And now the city was left behind. Those familiar faces, forms, and voices of just six minutes past now seemed as remote as dreams, imprisoned10 there as in another world — a world of massive brick and stone and pavements, a world hived of four million lives, of hope and fear and hatred11, of anguish12 and despair, of love, of cruelty and devotion, that was called Berlin.
And now the land was stroking past, the level land of Brandenburg, the lonely flatland of the north which he had always heard was so ugly, and which he had found so strange, so haunting, and so beautiful. The dark solitude13 of the forest was around them now, the loneliness of the kiefern-trees, tall, slender, towering, and as straight as sailing masts, bearing upon their tops the slender burden of their needled and eternal green. Their naked poles shone with that lovely gold-bronze colour which is like the material substance of a magic light. And all between was magic, too. The forest dusk beneath the kieferntrees was gold-brown also, the earth gold-brown and barren, and the trees themselves stood alone and separate, a polelike forest filled with haunting light.
Now and then the light would open and the woods be gone, and they would sweep through the level cultivated earth, tilled thriftily14 to the very edges of the track. He could see the clusters of farm buildings, the red-tiled roofs, the cross-quarterings of barns and houses. Then they would find the haunting magic of the woods again.
George opened the door of his compartment15 and went in and took a seat beside the door. On the other side, in the corner by the window, a young man sat and read a book. He was an elegant young man and dressed most fashionably. He wore a sporting kind of coat with a small and fancy check, a wonderful vest of some expensive doelike grey material, cream-grey trousers pleated at the waist, also of a rich, expensive weave, and grey suede16 gloves. He did not look American or English. There was a foppish17, almost sugared elegance18 about his costume that one felt, somehow, was Continental19. Therefore it struck George with a sense of shock to see that he was reading an American book, a popular work in history which had the title, The Saga20 of Democracy, and bore the imprint21 of a well-known firm. But while he pondered on this puzzling combination of the familiar and the strange there were steps outside along the corridor, voices, the door was opened, and a woman and a man came in.
They were Germans. The woman was small and no longer young, but she was plump, warm, seductive-looking, with hair so light it was the colour of bleached22 straw, and eyes as blue as sapphires23. She spoke24 rapidly and excitedly to the man who accompanied her, then turned to George and asked if the other places were unoccupied. He replied that he thought so, and looked questioningly at the dapper young man in the corner. This young man now spoke up in somewhat broken German, saying that he believed the other seats were free, and adding that he had got on the train at the Friedrich-strasse station and had seen no one else in the compartment. The woman immediately and vigorously nodded her head in satisfaction and spoke with rapid authority to her companion, who went out and presently returned with their baggage — two valises, which he arranged upon the rack above their heads.
They were a strangely assorted25 pair. The woman, although most attractive, was obviously much the older of the two. She appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties. There were traces of fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and her face gave an impression of physical maturity26 and warmth, together with the wisdom that comes from experience, but it was also apparent that some of the freshness and resilience of youth had gone out of it. Her figure had an almost shameless sexual attraction, the kind of naked allure27 that one often sees in people of the theatre — in a chorus girl or in the strip-tease woman of a burlesque28 show. Her whole personality bore a vague suggestion of the theatrical29 stamp. In everything about her there was that element of heightened vividness which seems to set off and define people who follow the stage.
Beside her assurance, her air of practice and authority, her sharply vivid stamp, the man who accompanied her was made to seem even younger than he was. He was probably twenty-six or thereabouts, but he looked a mere30 stripling. He was a tall, blond, fresh-complexioned, and rather handsome young German who conveyed an indefinable impression of countrified and slightly bewildered innocence31. He appeared nervous, uneasy, and inexperienced in the art of travel. He kept his head down or averted32 most of the time, and did not speak unless the woman spoke to him. Then he would flush crimson33 with embarrassment34, the two flags of colour in his fresh, pink face deepening to beetlike red.
