —” the young man was desperate, almost frightened now, and, earnestly, beseechingly327, he said —“why look here, Judge Bland — I haven’t done anything — honestly I haven’t!”
Again the low, demonic laughter: “You’re sure?”
Frantic328 now with the old terror which the man had always inspired in him as a boy: “Why — why of course I’m sure! Look here, Judge Bland — in the name of God, what have I done?” He thought desperately of a dozen wild, fantastic things, feeling a sickening and overwhelming consciousness of guilt329, without knowing why. He thought: “Has he heard about my book? Does he know I wrote about the town? Is that what he means?”
The blind man cackled thinly to himself, enjoying with evil tenderness his little cat’s play with the young man: “The guilty fleeth where no man pursueth. Is that it, son?”
Frankly distracted: “Why — why — I’m not guilty!” Angrily: “Why damn it, I’m not guilty of anything!” Passionately330, excitedly: “I can hold up my head with any man! I can look the whole damn world in the eye! I make no apologies to ——”
He stopped short, seeing the evil ghost-shadow of a smile at the corners of the blind man’s mouth. “That disease!” he thought —“the thing that ruined his eyes — maybe — maybe — why, yes — the man is crazy!” Then he spoke, slowly, simply:
“Judge Bland.” He rose from the seat. “Good-bye, Judge Bland.” The smile still played about the blind man’s mouth, but he answered with a new note of kindness in his voice:
“Good-bye, son.” There was a barely perceptible pause. “But don’t forget I tried to warn you.”
George walked quickly away with thudding heart and trembling limbs. What had Judge Bland meant when he asked, “Do you think you can go home again?” And what had been the meaning of that evil, silent, mocking laughter? What had he heard? What did he know? And these others — did they know, too?
He soon learned that his fear and panic in the blind man’s presence were shared by all the people in the car. Even the passengers who had, never seen Judge Bland before had heard his naked, brutal words, and they were now horrified331 by the sight of him. As for the rest, the men from Libya Hill, this feeling was greatly enhanced, sharpened by all that they knew of him. He had pursued his life among them with insolent332 shamelessness. Though he still masked in all the outward aspects of respectability, he was in total disrepute, and yet he met the opinion of the town with such cold and poisonous contempt that everyone held him in a kind of terrified respect. As for Parson Flack, Jarvis Riggs, and Mayor Kennedy, they were afraid of him because his blind eyes saw straight through them. His sudden appearance in the car, where none had expected to meet him, had aroused in all of them a sense of stark333, underlying334 terror.
As George went into the washroom suddenly, be came upon the Mayor cleaning his false teeth in the basin. The man’s plump face, which George had always known in the guise335 of cheerful, hearty amiability, was all caved in. Hearing a sound behind him, the Mayor turned upon the newcomer. For a moment there was nothing but nameless fright in his weak brown eyes. He mumbled336 frantically337, incoherently, holding his false teeth in his trembling fingers. Like a man who did not know what he was doing, he brandished338 them in a grotesque339 yet terrible gesture indicative of — God knows what! — but despair and terror were both in it. Then he put the teeth into his mouth again, smiled feebly, and muttered apologetically, with some counterfeit340 of his usual geniality341:
“Ho, ho! — well, son! You caught me that time, all right! A man can’t talk without his teeth!”
The same thing was now apparent everywhere. George saw it in the look of an eye, the movement of a hand, the give-away expression of a face in repose342. The merchant, Sol Isaacs, took him aside and whispered:
“Have you heard what they’re saying about the bank?” He looked around quickly and checked himself, as if afraid of the furtive sound of his own voice. “Oh, everything’s O.K.! Sure it is! They just went a little too fast there for a while! Things are rather quiet right now — but they’ll pick up!”
Among all of them there was the same kind of talk that George had heard before. “It’s worth all of that,” they told each other eagerly. “It’ll bring twice as much in a year’s time.” They caught him by the lapel in the most friendly and hearty fashion and said he ought to settle down in Libya Hill and stay for good —“Greatest place on earth, you know!” They made their usual assured pronouncements upon finance, banking343, market trends, and property values. But George sensed now that down below all this was just utter, naked, frantic terror — the terror of men who know that they are ruined and are afraid to admit it, even to themselves.
