ISAIAH, xxiv. 17.
IT is one of the most disconcerting phenomena2 of existence that, when passionate3 love has answered its purpose, it simply disappears, leaving its instruments wedded4 by such truth as they have discovered in each other or divorced by the lies they have forged for each other’s delight. Very rarely, however, is the issue so simple. The bone-and-shadow business comes into play here also, and most people marry with very little passionate love and a great deal of careful imitation of it, so that most marriages are strangled in their birth with a very tangled5 web of lies.
It was so with Frederic and Jessie Folyat in their marriage, and they were never so nearly united as when jealousy6 came between them. Their marriage feast did coldly furnish forth7 the funeral of love, and over love’s dead body they quarrelled. They had scenes, hysterical8 skirmishes and almost as hysterical reconciliations9. There was grim sport in it all, a sort of fascination10 in the stealthy prying11 and spying, each crouching12 and shrinking in readiness for the other’s spring, the snarling13 bravado14 with which each dared the other to come on, a little further, a little further, inviting15 to a caress16, repelling17 with a scratching blow; and all smooth-seeming, veiled, polite, with polished airs and graceful18 manners and feigned19 interest and inquiry20: a pooling of the common stock only to wrangle21 over the division of it again. The gambling22 fever was in it. At any moment all might be lost upon a throw, a little gain, a little loss, more gain, more gain, a [Pg 324]little more and the other might be beggared, the game won. But neither dared let the game come to an end. When one was near ruin, grey-faced, anxiously glaring for the turn of the card, the other cheated and the game went on. It absorbed both. Neither could do without it. It was a drug. Their craving23 for it was agony; its satisfaction a seeming delight.
They were very skilful24 and cunning to let no trace of it appear on the surface of their lives. Frederic abandoned all pursuit of Annie Lipsett, he deserted25 the company of his flattering fools, for these things trespassed26 upon the field of his fevered sport. It was very rarely that they went of their own accord to seek purchasable pleasures. Visits they paid, when politeness and discretion27 compelled, and everybody found them charming. They could be good company and their talents were useful. They became popular and were much in request to organise28 entertainments, bazaars29, jumble30 sales, and such functions.
In his business Frederic became more cunning, quicker-witted, and his reputation gained. His practice increased. His whole life was concentrated on his home and his office. He grew lean and alert, but he was always tired.
In the early days of his management of the Bradby-Folyat estate he had borrowed large sums of money. These debts he was able considerably31 to reduce, and very soon there were no arrears32 of interest outstanding. As he began to feel himself on more solid ground his habit of exaggeration lost much of its hold upon him, and men who had previously34 avoided him began to seek his company. Many who had dismissed him as a bore now came to see qualities in him, and, as he gained the acquaintance of a better class of men, the quality of the work that passed through his hands improved.
Over Minna’s disaster he behaved well. He explained the legal aspect of divorce to his father, and by telling him what he heard men saying about it—men who had known Basil Haslam, men of the world—helped him to understand that there was less malice35 than idle curiosity [Pg 325]in gossip, that scandal was the thing of a day, and that sympathy was to a great extent on Minna’s side and altogether with her parents. . . . Francis was not greatly comforted. He felt that the attitude of mind of Frederic’s “men of the world” was rather dirty, but he appreciated the kindness, which was greater than he had looked for. He was not at all easy, remembering Serge’s and his own attitude towards Frederic’s imbroglio36, when Frederic rushed up to town, pounced37 on Herbert Fry, and insisted on his marrying Minna. . . . As it happened, it was a fatal step. Minna complied only because she thought the marriage would infuriate Basil (the horrible ordeal38 through which she had passed had deprived her of all control), and Fry because he loved her and because his affairs were more complicated than any one knew save himself, and, having to leave the country, he preferred to pass into exile with a beloved companion. His life had come to ruin, and he thought that to have Minna for his wife would be a step towards reconstruction39 and would help to blot40 out the past. . . . Frederic came back glowing with virtue41 and manly42 pride, feeling that he had made an honest woman of his sister.
Frederic’s interview with Herbert Fry had seemed to him a direct triumph of right over wrong. It was the first time he had ever found himself in the van of the big battalions43, and it gave him a feeling of confidence that was almost exhilarating. He returned to his wife, to find that her suspicion of him was not abated44, and convinced himself that she was cruel and unjust. He gambled in marriage more recklessly than ever, and if before she had been anxious, now she was filled with dread45 as she saw that she was playing a losing game. Sooner or later he would have cleared her out and the last tie between them would be broken. Her dread paralysed her. Only mechanically could she keep the cards fluttering and the pot a-boiling.
Frederic lost his drawn46 look. He was winning, and was sure that the luck would never turn again. Feeling immeasurably superior to Fry, who had committed the [Pg 326]unpardonable folly47 of being found out, and morally on a different plane from Minna and the world of illicit48 love which had spewed her out to the scorn of all men (except men of the world, who could wink49 at these things), he fell back upon the cushion of middle-class prosperity, thrust aside happiness as a thing to be desired, and concentrated all his energies on money. He began to speculate—successfully at first, then unsuccessfully. In his early days of practice it had hardly been worth while to keep his accounts separate, and, as his business grew, he never troubled to reorganise his books.
Mrs. Bradby-Folyat died. She had taken a dislike to Gertrude and left Streeten Folyat only a thousand pounds. Frederic received twenty-five pounds to buy a mourning ring. That did not fret50 him. There was the estate to be wound up, and the pickings of the process would be rich.