George wondered who they were, why they were going to Paris, and what the relation between them could be. He felt, without exactly knowing why, that there was no family connection between them. The young man could not be the woman’s brother, and it was also evident that they were not man and wife. It was hard not to fall back upon an ancient parable35 and see in them the village hayseed in the toils36 of the city siren — to assume that she had duped him into taking her to Paris, and that the fool and his money would soon be parted. Yet there was certainly nothing repulsive37 about the woman to substantiate38 this conjecture39. She was decidedly a most attractive and engaging creature. Even her astonishing quality of sexual magnetism41, which was displayed with a naked and almost uncomfortable openness, so that one felt it the moment she entered the compartment, had nothing vicious in it. She seemed, indeed, to be completely unconscious of it, and simply expressed herself sensually and naturally with the innocent warmth of a child.
While George was busy with these speculations42 the door of the compartment opened again and a stuffy43-looking little man with a long nose looked in, peered about truculently44, and rather suspiciously, George thought, and then demanded to know if there was a free seat in the compartment. They all told him that they thought so. Upon receiving this information, he, too, without another word, disappeared down the corridor, to reappear again with a large valise. George helped him to stow it away upon the rack. It was so heavy that the little man could probably not have managed it by himself, yet he accepted this service sourly and without a word of thanks, hung up his overcoat, and fidgeted and worried around, took a newspaper from his pocket, sat down opposite George and opened it, banged the compartment door shut rather viciously, and, after peering round mistrustfully at all the other people, rattled45 his paper and began to read.
While he read his paper George had a chance to observe this sour-looking customer from time to time. Not that there was anything sinister46 about the man — decidedly there was not. He was just a drab, stuffy, irascible little fellow of the type that one sees a thousand times a day upon the streets, muttering at taxi-cabs or snapping at imprudent drivers — the type that one is always afraid he is going to encounter on a trip but hopes fervently47 he won’t. He looked like the kind of fellow who would always be slamming the door of the compartment to, always going over and banging down the window without asking anyone else about it, always fidgeting and fuming48 about and trying by every crusty, crotchety, cranky, and ill-tempered method in his equipment to make himself as unpleasant, and his travelling companions as uncomfortable, as possible.
Yes, he was certainly a well-known type, but aside from this he was wholly unremarkable. If one had passed him in the streets of the city, one would never have taken a second look at him or remembered him afterwards. It was only when he intruded49 himself into the intimacy50 of a long journey and began immediately to buzz and worry around like a troublesome hornet that he became memorable51.
It was not long, in fact, before the elegant young gentleman in the corner by the window almost ran afoul of him. The young fellow took out an expensive-looking cigarette-case, extracted a cigarette, and then, smiling engagingly, asked the lady if she objected to his smoking. She immediately answered, with great warmth and friendliness52, that she minded not at all. George received this information with considerable relief, and took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and was on the point of joining his unknown companion in the luxury of a smoke when old Fuss-and-Fidget rattled his paper viciously, glared sourly at the elegant young man and then at George, and, pointing to a sign upon the wall of the compartment, croaked53 dismally54:
“Nicht Raucher.”
Well, all of them had known that at the beginning, but they had not supposed that Fuss-and-Fidget would make an issue of it. The young fellow and George glanced at each other with a slightly startled look, grinned a little, caught the lady’s eye, which was twinkling with the comedy of the occasion, and were obediently about to put their cigarettes away unsmoked when old Fuss-and-Fidget rattled his paper, looked sourly round at them a second time, and then said bleakly55 that as far as he was concerned it was all right — he didn’t personally mind their smoking — he just wanted to point out that they were in a non-smoking compartment. The implication plainly was that from this time on the crime was on their own heads, that he had done what he could as a good citizen to warn them, but that if they proceeded with their guilty plot against the laws of the land, it was no further concern of his. Being thus reassured56, they produced their cigarettes again and lighted up.