It was after midnight, and the great train was rushing south across Virginia in the moonlight. The people in the little towns lay in their beds and heard the mournful whistle, then the sudden roar as the train went through, and they turned over restlessly and dreamed of fair and distant cities.
In K19 most of the passengers had retired344 to their berths345. Nebraska Crane had turned in early, but George was still up, and so, too, were the banker, the Mayor, and the political boss. Crass346, world-weary, unimaginative fellows that they were, they were nevertheless too excited by something of the small boy in them that had never died to go to bed at their usual hour aboard a train, and were now drawn together for companionship in the smoke-fogged washroom. Behind the green curtains the complex of male voices rose and fell in talk as they told their endless washroom stories. Quietly, furtively347, with sly delight, they began to recall unsavoury anecdotes348 remembered from the open and shameless life of Judge Rumford Bland, and at the end of each recital349 there would be a choking burst of strong laughter.
When the laughter and the slapping of thighs350 subsided351, Parson Flack leaned forward again, eager to tell another. In a voice that was subdued352, confidential295, almost conspiratorial353, he began:
“And do you remember the time that he ——?”
Swiftly the curtain was drawn aside, all heads jerked up, and Judge Bland entered.
“Now, Parson”— said he in a chiding voice —“remember what?” Before the blind, cold stare of that emaciated face the seated men were silent. Something stronger than fear was in their eyes.
“Remember what?” he said again, a trifle harshly. He stood before them erect354 and fragile, both hands balanced on the head of the cane which he held anchored to the floor in front of him. He turned to Jarvis Riggs: “Remember when you established what you boasted was ‘the fastest-growing bank in all the state’— and weren’t too particular what it grew on?” He turned back to Parson Flack: “Remember when one of ‘the boys’, as you like to call them — you always look out for ‘the boys’, don’t you, Parson? — remember when one of ‘the boys’ borrowed money from ‘the fastest-growing bank’ to buy two hundred acres on that hill across the river?”— he turned to the Mayor —“and sold the land to the town for a new cemetery355? . . . Though why,” he turned his face to Parson Flack again, “the dead should have to go so far to bury their dead I do not know!”
He paused impressively, like a country lawyer getting ready to launch his peroration356 to a jury.
“Remember what?”— the voice rose suddenly, high and sharp. “Do I remember, Parson, how you’ve run the town through all these years? Do I remember what a good thing you’ve made of politics? You’ve never aspired357 to public office, have you, Parson? Oh, no — you’re much too modest. But you know how to pick the public-spirited citizens who do aspire358, and whose great hearts pant with eagerness to serve their fellow men! Ah, yes. It’s a very nice little private business, isn’t it, Parson? And all ‘the boys’ are stockholders and get their cut of the profits — is that the way of it, Parson? . . . Remember what? he cried again. Do I remember now the broken fragments of a town that waits and fears and schemes to put off the day of its impending ruin? Why, Parson, yes — I can remember all these things. And yet I had no part in them, for, after all, I am a humble359 man. Oh — with a deprecating nod — a little nigger squeezing here and there, a little income out of Niggertown, a few illegal lendings, a comfortable practice in small usury — yet my wants were few, my tastes were very simple. I was always satisfied with, say, a modest five per cent a week. So I am not in the big money, Parson. I remember many things, but I see now I have spent my substance, wasted all my talents in riotous360 living — while pious361 Puritans have virtuously362 betrayed their town and given their whole-souled services to the ruin of their fellow men.”
Again there was an ominous363 pause, and when he went on his voice was low, almost casual in its toneless irony:
“I am afraid I have been at best a giddy fellow, Parson, and that my old age will be spent in memories of trivial things — of various merry widows who came to town, of poker364 chips, racehorses, cards, and rattling365 dice366, of bourbon, Scotch367, and rye — all the forms of hellishness that saintly fellows, Parson, who go to prayer-meeting every week, know nothing of. So I suppose I’ll warm my old age with the memories of my own sinfulness — and be buried at last, like all good men and true, among more public benefactors368 in the town’s expensive graveyard369 on the hill . . . But I also remember other things, Parson. So can you. And maybe in my humble sphere I, too, have served a purpose — of being the wild oat of more worthy370 citizens.”
