BANK FAILS IN SOUTH
LIBYA HILL, 0. C., Mar2. 12 — The Citizens Trust Company of this city failed to open its doors for business this morning, and throughout the day, as news of its closing spread, conditions of near-panic mounted steadily3 here and in all the surrounding region. The bank was one of the largest in western Old Catawba and for years had been generally regarded as a model of conservative management and financial strength. The cause of its failure is not yet known. It is feared that the losses of the people of this community may be extensive.
The alarm occasioned by the closing of the bank was heightened later in the day by the discovery of the sudden and rather mysterious death of Mayor Baxter Kennedy. His body was found with a bullet through his head, and all the available evidence seems to point to suicide. Mayor Kennedy was a man of exceptionally genial4 and cheerful disposition5, and is said to have had no enemies.
Whether there is any connection between the two events which have so profoundly disturbed the accustomed calm of this mountain district is not known, although their close coincidence has given rise to much excited conjecture6.
“So,” thought George, laying down the paper with a stunned7 and thoughtful air, “it has come at last! . . . What was it that Judge Rumford Bland8 had said to them?”
The whole scene in the Pullman wash-room came back to him. He saw again the stark9 and speechless terror in the faces of Libya Hill’s leaders and rulers as the frail10 but terrible old blind man suddenly confronted them and held them with his sightless eyes and openly accused them of ruining the town. As George remembered this and sat there thinking about the news he had just read, he felt quite sure there must be some direct relation between the failure of the bank and the Mayor’s suicide.
There was, indeed. Things had been building up to this double climax11 for a long time.
Jarvis Riggs, the banker, had come from a poor but thoroughly12 respectable family in the town. When he was fifteen his father died and he had to quit school and go to work to support his mother. He held a succession of small jobs until, at eighteen, he was offered a modest but steady position in the Merchants National Bank.
He was a bright young fellow and a “hustler”, and step by step he worked his way up until he became a teller13. Mark Joyner kept a deposit at the Merchants National and used to come home and talk about Jarvis Riggs. In those days he had none of the brittle14 manner and pompous15 assurance that were to characterise him later, after he had risen to greatness. His hair, which was afterwards to turn a dead and lifeless sandy colour, had glints of gold in it then, his cheeks were full and rosy16, he had a bright and smiling face, and it was always briskly and cheerfully —“Good morning, Mr. Joyner!” or “Good morning, Mr. Shepperton!”— when a customer came in. He was friendly, helpful, courteous17, eager to please, and withal businesslike and knowing. He also dressed neatly18 and was known to be supporting his mother. All these things made people like him and respect him. They wanted to see him succeed. For Jarvis Riggs was a living vindication19 of an American legend — that of the poor boy who profits from the hardships of his early life and “makes good”. People would nod knowingly to one another and say of him:
“That young man has his feet on the ground.”
“Yes,” they would say, “he’s going somewhere.”
So when, along about 1912, the word began to go round that a small group of conservative business men were talking of starting a new bank, and that Jarvis Riggs was going to be its cashier, the feeling was most favourable20. The backers explained that they were not going to compete with the established banks. It was simply their feeling that a growing town like Libya Hill, with its steady increase in population and in its business interests, could use another bank. And the new bank, one gathered, was to be conducted according to the most eminently21 approved principles of sound finance. But it was to be a progressive bank, too, forward-looking bank, mindful of the future, the great, golden, magnificent future that Libya Hill was sure to have — that it was even heresy22 to doubt. In this way it was also to be a young man’s bank. And this was where Jarvis Riggs came in.
It is not too much to say that the greatest asset the new enterprise had from the beginning was Jarvis Riggs. He had played his cards well. He had offended no one, he had made no enemies, he had always remained modest, friendly, and yet impersonal23, as if not wishing to intrude24 himself too much on the attention of men who stood for substance and authority in the town’s life. The general opinion was that he knew what he was doing. He had learned about life in the highly-thought-of “university of hard knocks”, he had learned business and banking25 in “the hard school of experience”, so everybody felt that if Jarvis Riggs was going to be cashier of the new bank, then the new bank was pretty sure to be all right.