Now while George smoked, and while old Fuss-and-Fidget read his paper, George had further opportunity to observe this unpleasant companion of the voyage. And his observations, intensified57 as they were by subsequent events, became fixed58 as an imperishable image in his mind. The image which occurred to him as he sat there watching the man was that of a sour-tempered Mr. Punch. If you can imagine Mr. Punch without his genial59 spirits, without his quick wit, without his shrewd but kind intelligence, if you can imagine a crotchety and cranky Mr. Punch going about angrily banging doors and windows shut, glaring round at his fellow-travellers, and sticking his long nose into everybody’s business, then you will get some picture of this fellow. Not that he was hunchbacked and dwarfed60 like Mr. Punch. He was certainly small, he was certainly a drab, unlovely little figure of a man, but he was not dwarfed. But his face had the ruddy glow that one associates with Mr. Punch, and its contour, like that of Mr. Punch, was almost cherubic, except that the cherub61 had gone sour. The nose also was somewhat Punchian. It was not grotesquely62 hooked and beaked63, but it was a long nose, and its fleshy tip drooped64 over as if it were fairly sniffing65 with suspicion, fairly stretching with eagerness to pry66 around and stick itself into things that did not concern it.
George fell asleep presently, leaning against the side of the door. It was a fitful and uneasy coma67 of half-sleep, the product of excitement and fatigue68 — never comfortable, never whole — a dozing69 sleep from which he would start up from time to time to look about him, then doze70 again. Time after time he came sharply awake to find old Fussand–Fidget’s eyes fixed on him in a look of such suspicion and ill-temper that it barely escaped malevolence71. He woke up once to find the man’s gaze fastened on him in a stare that was so protracted72, so unfriendly, that he felt anger boiling up in him. It was on the tip of his tongue to speak hotly to the fellow, but he, as if sensing George’s intent, ducked his head quickly and busied himself again with his newspaper.
The man was so fidgety and nervous that it was impossible to sleep longer than a few minutes at a time. He was always crossing and uncrossing his legs, always rattling73 his newspaper, always fooling with the handle of the door, doing something to it, jerking and pulling it, half opening the door and banging it to again, as if he were afraid it was not securely closed. He was always jumping up, opening the door, and going out into the corridor, where he would pace up and down for several minutes, turn and look out of the windows at the speeding landscape, then fidget back and forth74 in the corridor again, sour-faced and distempered-looking, holding his hands behind him and twiddling his fingers nervously75 and impatiently as he walked.
All this while, the train was advancing across the country at terrific speed. Forest and field, village and farm, tilled land and pasture stroked past with the deliberate but devouring76 movement of high velocity77. The train slackened a little as it crossed the Elbe, but there was no halt. Two hours after its departure from Berlin it was sweeping in beneath the arched, enormous roof of the Hanover station. There was to be a stop of ten minutes. As the train slowed down, George awoke from his doze. But fatigue still held him, and he did not get up.
Old Fuss-and-Fidget arose, however, and, followed by the woman and her companion, went out on the platform for a little fresh air and exercise.
George and the dapper young man in the corner were now left alone together. The latter had put down his book and was looking out of the window, but after a minute or two he turned to George and said in English, marked by a slight accent:
“Where are we now?”
George told him they were at Hanover.
“I’m tired of travelling,” the young man said with a sigh. “I shall be glad when I get home.”
“And where is home for you?” George asked.
“New York,” he said, and, seeing a look of slight surprise on George’s face, he added quickly: “Of course I am not American by birth, as you can see from the way I talk. But I am a naturalised American, and my home is in New York.”
George told him that he lived there, too. Then the young man asked if George had been long in Germany.
“All summer,” George replied. “I arrived in May.”
“And you have been here ever since — in Germany?”
“Yes,” said George, “except for ten days in the Tyrol.”
“When you came in this morning I thought at first that you were German. I believe I saw you on the platform with some German people.”
“Yes, they were friends of mine.”
“But then when you spoke I saw you could not be a German from your accent. When I saw you reading the Paris Herald78 I concluded that you were English or American.
“I am American, of course.”
“Yes, I can see that now. I,” he said, “am Polish by birth. I went to America when I was fifteen years old, but my family still lives in Poland.”
“And you have been to see them, naturally?”