They sat in utter silence, their frightened, guilty eyes all riveted371 upon his face, and each man felt as if those cold, unseeing eyes had looked straight through him. For a moment more Judge Bland just stood there, and, slowly, without a change of muscle in the blankness of his face, the ghostly smile began to hover41 like a shadow at the corners of his sunken mouth.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. He turned, and with his walking-stick he caught and held the curtain to one side. “I’ll be seeing you.”
All through the night George lay in his dark berth and watched the old earth of Virginia as it stroked past him in the dream-haunted silence of the moon. Field and hill and gulch372 and stream and wood again, the everlasting373 earth, the huge illimitable earth of America, kept stroking past him in the steep silence of the moon.
All through the ghostly stillness of the land, the train made on for ever its tremendous noise, fused of a thousand sounds, and they called back to him forgotten memories: old songs, old faces, old memories, and all strange, wordless, and unspoken things men know and live and feel, and never find a language for — the legend of dark time, the sad brevity of their days, the unknowable but haunting miracle of life itself. He heard again, as he had heard throughout his childhood, the pounding wheel, the tolling374 bell, the whistle-wail, and he remembered how these sounds, coming to him from the river’s edge in the little town of his boyhood, had always evoked375 for him their tongueless prophecy of wild and secret joy, their glorious promises of new lands, morning, and a shining city. But now the lonely cry of the great train was speaking to him with an equal strangeness of return. For he was going home again.
The undertone of terror with which he had gone to bed, the sadness of the foreshadowed changes in the town, the sombre prospect of the funeral tomorrow, all combined to make him dread his homecoming, which so many times in the years since he had been away he had looked forward to some day with hope and exultation376. It was all so different from what he thought it would be. He was still only an obscure instructor377 at one of the universities in the city, his book was not yet published, he was not by any standard which his native town could know —“successful”, “a success”. And as he thought of it, he realised that, almost more than anything, he feared the sharp, appraising378 eye, the worldly judgments379, of that little town.
He thought of all his years away from home, the years of wandering in many lands and cities. He remembered how many times he had thought of home with such an intensity380 of passion that he could close his eyes and see the scheme of every street, and every house upon each street, and the faces of the people, as well as recall the countless381 things that they had said and the densely-woven fabric382 of all their histories. To-morrow he would see it all again, and he almost wished he had not come. It would have been easy to plead the excuse of work and other duty. And it was silly, anyhow, to feel as he did about the place.
But why had he always felt so strongly the magnetic pull of home, why had he thought so much about it and remembered it with such blazing accuracy, if it did not matter, and if this little town, and the immortal383 hills around it, was not the only home he had on earth? He did not know. All that he knew was that the years flow by like water, and that one day men come home again.
The train rushed onward384 through the moonlit land.
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1 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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2 transparent | |
adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
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3 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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4 dreaded | |
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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5 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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6 impersonal | |
adj.无个人感情的,与个人无关的,非人称的 | |
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7 fixture | |
n.固定设备;预定日期;比赛时间;定期存款 | |
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8 inflexible | |
adj.不可改变的,不受影响的,不屈服的 | |
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n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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10 puritanical | |
adj.极端拘谨的;道德严格的 | |
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11 provincial | |
adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
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12 clan | |
n.氏族,部落,宗族,家族,宗派 | |
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13 faltered | |
(嗓音)颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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14 croaking | |
v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 );用粗的声音说 | |
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15 akin | |
adj.同族的,类似的 | |
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16 kin | |
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17 pneumonia | |
n.肺炎 | |
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18 relish | |
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19 kinsmen | |
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20 misery | |
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21 intervals | |
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22 almighty | |
adj.全能的,万能的;很大的,很强的 | |
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23 mighty | |
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24 corpse | |
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25 flickering | |
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26 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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27 punctuated | |
v.(在文字中)加标点符号,加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 );不时打断某事物 | |
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28 crumbling | |
adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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29 impending | |
a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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30 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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31 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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32 tribal | |
adj.部族的,种族的 | |
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33 rites | |
仪式,典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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34 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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35 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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36 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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37 murmurous | |
adj.低声的 | |
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38 slant | |
v.倾斜,倾向性地编写或报道;n.斜面,倾向 | |
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39 ponderously | |
