JOHN RUSKIN
FROM being a governess with extremely small wages Annette became a servant with no wages at all. A few months after her return to her father’s house, Ada, the cook-general, married (beneath her) and she was replaced by a gnomish3 child of sixteen who wore short dresses and had her hair done up at the back in a tight little bun. She talked an entirely4 unintelligible5 language and delighted the Folyat family on the day after her arrival by saying to Annette, who happened to be in the kitchen:
“Eeh! Annie,”—never a “Miss” from a North-country girl—“Eeh! Annie, will ye whack6 t’ pots on t’ table while I wash me ’ead?”
Annette obliged, and “whacking the pots on the table” became the family euphemism7 for getting a meal ready.
Gertrude and Mary had gradually retired8 from active service—Mary with better excuse than Gertrude—and the whole administration of the household devolved on Annette. Nothing was said to her about it, no arrangement was made; it just happened, and nobody noticed that it had happened. From early morning when she prepared tea for her mother, to late at night when she boiled her chocolate, Annette was cooking, washing up, dusting, making the beds, &c., and her only excursions, except to church or the schools, were to the shops to buy the wherewithal to cook, wash-up, dust, &c. Nobody ever thanked her: for many weeks nobody remarked [Pg 171]that she was doing so much, and then Serge found her dragging a heavy coal-scuttle up the stairs to his studio, relieved her of it and questioned her. After that, when he was at home, he did what he could to assist her in the heavy work.
As for Mrs. Folyat, she was a very lily, in that she toiled9 not neither did she spin. When she thought of it, she resented the decline and fall of her kitchen from cook-housemaid and parlourmaid to the sixteen-year-old hobgoblin, but, resentment10 being rather an active state of mind, she avoided it by giving no thought to the matter.
If Mrs. James Lawrie could be likened to a garden roller, Mrs. Folyat could most nearly be said to resemble a mill-stone. She was of the great and ignoble11 army of people who are neither good nor bad, renounce12 their potentialities in either direction, and drag all those to whom they cling—for cling they must if they are to remain above ground—down to the lowest depths of impotence, than which there is no worse state. She made herself comfortable with fiction and preferred everything to truth. An amazing capacity she had for compelling others to acquiesce13 in her self-deceptions by tickling14 their sentimentality so that it rose in them like a flood of treacle16 and slopped over their imagination and critical faculty17. Had it ever occurred to her to exercise this power in print she might have become an enormously successful novelist. She was to all appearances much loved, and all her acquaintances and many of those whom she called her friends always spoke18 of her as “dear Mrs. Folyat.” She was never unhappy, but, on the other hand, she was never happy. In all material matters she was a furious optimist19. She liked eating and sleeping and gossiping and going to the theatre and reading. If she could indulge in all these seemingly harmless pleasures to the extent of her appetite it seemed to her that all was well with the world.
When she married Francis, ambition was stirred in her and satisfied. Through the long years at St. Withans she bore him children with great regularity20 and also with [Pg 172]the indifference21 of an automaton22. She regarded herself as a perfect wife because she was faithful, and as a perfect mother for no other reason than that she was a mother. When her children offended her she chastised23 them, when they pleased her she kissed and fondled them. On the whole she brought them up on the principle of Rabelais’ Abbé: Fais ce que vouldras. On that principle also she conducted her own life, but, unhappily, she never wanted anything much.
She believed herself to be a Christian24. She was so familiar with the Bible that it had absolutely no meaning for her. Her memory was astonishing, so that she did not need to read the book. Her childhood had been spent in an atmosphere of great piety25, and she had absorbed the whole Scripture26 from Genesis to Revelation, through the pores of her skin rather than through her brains. What most nearly penetrated27 her consciousness was, curiously28 enough, the prophecies of the end of the world: There shall be wars and rumours29 of wars, and every now and then she indulged herself in the luxury of terror, reading signs in everything. She was extremely superstitious30 and would never walk under a ladder, nor sit thirteen at a table, and when a mirror was broken in the house or salt was spilt or knives were crossed, she would see in the next disaster, great or small, the infallible consequence. She was delighted when she met a hunchback in the street, for that portended31 luck; alarmed on an encounter with a cross-eyed woman, for that boded32 no good. Her mind was like a dusty empty room, the door of which was sealed with cobwebs, showing that she had not for many years passed out nor had any entered in. She was romantic and picturesque33, loving the romance of fiction, and entirely oblivious34 of the romance of fact. Only twice in her life did she deliver herself of utterances35 the least philosophical37, and as, being what she was, her sincerity38 must remain suspect, neither can be taken as giving a clue to the inward workings of her mind. These are they:
(1) Long after Gertrude was married and had lived through her little tragi-comedy she said:
[Pg 173]
“All men are beasts. I married the best of them, and he’s a beast.”
(2) When one of her grandchildren—(this being a digression we may skirmish up and down the alleys39 of time)—beset by philosophic36 doubt, wanted to know what was going to happen to the world she made this pronunciamento:
“The world will go on getting worse and worse until the end of everything comes, just as the Bible tells you. There shall be wars and rumours of wars, . . . &c.”