“Yes. I have made a practice of coming over every year or so to visit them. I have two brothers living in the country.” It was evident that he came from landed people. “I am returning from there now,” he said. He was silent for a moment, and then said with some emphasis: “But not again! Not for a long time will I visit them. I have told them that it is enough — if they want to see me now, they must come to New York. I am sick of Europe,” he went on. “Every time I come I am fed up. I am tired of all this foolish business, these politics, this hate, these armies, and this talk of war — the whole damned stuffy atmosphere here!” he cried indignantly and impatiently, and, thrusting his hand into his breast pocket, he pulled out a paper —“Will you look at this?”
“What is it?” George said.
“A paper — a permit — the damn thing stamped and signed which allows me to take twenty-three marks out of Germany. Twenty-three marks!” he repeated scornfully —“as if I want their God-damn money!”
“I know,” George said. “You’ve got to get a paper every time you turn round. You have to declare your money when you come in, you have to declare it when you go out. If you send home for money, you have to get a paper for that, too. I made a little trip to Austria as I told you. It took three days to get the papers that would allow me to take my own money out. Look here!” he cried, and reached in his pocket and pulled out a fistful of papers. “I got all of these in one summer.”
The ice was broken now. Upon a mutual79 grievance80 they began to warm up to each other. It quickly became evident to George that his new acquaintance, with the patriotic81 fervour of his race, was passionately82 American. He had married an American girl, he said. New York, he asserted, was the most magnificent city on earth, the only place he cared to live, the place he never wished to leave again, the place to which he was aching to return.
And America?
“Oh,” he said, “it will be good after all this to be back there where all is peace and freedom — where all is friendship — where all is love.”
George felt some reservations to this blanket endorsement83 of his native land, but he did not utter them. The man’s fervour was so genuine that it would have been unkind to try to qualify it. And besides, George, too, was homesick now, and the man’s words, generous and whole-hearted as they were, warmed him with their pleasant glow. He also felt, beneath the extravagance of the comparison, a certain truth. During the past summer, in this country which he had known so well, whose haunting beauty and magnificence had stirred him more deeply than had any other he had ever known, and for whose people he had always had the most affectionate understanding, he had sensed for the first time the poisonous constrictions of incurable85 hatreds86 and insoluble politics, the whole dense87 weave of intrigue88 and ambition in which the tormented89 geography of Europe was again enmeshed, the volcanic90 imminence91 of catastrophe92 with which the very air was laden93, and which threatened to erupt at any moment.
And George, like the other man, was weary and sick at heart, exhausted94 by these pressures, worn out with these tensions of the nerves and spirit, depleted95 by the cancer of these cureless hates which had not only poisoned the life of nations but had eaten in one way or another into the private lives of all his friends, of almost everyone that he had known here. So, like his new-found fellow countryman, he too felt, beneath the extravagance and intemperance96 of the man’s language, a certain justice in the comparison. He was aware, as indeed the other must have been, of the huge sum of all America’s lacks. He knew that all, alas97, was not friendship, was not freedom, was not love beyond the Atlantic. But he felt, as his new friend must also have felt, that the essence of America’s hope had not been wholly ruined, its promise of fulfilment not shattered utterly98. And like the other man, he felt that it would be very good to be back home again, out of the poisonous constrictions of this atmosphere — back home where, whatever America might lack, there was still air to breathe in, and winds to clear the air.
His new friend now said that he was engaged in business in New York. He was a member of a brokerage concern in Wall Street. This seemed to call for some similar identification on George’s part, and he gave the most apt and truthful99 statement he could make, which was that he worked for a publishing house. The other then remarked that he knew the family of a New York publisher, that they were, in fact, good friends of his. George asked him who these people were, and he answered:
“The Edwards family.”
Instantly, a thrill of recognition pierced George. A light flashed on, and suddenly he knew the man. He said:
“I know the Edwardses. They are among the best friends I have, and Mr. Edwards is my publisher. And you”— George said —“your name is Johnnie, isn’t it? I have forgotten your last name, but I have heard it.”
He nodded quickly, smiling. “Yes, Johnnie Adamowski,” he said. “And you? — what is your name?”
George told him.