Jarvis himself went around town and sold stock in the bank. He had no difficulty at all. He made it quite plain that he did not think anyone was going to make a fortune. He simply sold the stock as a safe and sound investment, and that was how everybody felt about it. The bank was modestly capitalised at $25,000, and there were 250 shares at $100 each. The sponsors, including Jarvis, took 100 shares between them, and the remaining 150 shares were divided among “a selected group of leading business men”. As Jarvis said, the bank was really “a community project whose first and only purpose is to serve the community”, so no one was allowed to acquire too large an interest.
This was the way the Citizens Trust Company got started. And in no time at all, it seemed, Jarvis Riggs was advanced from cashier to vice-president, and then to president. The poor boy had come into his own.
In its early years the bank prospered26 modestly and conservatively. Its growth was steady but not spectacular. After the United States entered the war, it got its share of the nation’s prosperity. But after the war, in 1921, there was a temporary lull27, a period of “adjustment”. Then the 1920’s began in earnest.
The only way to explain what happened then is to say that there was “a feeling in the air”. Everybody seemed to sense a prospect28 of quick and easy money. There was thrilling and rapid expansion in all directions, and it seemed that there were possibilities of wealth, luxury, and economic power hitherto undreamed of just lying around waiting for anyone who was bold enough to seize them.
Jarvis Riggs was no more insensible to these beckoning29 opportunities than the next man. The time had come, he decided30, to step out and show the world what he could do. The Citizens Trust began to advertise itself as “the fastest-growing bank in the state”. But it did not advertise what it was growing on.
That was the time when the political and business clique31 which dominated the destinies of the town, and which had put amiable32 Baxter Kennedy in the Mayor’s office as its “front”, began to focus its activities round the bank. The town was burgeoning33 rapidly and pushing out into the wilderness34, people were confident of a golden future, no one gave a second thought to the reckless increase in public borrowing. Bond issues involving staggering sums were being constantly “floated” until the credit structure of the town was built up into a teetering inverted35 pyramid and the citizens of Libya Hill no longer owned the streets they walked on. The proceeds of these enormous borrowings were deposited with the bank. The bank, for its part, then returned these deposits to the politicians, or to their business friends, supporters, allies, and adherents36 — in the form of tremendous loans, made upon the most flimsy and tenuous37 security, for purposes of private and personal speculation38. In this way “The Ring”, as it was called, which had begun as an inner circle of a few ambitious men, became in time a vast and complex web that wove through the entire social structure of the town and involved the lives of thousands of people. And all of it now centred in the bank.
But the weaving of this complicated web of frenzied39 finance and speculation and special favours to “The Ring” could not go on for ever, though there were many who thought it could. There had to come a time when the internal strains and stresses became too great to sustain the load, a time when there would be ominous40 preliminary tremors41 to give warning of the crash that was to come. Just when this time arrived is pretty hard to say. One can observe a soldier moving forward in a battle and see him spin and tumble, and know the moment he is hit. But one cannot observe so exactly the moment when a man has been shot down by life.
So it was with the bank and with Jarvis Riggs. All that one can be sure of is that their moment came. And it came long before the mighty42 roar of tumbling stocks in Wall Street echoed throughout the nation. That event, which had its repercussions43 in Libya Hill as elsewhere, was not the prime cause of anything. What happened in Wall Street was only the initial explosion which in the course of the next few years was to set off a train of lesser44 explosions all over the land — explosions which at last revealed beyond all further doubting and denial the hidden pockets of lethal45 gases which a false, vicious, and putrescent scheme of things had released beneath the surface of American life.
Long before the explosion came that was to blow him sky-high, and the whole town with him, Jarvis Riggs had felt the tremors in the thing he had created, and he knew he was a doomed46 and ruined man. Before long others knew it, too, and knew that they were ruined with him. But they would not let themselves believe it. They did not dare. Instead, they sought to exorcise the thing they feared by pretending it wasn’t there. Their speculations47 only grew madder, fiercer.