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40 hovered | |
鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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41 hover | |
vi.翱翔,盘旋;徘徊;彷徨,犹豫 | |
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42 distilled | |
adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 );从…提取精华 | |
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43 swarmed | |
密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 ); 云集; 成群地移动; 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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44 languorous | |
adj.怠惰的,没精打采的 | |
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45 lapse | |
n.过失,流逝,失效,抛弃信仰,间隔;vi.堕落,停止,失效,流逝;vt.使失效 | |
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46 majestically | |
雄伟地; 庄重地; 威严地; 崇高地 | |
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47 aloof | |
adj.远离的;冷淡的,漠不关心的 | |
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48 drowsy | |
adj.昏昏欲睡的,令人发困的 | |
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49 complexities | |
复杂性(complexity的名词复数); 复杂的事物 | |
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50 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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51 abrupt | |
adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
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52 pranced | |
v.(马)腾跃( prance的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53 tarn | |
n.山中的小湖或小潭 | |
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54 whining | |
n. 抱怨,牢骚 v. 哭诉,发牢骚 | |
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55 irritation | |
n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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56 suave | |
adj.温和的;柔和的;文雅的 | |
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57 reassurance | |
n.使放心,使消除疑虑 | |
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58 superintendent | |
n.监督人,主管,总监;(英国)警务长 | |
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59 machinery | |
n.(总称)机械,机器;机构 | |
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60 tottering | |
adj.蹒跚的,动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 );踉跄;蹒跚;摇摇欲坠 | |
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61 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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62 dub | |
vt.(以某种称号)授予,给...起绰号,复制 | |
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63 jersey | |
n.运动衫 | |
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64 slovenly | |
adj.懒散的,不整齐的,邋遢的 | |
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65 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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66 foppish | |
adj.矫饰的,浮华的 | |
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67 suburban | |
adj.城郊的,在郊区的 | |
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68 jaded | |
adj.精疲力竭的;厌倦的;(因过饱或过多而)腻烦的;迟钝的 | |
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69 puny | |
adj.微不足道的,弱小的 | |
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70 scowling | |
怒视,生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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71 greasy | |
adj. 多脂的,油脂的 | |
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72 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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73 lust | |
n.性(淫)欲;渴(欲)望;vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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74 assertive | |
adj.果断的,自信的,有冲劲的 | |
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75 sterile | |
adj.不毛的,不孕的,无菌的,枯燥的,贫瘠的 | |
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76 jerseys | |
n.运动衫( jersey的名词复数 ) | |
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77 cinders | |
n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 );炭渣;煤渣路;煤渣跑道 | |
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78 costly | |
adj.昂贵的,价值高的,豪华的 | |
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79 exultant | |
adj.欢腾的,狂欢的,大喜的 | |
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80 bristled | |
adj. 直立的,多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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81 pugnaciously | |
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82 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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83 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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84 unity | |
n.团结,联合,统一;和睦,协调 | |
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85 berth | |
n.卧铺,停泊地,锚位;v.使停泊 | |
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86 mermaids | |
n.(传说中的)美人鱼( mermaid的名词复数 ) | |
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87 canyons | |
n.峡谷( canyon的名词复数 ) | |
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88 swarming | |
密集( swarm的现在分词 ); 云集; 成群地移动; 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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89 bustle | |
v.喧扰地忙乱,匆忙,奔忙;n.忙碌;喧闹 | |
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90 underneath | |
adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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91 whit | |
n.一点,丝毫 | |
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92 aisle | |
n.(教堂、教室、戏院等里的)过道,通道 | |
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93 blotted | |
涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 ); (用吸墨纸)吸干 | |
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94 gaudy | |
adj.华而不实的;俗丽的 | |
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95 brittle | |
adj.易碎的;脆弱的;冷淡的;(声音)尖利的 | |
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96 amiability | |
n.和蔼可亲的,亲切的,友善的 | |
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97 sprawled | |
v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词);蔓延;杂乱无序地拓展;四肢伸展坐着(或躺着) | |
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98 tonsured | |
v.剃( tonsure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99 commiseration | |
n.怜悯,同情 | |
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100 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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101 spoke | |
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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102 heartily | |
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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103 considerably | |
adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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104 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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105 projectile | |
n.投射物,发射体;adj.向前开进的;推进的;抛掷的 | |
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106 racing | |
n.竞赛,赛马;adj.竞赛用的,赛马用的 | |
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107 bogs | |
n.沼泽,泥塘( bog的名词复数 );厕所v.(使)陷入泥沼, (使)陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 );妨碍,阻碍 | |
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108 hiss | |
v.发出嘶嘶声;发嘘声表示不满 | |
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109 blurred | |
v.(使)变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 );(使)难以区分;模模糊糊;迷离 | |