“Of course,” he said. “I know of you.”
So instantly they were shaking hands delightedly, with that kind of stunned100 but exuberant101 surprise which reduces people to the banal102 conclusion that “It’s a small world after all.” George’s remark was simply: “I’ll be damned!” Adamowski’s, more urbane103, was: “It is quite astonishing to meet you in this way. It is very strange — and yet in life it always happens.”
And now, indeed, they began to establish contact at many points. They found that they knew in common scores of people. They discussed them enthusiastically, almost joyfully104. Adamowski had been away from home just one short month, and George but five, but now, like an explorer returning from the isolation105 of a polar voyage that had lasted several years, George eagerly demanded news of his friends, news from America, news from home.
By the time the other people returned to the compartment and the train began to move again, George and Adamowski were deep in conversation. Their three companions looked somewhat startled to hear this rapid fire of talk and to see this evidence of acquaintance between two people who had apparently106 been strangers just ten minutes before. The little blonde woman smiled at them and took her seat; the young man also. Old Fuss-and-Fidget glanced quickly, sharply, from one to the other of them and listened attentively107 to all they said, as if he thought that by straining his ears to catch every strange syllable108 he might be able somehow to fathom109 the mystery of this sudden friendship.
The cross-fire of their talk went back and forth, from George’s corner of the compartment to Adamowski’s. George felt a sense of embarrassment at the sudden intrusion of this intimacy in a foreign language among fellow-travellers with whom he had heretofore maintained a restrained formality. But Johnnie Adamowski was evidently a creature of great social ease and geniality110. He was troubled not at all. From time to time he smiled in a friendly fashion at the three Germans as if they, too, were parties to the conversation and could understand every word of it.
Under this engaging influence, everyone began to thaw111 out visibly. The little blonde woman began to talk in an animated112 way to her young man. After a while Fuss-and-Fidget chimed in with those two, so that the whole compartment was humming with the rapid interplay of English and German.
Adamowski now asked George if he would not like some refreshment113.
“Of course I myself am not hungry,” Adamowski said indifferently. “In Poland I have had to eat too much. They eat all the time, these Polish people. I had decided40 that I would eat no more until I got to Paris. I am sick of food. But would you like some Polish fruits?” he said, indicating a large paper-covered package at his side. “I believe they have prepared some things for me,” he said casually114 —“some fruits from my brother’s estate, some chickens and some partridges. I do not care for them myself. I have no appetite. But wouldn’t you like something?”
George told him no, that he was not hungry either. Thereupon Adamowski suggested that they might seek out the Speisewagen and get a drink.
“I still have these marks,” he said indifferently. “I spent a few for breakfast, but there are seventeen or eighteen left. I shall not want them any longer. I should not have used them. But now that I have met you, I think it would be nice if I could spend them. Shall we go and see what we can find?”
To this George agreed. They arose, excused themselves to their companions, and were about to go out when old Fuss-and-Fidget surprised them by speaking up in broken English and asking Adamowski if he would mind changing seats. He said with a nervous, forced smile that was meant to be ingratiating that Adamowski and the other gentleman, nodding at George, could talk more easily if they were opposite each other, and that for himself, he would be glad of the chance to look out the window. Adamowski answered indifferently, and with just a trace of the unconscious contempt with which a Polish nobleman might speak to someone in whom he felt no interest:
“Yes, take my seat, of course. It does not matter to me where I sit.”
They went out and walked forward through several coaches of the hurtling train, carefully squeezing past those passengers who, in Europe, seem to spend as much time standing84 in the narrow corridors and staring out of the windows as in their own seats, and who flatten115 themselves against the wall or obligingly step back into the doors of compartments116 as one passes. Finally they reached the Speisewagen, skirted the hot breath of the kitchen, and seated themselves at a table in the beautiful, bright, clean coach of the Mitropa service.
Adamowski ordered brandy lavishly117. He seemed to have a Polish gentleman’s liberal capacity for drink. He tossed his glass off at a single gulp118, remarking rather plaintively119:
“It is very small. But it is good and does no harm. We shall have mote9.”