And then, somehow, the cheerful, easy-going Mayor found out what some of those round him must have known for months. That was in the spring of 1928, two years before the failure of the bank. At that time he went to Jarvis Riggs and told him what he knew, and then demanded to withdraw the city’s funds. The banker looked the frightened Mayor in the eye and laughed at him.
“What are you afraid of, Baxter?” he said. “Are you showing the white feather now that the pinch is on? You say you are going to withdraw the deposits of the city? All right — withdraw them. But I warn you, if you do the bank is ruined. It will have to close its doors tomorrow. And if it closes its doors, where is your town? Your precious town is also ruined.”
The Mayor looked at the banker with a white face and stricken eyes. Jarvis Riggs leaned forward and his tones became more persuasive48:
“Pull out your money if you like, and wreck49 your town. But why not play along with us, Baxter? We’re going to see this thing through.” He was smiling now, and wearing his most winning manner. “We’re in a temporary depression — yes. But six months from now we’ll be out of the woods. I know we will. We’re coming back stronger than ever. You can’t sell Libya Hill short,” he said, using a phrase that was in great vogue50 just then. “We’ve not begun to see the progress we’re going to make. But the salvation51 and future of this town rests in your hands. So make up your mind about it. What are you going to do?”
The Mayor made up his mind. Unhappy man.
Things drifted along. Time passed. The sands were running low.
By the autumn of 1929 there began to be a vague rumour52 going about that all was not well at the Citizens Trust. George Webber had heard it himself when he went home in September. But it was a nebulous thing, and as often as not the person who whispered it fearfully would catch himself and say:
“Oh, pshaw! There’s nothing in it. There couldn’t be! You know how people talk.”
But the rumour persisted through the winter, and by early March it had become a disturbing and sinister53 contagion54. No one could say where it came from. It seemed to be distilled55 like a poison out of the mind and heart and spirit of the whole town.
On the surface there was nothing to account for it. The Citizens Trust maintained its usual appearance of solid substance, businesslike efficiency, and Greek-templed sanctity. Its broad plate-glass windows opening out upon the Square let in a flood of light, and the whole atmosphere was one of utter clarity. The very breadth of those windows seemed to proclaim to the world the complete openness and integrity of the bank’s purpose. They seemed to say:
“Here is the bank, and here are all the people in the bank, and all the people in the bank are openly at work. Look, citizens, and see for yourselves. You see there is nothing hidden here. The bank is Libya, and Libya is the bank.”
It was all so open that one did not have to go inside to know what was going on. One could stand on the pavement outside and look in and see everything. To the right were the tellers’ cages, and to the left there was a railed-off space in which the officers sat at their sumptuous56 mahogany flat-topped desks. At the largest of these desks, just inside the low enclosure, sat Jarvis Riggs himself. There he sat, talking importantly and pompously57, as though laying down the law, to one of his customers. There he sat, briskly reading through the pile of papers on his desk. There he sat, pausing in his work now and then to look up at the ceiling in deep thought, or to lean back in his swivel-chair and gently rock in meditation58.
It was all just as it had always been.
Then it happened.
March 12, 1930 was a day that will be long remembered in the annals of Libya Hill. The double tragedy set the stage as nothing else could have done for the macabre59 weeks to follow.
If all the fire-bells in town had suddenly begun to ring out their alarm at nine o’clock that morning, the news could not have spread more rapidly that the Citizens Trust Company was closed. Word of it leapt from mouth to mouth. And almost instantly, from every direction, white-faced men and women came running towards the Square. There were housewives with their aprons60 on, their hands still dripping dishwater; workmen and mechanics with their warm tools in their hands; hatless business men and clerks; young mothers carrying babies in their arms. Everyone in town, it seemed, had dropped whatever he was doing and rushed out in the streets the moment the news had reached him.
The Square itself was soon a seething61 mass of frenzied people. Frantically62, over and over, they asked each other the same questions: Was it really true? How had it happened? How bad was it?
In front of the bank itself the crowd was quieter, more stunned. To this spot, sooner or later, they all came, drawn63 by a common desperate hope that they would yet be able to see with their own eyes that it was not so. Like a sluggish64 current within that seething mass the queue moved slowly past, and as the people saw those locked and darkened doors they knew that all hope was gone. Some just stared with stricken faces, some of the women moaned and wailed65, from the eyes of strong men silent tears coursed down, and from the mouths of others came the rumble66 of angry mutterings.