At the back of her mind during all her adult life was the belief in the proximity41 of the end of the world, and in her inevitable42 translation to divine regions, where, with her husband, she would live an untroubled and unsexed life of uninterrupted habit. She took her husband with her, partly because he was a clergyman and had a prescriptive right to a heavenly mansion43, but chiefly because, after so many years, she was unable to conceive of an existence without him. It was all very hazy44, but it was towards this future that she turned when she said her prayers morning and evening. This she did as mechanically as she dressed and undressed, between which two operations she devoted45 herself to her public duties as rector’s wife—Bible classes, mothers’ meetings, and mission work—and to the cultivation46 of the nearest approach to a passion in her existence, gentility. She spent many solitary47 hours in the drawing-room because she could not sit with Francis in his study, as she disliked the smell of tobacco and detested48 his allegiance to a clay pipe. She was hardly ever known to stoop to enter the kitchen.
Withal her authority was never questioned, and she obtained from her family, their friends and acquaintances, the homage49 and service she expected.
She was a match-maker, and no combination of male and female was too grotesque50 for her. She was delighted with Gertrude’s engagement. Bennett Lawrie’s personality lent itself to sentimental15 heroics, and she was more than a little in love with him herself—as a little girl is in love with the first-comer. Minna’s plurality [Pg 174]in affairs of the heart baffled and annoyed her, for in love she always looked for constancy. She had marked down Streeten Folyat for Mary, though, beyond sending a brace51 of grouse52 every August, he showed little sign of desiring the more acquaintance of his cousins. . . . Annette and Serge she left unmated, of Serge she was afraid, and of Annette she took little account. But for Frederic she had planned many famous weddings and had laid countless53 traps for him. He never saw her scheming, but, going his own way, he ever evaded54 her until, having failed in her higher flights, she came to look nearer home. The Clibran-Bells had inherited money, and there was only one life between them and a large fortune, so that all the girls would possess some three hundred a year, while George would eventually be a man of large means, for the money came through Mrs. Clibran-Bell and avoided Mr. Clibran-Bell altogether. This sudden and unexpected outcrop of wealth occasioned great excitement in Fern Square, and the Clibran-Bells added another servant to their two. They also made a gift of two new altar-cloths and a chalice55 to the church. One of the altar-cloths was worked by Jessie Clibran-Bell with embroidery56 and appliqué. She was an accomplished57 needlewoman, had many little talents, and she was intelligent and pious58. She was the eldest59 of the family and the most nearly beautiful. Her nose was straight and like her mother’s, whereas her sisters had unfortunately gone to their father for their noses and got them of an unwomanly hugeness. Mrs. Folyat selected Jessie for Frederic, and soon perceived, what had escaped her before, that she was in love with him.
Jessie was two years older than Frederic. She was just a little austere60 in temperament61, singularly pure and innocent in mind. The wave of religious fervour which follows on confirmation62 had endured with her, and she had secretly aspired63 to become a nun40 until the advent64 of Frederic. Then, having escaped the wasteful65 expenditure66 of affection upon folly67 that fills the adolescence68 of most young women, she suffered a tremendous upheaval69. [Pg 175]Living with a prying70, curious family, she thrust her emotion away and tried to cover it, and affected71 a frivolity72 which was entirely foreign to her. Alternately she avoided and sought Frederic’s company, as first one and then the other procedure seemed to her the less conspicuous73. Her labours were all in vain, for Minna knew her condition almost as soon as she did herself, and made no secret of it. As time went on Jessie grew accustomed to the presence of love in her life, realised that it would be impossible for her to take any other husband than Frederic, and resigned herself with truly Christian fortitude74 and patience to wait until that happened which she desired should happen. She had never enjoyed any confidence with her mother, whom she had been brought up to regard as the most beautiful lady in the world, the “very pinnacle75 of human virtue76.” (The phrase was her father’s, often on his lips, and Minna always referred to Mrs. Clibran-Bell as “The Pinnacle.”)
It may be ennobling and purifying to idealise your womenkind, but if your womenkind accept the position they are rather apt to believe, with disastrous77 results, that it is more blessed to receive than to give. Certain it is that if Robert Clibran-Bell had an ideal, he never had a wife, and that his children never had a mother.
Jessie Clibran-Bell in her simplicity78 believed that the Folyats had all that she had lacked. She was devoted to Francis, and when Mrs. Folyat played her sentimentalist’s game with her she was entirely deceived, saw in Mrs. Folyat a perfect hen of a mother and crept under her wing. All this took some time, and it was not until the change in the Clibran-Bell fortunes that Mrs. Folyat made room for Jessie. She made her snug79 and warm, and, in sheer gratitude80, without making any actual confession81, Jessie laid bare her feelings. Mrs. Folyat kissed her and gave her to understand that though Frederic was her favourite child and a paragon82 among men, yet he was unworthy of such profound, such patient, such unselfish devotion. The more she abused Frederic the more warmly did Jessie’s fondness flow. They both enjoyed themselves [Pg 176]thoroughly, and often met in conclave83 in the Folyat drawing-room. So absorbed did Mrs. Folyat become in the pursuit of this new intrigue84 that she lost interest in Gertrude’s affair and devoted herself to the snaring85 of Frederic.