Pleasantly warmed by brandy, and talking together with the ease and confidence of people who had known each other for many years — for, indeed, the circumstances of their meeting and the discovery of their many common friends did give them just that feeling of old intimacy — they now began to discuss the three strangers in their compartment.
“The little woman — she is rather nice,” said Adamowski, in a tone which somehow conveyed the impression that he was no novice120 in such appraisals121. “I think she is not very young, and yet, quite charming, isn’t she? A personality.”
“And the young man with her?” George inquired. “What do you make of him? You don’t think he is her husband?”
“No, of course not,” replied Adamowski instantly. “It is most curious,” he went on in a puzzled tone. “He is much younger, obviously, and not the same — he is much simpler than the lady.”
“Yes. It’s almost as if he were a young fellow from the country, and she ——”
“Is like someone in the theatre,” Adamowski nodded. “An actress. Or perhaps some music-hall performer.”
“Yes, exactly. She is very nice, and yet I think she knows a great deal more than he does.”
“I should like to know about them,” Adamowski went on speculatively122, in the manner of a man who has a genuine interest in the world about him. “These people that one meets on trains and ships — they fascinate me. You see some strange things. And these two — they interest me. I should like so much to know who they are.”
“And the other man?” George said. “The little one? The nervous, fidgety fellow who keeps staring at us — who do you suppose he is?”
“Oh, that one,” said Adamowski indifferently, impatiently. “I do not know. I do not care. He is some stuffy little man — it doesn’t matter . . . But shall we go back now?” he said. “Let’s talk to them and see if we can find out who they are. We shall never see them again after this. I like to talk to people in trains.”
George agreed. So his Polish friend called the waiter, asked for the bill, and paid it — and still had ten or twelve marks left of his waning123 twenty-three. Then they got up and went back through the speeding train to their compartment.
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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outskirts
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lofted
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| 击、踢、掷高弧球( loft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mote
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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thriftily
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| 节俭地； 繁茂地； 繁荣的 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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suede
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| n.表面粗糙的软皮革 | |
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foppish
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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continental
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saga
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| n.(尤指中世纪北欧海盗的)故事，英雄传奇 | |
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imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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sapphires
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| n.蓝宝石，钢玉宝石( sapphire的名词复数 )；蔚蓝色 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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assorted
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maturity
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allure
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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30
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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31
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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32
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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33
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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34
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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35
parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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36
toils
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| 网 | |
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37
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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38
substantiate
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| v.证实；证明...有根据 | |
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39
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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40
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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41
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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42
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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43
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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44
truculently
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45
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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46
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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47
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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48
fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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49
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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50
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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51
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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52
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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53
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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54
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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55
bleakly
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| 无望地，阴郁地，苍凉地 | |
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56
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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57
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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61
cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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beaked
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| adj.有喙的，鸟嘴状的 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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66
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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coma
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| n.昏迷，昏迷状态 | |
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68
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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69
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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70
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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71
malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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73
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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74
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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75
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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76
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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78
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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80
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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81
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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82
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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83
endorsement
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| n.背书；赞成，认可，担保；签(注)，批注 | |
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84
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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85
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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86
hatreds
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| n.仇恨，憎恶( hatred的名词复数 )；厌恶的事 | |
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87
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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88
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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89
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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90
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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91
imminence
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| n.急迫，危急 | |
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92
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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93
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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94
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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95
depleted
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| adj. 枯竭的, 废弃的 动词deplete的过去式和过去分词 | |
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96
intemperance
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| n.放纵 | |
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97
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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98
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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99
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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100
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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101
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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102
banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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103
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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104
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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105
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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106
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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107
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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108
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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109
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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110
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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111
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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112
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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113
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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114
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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115
flatten
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| v.把．．．弄平，使倒伏；使(漆等)失去光泽 | |
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116
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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117
lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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118
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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119
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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120
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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121
appraisals
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| 估计，估量，评价( appraisal的名词复数 ) | |
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122
speculatively
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| adv.思考地，思索地；投机地 | |
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123
waning
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| 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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