For their ruin had caught up with them. Many of the people in that throng67 had lost their life savings68. But it was not only the bank’s depositors who were ruined. Everyone now knew that their boom was over. They knew that the closing of the bank had frozen all their speculations just as they were, beyond the possibility of extricating69 themselves. Yesterday they could count their paper riches by ten thousands and by millions; today they owned nothing, their wealth had vanished, and they were left saddled with debts that they could never pay.
And they did not yet know that their city government was bankrupt, too — that six million dollars of public money had been lost behind those closed and silent doors.
It was a little before noon on that ill-omened day that Mayor Kennedy was found dead. And, just to put the final touch of gruesome irony70 upon the whole event, a blind man found him.
Judge Rumford Bland testified at the inquest that he left his front office, upstairs in the ramshackle building that he owned there on the Square, and went out in the hall, heading in the direction of the toilet, where he proposed to perform an essential function of nature. It was dark out there, he said with his ghostly smile, and the floors creaked, but this didn’t matter to him — he knew the way. He said he couldn’t have lost his way even if he had wanted to. At the end of the hall he could hear a punctual drip of water, dropping with its slow, incessant71 monotone; and besides, there was the pervasive72 smell of the tin urinal — all he had to do was to follow his nose.
He arrived in darkness and pushed open the door, and suddenly his foot touched something. He leaned over, his white, thin fingers groped down, and all at once they were plunged73 — wet, warm, sticky reeking74 — into the foundering75 mass of what just five minutes before had been the face and brains of a living man.
— No, he hadn’t heard the shot — there was all that infernal commotion76 out in the Square.
— No, he had no idea how he had got there — walked it, he supposed — the City Hall was only twenty yards away.
— No, he couldn’t say why His Honour should have picked that spot to blow his brains out — there was no accounting77 for tastes — but if a man wanted to do it, that was probably as good a place as any.
So it was that weak, easy-going, procrastinating78, good-natured Baxter Kennedy, Mayor of Libya Hill, was found — all that was left of him — in darkness, by an evil old blind man.
In the days and weeks that followed the closing of the bank, Libya Hill presented a tragic79 spectacle the like of which had probably never before been seen in America. But it was a spectacle that was to be repeated over and over again, with local variations, in many another town and city within the next few years.
The ruin of Libya Hill was much more than the ruin of the bank and the breakdown80 of the economic and financial order. True, when the bank failed, all that vast and complicated scheme of things which had been built upon it, the ramifications81 of which extended into every element of the community’s life, toppled and crashed. But the closing of the bank was only like the action of a rip-cord which, once jerked, brought the whole thing down, and in doing so laid bare the deeper and more corrosive82 ruin within. And this deeper ruin — the essence of the catastrophe83 — was the ruin of the human conscience.
Here was a town of fifty thousand people who had so abdicated84 every principle of personal and communal85 rectitude, to say nothing of common sense and decency86, that when the blow fell they had no inner resources with which to meet it. The town almost literally87 blew its brains out. Forty people shot themselves within ten days, and others did so later. And, as so often happens, many of those who destroyed themselves were among the least guilty of the lot. The rest — and this was the most shocking part of it — suddenly realising their devastating89 guilt88 to such a degree that they could not face the results of it, now turned like a pack of howling dogs to rend90 each other. Cries of vengeance91 rose up from all their throats, and they howled for the blood of Jarvis Riggs. But these cries proceeded not so much from a conviction of wounded justice and deceived innocence92 as from their opposites. It was the sublime93, ironic94, and irrevocable justice of what had happened to them, and their knowledge that they alone had been responsible for it, that maddened them. From this arose their sense of outrage96 and their cries of vengeance.