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110 blur | |
n.模糊不清的事物;vt.使模糊,使看不清楚 | |
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111 shriek | |
v./n.尖叫,叫喊 | |
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112 wail | |
vt./vi.大声哀号,恸哭;呼啸,尖啸 | |
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113 throttle | |
n.节流阀,节气阀,喉咙;v.扼喉咙,使窒息,压 | |
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114 swollen | |
adj.肿大的,水涨的;v.使变大,肿胀 | |
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115 gland | |
n.腺体,(机)密封压盖,填料盖 | |
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116 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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117 sleepers | |
n.卧铺(通常以复数形式出现);卧车( sleeper的名词复数 );轨枕;睡觉(呈某种状态)的人;小耳环 | |
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118 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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119 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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120 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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121 withers | |
马肩隆 | |
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122 paradox | |
n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法;自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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123 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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124 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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125 brace | |
n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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126 urchin | |
n.顽童;海胆 | |
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127 abreast | |
adv.并排地;跟上(时代)的步伐,与…并进地 | |
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128 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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129 bantering | |
adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑,说笑,逗乐( banter的现在分词 );(善意地)取笑,逗弄 | |
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130 banter | |
n.嘲弄,戏谑;v.取笑,逗弄,开玩笑 | |
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131 monk | |
n.和尚,僧侣,修道士 | |
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132 freckled | |
adj.雀斑;斑点;晒斑;(使)生雀斑v.雀斑,斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133 friendliness | |
n.友谊,亲切,亲密 | |
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134 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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135 locust | |
n.蝗虫;洋槐,刺槐 | |
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136 slung | |
抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 ); 吊挂; 遣送; 押往 | |
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137 mitt | |
n.棒球手套,拳击手套,无指手套;vt.铐住,握手 | |
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138 protruding | |
v.(使某物)伸出,(使某物)突出( protrude的现在分词 );凸 | |
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139 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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140 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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141 astounded | |
v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词);愕然;愕;惊讶 | |
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142 sonorous | |
adj.响亮的,回响的;adv.圆润低沉地;感人地;n.感人,堂皇 | |
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143 gusty | |
adj.起大风的 | |
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144 urchins | |
n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 );淘气鬼;猬;海胆 | |
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145 raucous | |
adj.(声音)沙哑的,粗糙的 | |
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146 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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147 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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148 horde | |
n.群众,一大群 | |
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149 deafening | |
adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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150 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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151 tugging | |
n.牵引感v.用力拉,使劲拉,猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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152 scraps | |
油渣 | |
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153 battered | |
adj.磨损的;v.连续猛击;磨损 | |
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154 kindliness | |
n.厚道,亲切,友好的行为 | |
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155 scrawled | |
乱涂,潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156 skilfully | |
adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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157 badinage | |
n.开玩笑,打趣 | |
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158 reproof | |
n.斥责,责备 | |
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159 chagrin | |
n.懊恼;气愤;委屈 | |
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160 petitioner | |
n.请愿人 | |
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161 turrets | |
(六角)转台( turret的名词复数 ); (战舰和坦克等上的)转动炮塔; (摄影机等上的)镜头转台; (旧时攻城用的)塔车 | |
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162 cramped | |
a.狭窄的 | |
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163 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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164 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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165 garishly | |
adv.鲜艳夺目地,俗不可耐地;华丽地 | |
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166 tinted | |
adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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167 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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168 chubby | |
adj.丰满的,圆胖的 | |
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169 rouge | |
n.胭脂,口红唇膏;v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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170 lipstick | |
n.口红,唇膏 | |
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171 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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172 blindfolded | |
v.(尤指用布)挡住(某人)的视线( blindfold的过去式 );蒙住(某人)的眼睛;使不理解;蒙骗 | |
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173 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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174 genially | |
adv.亲切地,和蔼地;快活地 | |
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175 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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176 placidly | |
adv.平稳地,平静地 | |
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177 placid | |
adj.安静的,平和的 | |
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178 ruminating | |
v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 );反复考虑;反刍;倒嚼 | |
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179 complacently | |
adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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180 chuckled | |
轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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181 pitcher | |
n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐;(棒球)投手 | |
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182 plumb | |
adv.精确地,完全地;v.了解意义,测水深 | |
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183 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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184 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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185 swell | |
vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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186 groaned | |
v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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187 joints | |
接头( joint的名词复数 ); 关节; 公共场所(尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所) (非正式); 一块烤肉 (英式英语) | |
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188 hustle | |
v.推搡;竭力兜售或获取;催促;n.奔忙(碌) | |
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189 dime | |
n.(指美国、加拿大的钱币)一角 | |
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190 smack | |
vt.拍,打,掴;咂嘴;vi.含有…意味;n.拍 | |
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191 grunt | |
v.嘟哝;作呼噜声;n.呼噜声,嘟哝 | |
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192 wrestle | |
vi.摔跤,角力;搏斗;全力对付 | |
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193 cyclone | |
n.旋风,龙卷风 | |
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194 marvel | |
vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异;n.令人惊异的事 | |
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195 auditorium | |
n.观众席,听众席;会堂,礼堂 | |
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196 marvels | |
n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 );令人惊奇的事物(或事例);不平凡的成果;成就v.惊奇,对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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197 depot | |
n.仓库,储藏处;公共汽车站;火车站 | |
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198 stifled | |
(使)窒息, (使)窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 ); 镇压,遏制; 堵 | |
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199 hazes | |
n.(烟尘等的)雾霭( haze的名词复数 );迷蒙;迷糊;(尤指热天引起的)薄雾v.(使)笼罩在薄雾中( haze的第三人称单数 );戏弄,欺凌(新生等,有时作为加入美国大学生联谊会的条件) | |
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200 parched | |
adj.焦干的;极渴的;v.(使)焦干 | |
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201 glazed | |
adj.光滑的,像玻璃的;上过釉的;呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式);上釉于,上光;(目光)变得呆滞无神 | |
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202 withered | |
adj. 枯萎的,干瘪的,(人身体的部分器官)因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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203 gasping | |
adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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204 meshes | |
网孔( mesh的名词复数 ); 网状物; 陷阱; 困境 | |
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205 monotonously | |
adv.单调地,无变化地 | |
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206 panorama | |
n.全景,全景画,全景摄影,全景照片[装置] | |
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207 scroll | |
n.卷轴,纸卷;(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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208 bland | |
adj.淡而无味的,温和的,无刺激性的 | |
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209 dozing | |
v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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210 waning | |
adj.(月亮)渐亏的,逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 );(月)亏;变小;变暗淡 | |
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211 walnut | |
n.胡桃,胡桃木,胡桃色,茶色 | |
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212 frail | |
adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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213 vacancy | |
n.(旅馆的)空位,空房,(职务的)空缺 | |
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214 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
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215 mercurial | |
adj.善变的,活泼的 | |
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216 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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217 lank | |
adj.瘦削的;稀疏的 | |
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218 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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219 magistrate | |
n.地方行政官,地方法官,治安官 | |
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220 professed | |
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
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221 devious | |
adj.不坦率的,狡猾的;迂回的,曲折的 | |
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222 circumventing | |
v.设法克服或避免(某事物),回避( circumvent的现在分词 );绕过,绕行,绕道旅行 | |
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223 derived | |
vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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224 usury | |
n.高利贷 | |
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225 second-hand | |
adj.用过的,旧的,二手的 | |
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226 appalled | |
v.使惊骇,使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的;丧胆的 | |
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227 inspection | |
n.检查,审查,检阅 | |
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228 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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229 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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230 dents | |
n.花边边饰;凹痕( dent的名词复数 );凹部;减少;削弱v.使产生凹痕( dent的第三人称单数 );损害;伤害;挫伤(信心、名誉等) | |
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231 ridges | |
n.脊( ridge的名词复数 );山脊;脊状突起;大气层的)高压脊 | |
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232 odds | |
n.让步,机率,可能性,比率;胜败优劣之别 | |
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233 grandiose | |
adj.宏伟的,宏大的,堂皇的,铺张的 | |
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234 adornment | |
n.装饰;装饰品 | |
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235 jumbled | |
adj.混乱的;杂乱的 | |
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236 jaws | |
n.口部;嘴 | |
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237 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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238 pitchers | |
大水罐( pitcher的名词复数 ) | |
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239 lieutenant | |
n.陆军中尉,海军上尉;代理官员,副职官员 | |
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240 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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241 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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242 payable | |
adj.可付的,应付的,有利益的 | |
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243 shacks | |
n.窝棚,简陋的小屋( shack的名词复数 ) | |
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244 filth | |
n.肮脏,污物,污秽;淫猥 | |
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245 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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246 sullenly | |
不高兴地,绷着脸,忧郁地 | |
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247 fumbling | |
n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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248 bondage | |