点击收听单词发音
1 conscientious | |
adj.审慎正直的,认真的,本着良心的 | |
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2 bishop | |
n.主教,(国际象棋)象 | |
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3 gnomish | |
adj.似侏儒的,好戏弄的 | |
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4 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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5 unintelligible | |
adj.无法了解的,难解的,莫明其妙的 | |
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6 whack | |
v.敲击,重打,瓜分;n.重击,重打,尝试,一份 | |
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7 euphemism | |
n.婉言,委婉的说法 | |
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8 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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9 toiled | |
长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 ); 艰难缓慢地移动,跋涉 | |
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10 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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11 ignoble | |
adj.不光彩的,卑鄙的;可耻的 | |
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12 renounce | |
v.放弃;拒绝承认,宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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13 acquiesce | |
vi.默许,顺从,同意 | |
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14 tickling | |
反馈,回授,自旋挠痒法 | |
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15 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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16 treacle | |
n.糖蜜 | |
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17 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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18 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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19 optimist | |
n.乐观的人,乐观主义者 | |
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20 regularity | |
n.规律性,规则性;匀称,整齐 | |
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21 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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22 automaton | |
n.自动机器,机器人 | |
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23 chastised | |
v.严惩(某人)(尤指责打)( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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24 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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25 piety | |
n.虔诚,虔敬 | |
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26 scripture | |
n.经文,圣书,手稿;Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》,《圣经》中的一段 | |
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27 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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28 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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29 rumours | |
n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 );风闻;谣言;谣传 | |
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30 superstitious | |
adj.迷信的 | |
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31 portended | |
v.预示( portend的过去式和过去分词 );预兆;给…以警告;预告 | |
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32 boded | |
v.预示,预告,预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 );等待,停留( bide的过去分词 );居住;(过去式用bided)等待 | |
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33 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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34 oblivious | |
adj.易忘的,遗忘的,忘却的,健忘的 | |
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35 utterances | |
n.发声( utterance的名词复数 );说话方式;语调;言论 | |
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36 philosophic | |
adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
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37 philosophical | |
adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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38 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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39 alleys | |
胡同,小巷( alley的名词复数 ); 小径 | |
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40 nun | |
n.修女,尼姑 | |
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41 proximity | |
n.接近,邻近 | |
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42 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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43 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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44 hazy | |
adj.有薄雾的,朦胧的;不肯定的,模糊的 | |
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45 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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46 cultivation | |
n.耕作,培养,栽培(法),养成 | |
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47 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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48 detested | |
v.憎恶,嫌恶,痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49 homage | |
n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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50 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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51 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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52 grouse | |
n.松鸡;v.牢骚,诉苦 | |
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53 countless | |
adj.无数的,多得不计其数的 | |
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54 evaded | |
逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 ); 避开; 回避; 想不出 | |
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55 chalice | |
n.圣餐杯;金杯毒酒 | |
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56 embroidery | |
n.绣花,刺绣;绣制品 | |
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57 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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58 pious | |
adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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59 eldest | |
adj.最年长的,最年老的 | |
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60 austere | |
adj.艰苦的;朴素的,朴实无华的;严峻的 | |
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61 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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62 confirmation | |
n.证实,确认,批准 | |
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63 aspired | |
v.渴望,追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64 advent | |
n.(重要事件等的)到来,来临 | |
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65 wasteful | |
adj.(造成)浪费的,挥霍的 | |
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66 expenditure | |
n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出;使用,消耗 | |
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67 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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68 adolescence | |
n.青春期,青少年 | |
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69 upheaval | |
n.胀起,(地壳)的隆起;剧变,动乱 | |
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70 prying | |
adj.爱打听的v.打听,刺探(他人的私事)( pry的现在分词 );撬开 | |
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71 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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72 frivolity | |
n.轻松的乐事,兴高采烈;轻浮的举止 | |
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73 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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74 fortitude | |
n.坚忍不拔;刚毅 | |
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75 pinnacle | |
n.尖塔,尖顶,山峰;(喻)顶峰 | |
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76 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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77 disastrous | |
adj.灾难性的,造成灾害的;极坏的,很糟的 | |
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78 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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79 snug | |
adj.温暖舒适的,合身的,安全的;v.使整洁干净,舒适地依靠,紧贴;n.(英)酒吧里的私房 | |
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80 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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81 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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82 paragon | |
n.模范,典型 | |
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83 conclave | |
n.秘密会议,红衣主教团 | |
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84 intrigue | |
vt.激起兴趣,迷住;vi.耍阴谋;n.阴谋,密谋 | |
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85 snaring | |
v.用罗网捕捉,诱陷,陷害( snare的现在分词 ) | |
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