What happened in Libya Hill and elsewhere has been described in the learned tomes of the overnight economists97 as a breakdown of “the system, the capitalist system”. Yes, it was that. But it was also much more than that. In Libya Hill it was the total disintegration98 of what, in so many different ways, the lives of all these people had come to be. It went much deeper than the mere99 obliteration100 of bank accounts, the extinction101 of paper profits, and the loss of property. It was the ruin of men who found out, as soon as these symbols of their outward success had been destroyed, that they had nothing left — no inner equivalent from which they might now draw new strength. It was the ruin of men who, discovering not only that their values were false but that they had never had any substance whatsoever102, now saw at last the emptiness and hollowness of their lives. Therefore they killed themselves; and those who did not die by their own hands died by the knowledge that they were already dead.
How can one account for such a complete drying up of all the spiritual sources in the life of a people? When one observes a youth of eighteen on a city street and sees the calloused103 scar that has become his life, and remembers the same youth as he was ten years before when he was a child of eight, one knows what has happened though the cause be hidden. One knows that there came a time when life stopped growing for that youth and the scar began; and one feels that if he could only find the reason and the cure, he would know what revolutions are.
In Libya Hill there must have been a time when life stopped growing and the scar began. But the learned economists of “the system” do not bother about this. For them, it belongs to the realm of the metaphysical — they are impatient of it, they will not trouble with it, they want to confine the truth within their little picket104 fence of facts. But they cannot. It is not enough to talk about the subtle complications of the credit structure, the intrigues105 of politics and business, the floating of bond issues, the dangers of inflation, speculation, and unsound prices, or the rise and decline of banks. When all these facts are added up, they still don’t give the answer. For there is something more to say.
So with Libya Hill:
One does not know at just what moment it began, but one suspects that it began at some time long past in the lone95, still watches of the night, when all the people lay waiting in their beds in darkness. Waiting for what? They did not know. They only hoped that it would happen — some thrilling and impossible fulfilment, some glorious enrichment and release of their pent lives, some ultimate escape from their own tedium106.
But it did not come.
Meanwhile, the stiff boughs107 creaked in the cold bleakness108 of the corner lights, and the whole town waited, imprisoned109 in its tedium.
And sometimes, in furtive110 hallways, doors opened and closed, there was a padding of swift, naked feet, the stealthy rattling111 of brass112 casters, and behind old battered113 shades, upon the edge of Nigger-town, the dull and fetid quickenings of lust114.
Sometimes, in grimy stews115 of night’s asylumage, an oath, a blow, a fight.
Sometimes, through the still air, a shot, the letting of nocturnal blood.
And always, through broken winds, the sounds of shifting engines in the station yards, far off, along the river’s edge — and suddenly the thunder of great wheels, the tolling116 of the bell, the loneliness of the whistle cry wailed back, receding117 towards the North, and towards the hope, the promise, and the memory of the world unfound.
Meanwhile, the boughs creaked bleakly118 in stiff light, ten thousand men were waiting in the darkness, far off a dog howled, and the Court–House bell struck three.
No answer? Impossible? . . . Then let those — if such there be-who have not waited in the darkness, find answers of their own.
But if speech could frame what spirit utters, if tongue could tell what the lone heart knows, there would be answers somewhat other than those which are shaped by the lean pickets119 of rusty120 facts. There would be answers of men waiting, who have not spoken yet.
Below the starred immensity of mountain night old Rumford Bland, he that is called “The Judge”, strokes his sunken jaws121 reflectively as he stands at the darkened window of his front office and looks out with sightless eyes upon the ruined town. It is cool and sweet to-night, the myriad122 promises of life are lyric123 in the air. Gem-strewn in viewless linkage124 on the hills the lights make a bracelet125 for the town. The blind man knows that they are there, although he cannot see them. He strokes his sunken jaws reflectively and smiles his ghostly smile.
It is so cool and sweet to-night, and spring has come. There never was a year like this, they say, for dogwood in the hills. There are so many thrilling, secret things upon the air to-night — a burst of laughter, and young voices, faint, half-broken, and the music of a dance — how could one know that when the blind man smiles and stroke’s his sunken jaws reflectively, he is looking out upon a ruined town?
The new Court–House and City Hall are very splendid in the dark to-night. But he has never seen them — they were built since he went blind. Their fronts are bathed, so people say, in steady, secret light just like the nation’s dome126 at Washington. The blind man strokes his sunken jaws reflectively. Well, they should be splendid — they cost enough.