n.奴役,束缚 | |
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249 nagged | |
adj.经常遭责怪的;被压制的;感到厌烦的;被激怒的v.不断地挑剔或批评(某人)( nag的过去式和过去分词 );不断地烦扰或伤害(某人);无休止地抱怨;不断指责 | |
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250 wheedled | |
v.骗取(某物),哄骗(某人干某事)( wheedle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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251 chaotic | |
adj.混沌的,一片混乱的,一团糟的 | |
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252 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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253 hurled | |
v.猛投,用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 );大声叫骂 | |
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254 winked | |
v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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255 condoned | |
v.容忍,宽恕,原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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256 imprisonment | |
n.关押,监禁,坐牢 | |
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257 shambles | |
n.混乱之处;废墟 | |
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258 flaked | |
精疲力竭的,失去知觉的,睡去的 | |
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259 lumber | |
n.木材,木料;v.以破旧东西堆满;伐木;笨重移动 | |
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260 calf | |
n.小牛,犊,幼仔,小牛皮 | |
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261 frayed | |
adj.磨损的v.(使布、绳等)磨损,磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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262 premises | |
n.建筑物,房屋 | |
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263 infantry | |
n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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264 corrupted | |
(使)败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)腐化; 引起(计算机文件等的)错误; 破坏 | |
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265 corrupt | |
v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
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266 perverted | |
adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 );腐蚀;败坏;使堕落 | |
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267 honourable | |
adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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268 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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269 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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270 texture | |
n.(织物)质地;(材料)构造;结构;肌理 | |
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271 emaciated | |
adj.衰弱的,消瘦的 | |
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272 lustreless | |
adj.无光泽的,无光彩的,平淡乏味的 | |
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273 lewd | |
adj.淫荡的 | |
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274 solicitous | |
adj.热切的,挂念的 | |
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275 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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276 tinged | |
v.(使)发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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277 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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278 brutally | |
adv.残忍地,野蛮地,冷酷无情地 | |
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279 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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280 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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281 malady | |
n.病,疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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282 loathsome | |
adj.讨厌的,令人厌恶的 | |
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283 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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284 engendered | |
v.产生(某形势或状况),造成,引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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285 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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286 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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287 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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288 phantom | |
n.幻影,虚位,幽灵;adj.错觉的,幻影的,幽灵的 | |
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289 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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290 loathing | |
n.厌恶,憎恨v.憎恨,厌恶( loathe的现在分词);极不喜欢 | |
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291 huddle | |
vi.挤作一团;蜷缩;vt.聚集;n.挤在一起的人 | |
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292 sprawling | |
adj.蔓生的,不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 );蔓延;杂乱无序地拓展;四肢伸展坐着(或躺着) | |
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293 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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294 starched | |
adj.浆硬的,硬挺的,拘泥刻板的v.把(衣服、床单等)浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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295 confidential | |
adj.秘(机)密的,表示信任的,担任机密工作的 | |
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296 confidentially | |
ad.秘密地,悄悄地 | |
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297 persuasively | |
adv.口才好地;令人信服地 | |
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298 savings | |
n.存款,储蓄 | |
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299 speculations | |
n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 );思考;投机活动;推断 | |
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300 artillery | |
n.(军)火炮,大炮;炮兵(部队) | |
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301 logic | |
n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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302 feverishly | |
adv. 兴奋地 | |
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303 dubious | |
adj.怀疑的,无把握的;有问题的,靠不住的 | |
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304 serenely | |
adv.安详地,宁静地,平静地 | |
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305 calamity | |
n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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306 incessantly | |
ad.不停地 | |
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307 spun | |
v.纺,杜撰,急转身 | |
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308 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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309 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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310 embarrassment | |
n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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311 blurted | |
v.突然说出,脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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312 eminent | |
adj.显赫的,杰出的,有名的,优良的 | |
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313 stunned | |
adj. 震惊的,惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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314 furtive | |
adj.鬼鬼崇崇的,偷偷摸摸的 | |
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315 casually | |