Beneath the starred immensity of mountain night there is something stirring in the air, a rustling127 of young leaves. And round the grass roots there is something stirring in the earth to-night. And below the grass roots and the sod, below the dew-wet pollen128 of young flowers, there is something alive and stirring. The blind man strokes his sunken jaws reflectively. Aye, there below, where the eternal worm keeps vigil, there is something stirring in the earth. Down, down below, where the worm incessant through the ruined house makes stir.
What lies there stir-less in the earth to-night, down where the worm keeps vigil?
The blind man smiles his ghostly smile. In his eternal vigil the worm stirs, but many men are rotting in their graves to-night, and sixty-four have bullet fractures in their skulls129. Ten thousand more are lying in their beds to-night, living as shells live. They, too, are dead, though yet unburied. They have been dead so long they can’t remember how it was to live. And many weary nights must pass before they can join the buried dead, down where the worm keeps vigil.
Meanwhile, the everlasting130 worm keeps vigil, and the blind man strokes his sunken jaws, and slowly now he shifts his sightless gaze and turns his back upon the ruined town.
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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teller
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| n.银行出纳员；(选举)计票员 | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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burgeoning
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| adj.迅速成长的，迅速发展的v.发芽，抽枝( burgeon的现在分词 )；迅速发展；发（芽），抽（枝） | |
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34
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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37
tenuous
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| adj.细薄的，稀薄的，空洞的 | |
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38
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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39
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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40
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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41
tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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42
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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43
repercussions
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| n.后果，反响( repercussion的名词复数 )；余波 | |
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44
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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45
lethal
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| adj.致死的；毁灭性的 | |
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46
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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47
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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48
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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49
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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50
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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51
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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52
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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53
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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54
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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55
distilled
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| 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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56
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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57
pompously
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| adv.傲慢地，盛大壮观地；大模大样 | |
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58
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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59
macabre
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| adj.骇人的，可怖的 | |
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60
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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61
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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62
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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63
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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64
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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65
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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67
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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68
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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69
extricating
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的现在分词 ) | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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71
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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72
pervasive
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| adj.普遍的；遍布的，(到处)弥漫的；渗透性的 | |
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73
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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74
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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75
foundering
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| v.创始人( founder的现在分词 ) | |
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76
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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77
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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78
procrastinating
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| 拖延，耽搁( procrastinate的现在分词 )； 拖拉 | |
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79
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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80
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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81
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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82
corrosive
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| adj.腐蚀性的；有害的；恶毒的 | |
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83
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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84
abdicated
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| 放弃（职责、权力等）( abdicate的过去式和过去分词 )； 退位，逊位 | |
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85
communal
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| adj.公有的，公共的，公社的，公社制的 | |
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86
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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87
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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88
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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89
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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90
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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91
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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92
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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93
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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94
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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95
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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96
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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97
economists
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| n.经济学家，经济专家( economist的名词复数 ) | |
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98
disintegration
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| n.分散，解体 | |
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99
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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100
obliteration
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| n.涂去，删除；管腔闭合 | |
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101
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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102
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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103
calloused
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| adj.粗糙的，粗硬的，起老茧的v.（使）硬结，（使）起茧( callous的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）冷酷无情 | |
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104
picket
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| n.纠察队；警戒哨；v.设置纠察线；布置警卫 | |
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105
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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106
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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107
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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108
bleakness
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| adj. 萧瑟的, 严寒的, 阴郁的 | |
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109
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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111
rattling
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| 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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112
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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113
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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114
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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115
stews
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| n.炖煮的菜肴( stew的名词复数 )；烦恼，焦虑v.炖( stew的第三人称单数 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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116
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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117
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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118
bleakly
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| 无望地，阴郁地，苍凉地 | |
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119
pickets
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| 罢工纠察员( picket的名词复数 ) | |
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120
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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121
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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122
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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123
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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124
linkage
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| n.连接；环节 | |
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125
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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126
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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127
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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128
pollen
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| n.[植]花粉 | |
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129
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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130
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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