adv.漠不关心地,无动于衷地,不负责任地 | |
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316 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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317 sardonic | |
adj.嘲笑的,冷笑的,讥讽的 | |
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318 rims | |
n.(圆形物体的)边( rim的名词复数 );缘;轮辋;轮圈 | |
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319 bastards | |
私生子( bastard的名词复数 ); 坏蛋; 讨厌的事物; 麻烦事 (认为别人走运或不幸时说)家伙 | |
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320 chiding | |
v.责骂,责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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321 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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322 bastardy | |
私生子,庶出; 非婚生 | |
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323 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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324 meditating | |
a.沉思的,冥想的 | |
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325 flare | |
v.闪耀,闪烁;n.潮红;突发 | |
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326 peremptory | |
adj.紧急的,专横的,断然的 | |
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327 beseechingly | |
adv. 恳求地 | |
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328 frantic | |
adj.狂乱的,错乱的,激昂的 | |
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329 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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330 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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331 horrified | |
a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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332 insolent | |
adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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333 stark | |
adj.荒凉的;严酷的;完全的;adv.完全地 | |
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334 underlying | |
adj.在下面的,含蓄的,潜在的 | |
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335 guise | |
n.外表,伪装的姿态 | |
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336 mumbled | |
含糊地说某事,叽咕,咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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337 frantically | |
ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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338 brandished | |
v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 );炫耀 | |
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339 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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340 counterfeit | |
vt.伪造,仿造;adj.伪造的,假冒的 | |
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341 geniality | |
n.和蔼,诚恳;愉快 | |
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342 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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343 banking | |
n.银行业,银行学,金融业 | |
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344 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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345 berths | |
n.(船、列车等的)卧铺( berth的名词复数 );(船舶的)停泊位或锚位;差事;船台vt.v.停泊( berth的第三人称单数 );占铺位 | |
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346 crass | |
adj.愚钝的,粗糙的;彻底的 | |
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347 furtively | |
adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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348 anecdotes | |
n.掌故,趣闻,轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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349 recital | |
n.朗诵,独奏会,独唱会 | |
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350 thighs | |
n.股,大腿( thigh的名词复数 );食用的鸡(等的)腿 | |
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351 subsided | |
v.(土地)下陷(因在地下采矿)( subside的过去式和过去分词 );减弱;下降至较低或正常水平;一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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352 subdued | |
adj. 屈服的,柔和的,减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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353 conspiratorial | |
adj.阴谋的,阴谋者的 | |
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354 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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355 cemetery | |
n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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356 peroration | |
n.(演说等之)结论 | |
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357 aspired | |
v.渴望,追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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358 aspire | |
vi.(to,after)渴望,追求,有志于 | |
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359 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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360 riotous | |
adj.骚乱的;狂欢的 | |
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361 pious | |
adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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362 virtuously | |
合乎道德地,善良地 | |
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363 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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364 poker | |
n.扑克;vt.烙制 | |
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365 rattling | |
adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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366 dice | |
n.骰子;vt.把(食物)切成小方块,冒险 | |
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367 scotch | |
n.伤口,刻痕;苏格兰威士忌酒;v.粉碎,消灭,阻止;adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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368 benefactors | |
n.捐助者,施主( benefactor的名词复数 );恩人 | |
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369 graveyard | |
n.坟场 | |
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370 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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371 riveted | |
铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 ); 把…固定住; 吸引; 引起某人的注意 | |
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372 gulch | |
n.深谷,峡谷 | |
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373 everlasting | |
adj.永恒的,持久的,无止境的 | |
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374 tolling | |
[财]来料加工 | |
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375 evoked | |
[医]诱发的 | |
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376 exultation | |
n.狂喜,得意 | |
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377 instructor | |
n.指导者,教员,教练 | |
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378 appraising | |
v.估价( appraise的现在分词 );估计;估量;评价 | |
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379 judgments | |
判断( judgment的名词复数 ); 鉴定; 评价; 审判 | |
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380 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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381 countless | |
adj.无数的,多得不计其数的 | |
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382 fabric | |
n.织物,织品,布;构造,结构,组织 | |
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383 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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384 onward | |
adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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