The executors asked to see the accounts. Frederic made them up, but they were found so slovenly51 and unsatisfactory that further inquiry was instituted and an accountant was called in—a precise, mincing52 little man who spoke53 with a strong north-country accent, sniffed54, and walked in and out of the office as though he were treading the aisle55 of a chapel56. He exasperated57 Frederic so that he went out of his way to be rude to him. The accountant sniffed and smugly turned the other cheek. He was a week in the office and went away without saying a word.
Frederic received a letter from one of the executors requesting him to hand over all papers and securities to another larger firm of solicitors58. Without comment a statement of account was enclosed, showing a deficit59 in the Bradby-Folyat estate of six thousand pounds. Every nerve in Frederic’s body quivered and went hot and dry. He locked the statement away and gave orders for the Bradby-Folyat deed-box to be handed over to the representatives of the nominated solicitors upon their giving a receipt for it. Mechanically, with a fevered concentration upon the figures as an occupation to keep himself from thinking, he went into his banking60 account. He had three hundred pounds in cash. His shares, which would have to be sold at a loss, would realise another [Pg 327]thousand. Outstanding debts amounted to not two hundred. . . . His wife’s money was hers upon trust for her children, or, failing her children, for her nephews and nieces. All the Clibran-Bell money was trust money. His father had none, only enough to make a small provision for his old age and his wife and Mary.
The executor called. He was polite—a barrister by profession, with the most suave61 and urbane62 brow-beating manner. He supposed that the numerous mistakes could be rectified63, and that where losses had occurred through incompetent64 investment the deficiency would be made good. Frederic said not a word. He twiddled a little piece of paper between his fingers and his face was as white as the paper. The executor drew his own conclusions and said:
“It is misappropriation and embezzlement65. I have tried to persuade Batson’s not to take proceedings66, but they insist that it must go before the Law Society. . . . You will be lucky if you get no worse than being struck off the rolls.”
The words bit into Frederic’s brain and went trickling67 down his spine68. The executor took his hat and left him sitting by his table still twiddling the little piece of paper, with his face as grey as a goose-feather. He sat very still for a long time staring at the piece of paper in his hand. Presently he let it fall, but still he sat staring. . . . He heard his clerks go. The cashier brought the key of the safe. He said good-night. Frederic said good-night, and was startled at the sound of his own voice. The silence had seemed to him so inevitable69, so final, surely eternal.
One thought sprang to life in his brain: “No one must know.” That gave him a purpose and brought him to the need of action. At home he forced an amiable70 mood upon his wife. In the evening they called at Burdley Park and took Mary to the theatre. They saw her home after a merry evening, and, in the highest spirits, they called on the Clibran-Bells and invited some of the family to come and play whist on the morrow. Frederic smoked a cigar with his father-in-law and discussed the new waterworks [Pg 328]scheme and the police scandal which had lately set all the town by the ears, a whole division having been discovered to be drawing large profits from organised prostitution in a certain district. Many droll71 stories were in circulation of constables72 caught in flagrante delicto, and Frederic and his father-in-law laughed heartily73 over them. At certain moments Frederic had a crazy desire to pick his father-in-law up by the scruff of the neck and shake him: there was something in his manner so ridiculous and undignified, and his jocularity was so trivial and pointless. However, Frederic continued to laugh, and old Clibran-Bell patted him on the shoulder and told him he was a good fellow, a very good fellow.
In the office next day Frederic teased and pestered74 his clerks and kept them all bustling75, finding errands for them to go, requiring books from the Law Library, discovering papers that were long overdue76 and had to be fetched. Seized with a wild, hilarious77 impulse, he made out a whole series of bogus writs78 and sent them to be stamped and delivered. . . . When all the clerks had gone he sat down and wrote to Batson’s, saying that he had made further inquiries79 and had many papers and much information to lay before them which had previously been overlooked, and he added that such deficiency as might remain after final examination would be paid in full. This letter he posted himself. He returned to his office, wrote a cheque for each of his clerks, repaid his articled clerks their premiums80, laid an envelope containing them on each desk, looked round to make sure he had forgotten nothing, locked the outer door, walked down to the bridge by the Collegiate church and threw the key into the river.
At night, after the whist-party had dispersed81, he pretended that he had papers to look into and sent Jessie to bed. He sat by the fire staring into the glowing coals. It died down, but he made no effort to keep it alight. He was exhausted82. The assumed hilarity83 of the evening had been too great a strain, and yet not strain enough. He was driving himself to a collapse84, but was fearful lest it should come too soon.
[Pg 329]
It was very cold. He shivered and crouched85 over the black grate. He heard his wife’s voice calling him:
“Aren’t you coming up to-night?”
“Presently . . . presently.”
When he judged that she would be asleep he crept upstairs, and in the dark, to avoid waking her and also to avoid seeing her, he slipped into the bed by her side. All night he lay awake, cold, throbbing86, straining and starting at all the small noises of the house.
At breakfast he chattered87 gaily88 over the newspapers. There was a school board election toward, and a woman had offered herself as a candidate for their division. He chaffed Jessie and said he supposed she would soon be wanting to vote for Parliament. Jessie was to spend the day in town shopping with her mother. He asked her to make sundry89 small purchases for him, and they agreed that they would have a crab90 for supper.
He was rather a long time packing the little handbag he always took with him to town. She went to remind him that it was getting late and found him with his hand in a drawer. He shut it hastily and asked her to fetch his tobacco-pouch from upstairs. When she came down again he was waiting for her at the front door. She walked to the little iron gate with him and they kissed. As he reached the kerb he turned to look at her and saw the old ladies and gentlemen at their windows, and he felt with a twinge of shame that for years he had been a spectacle without knowing it. . . . He thought Jessie looked rather ill, tired, old, and bony. It was absurd for them to kiss in public. . . . Everything seemed absurd, fantastical, and unreal. The world was presented to his eyes in sharper outline than he had ever seen it before. It was bathed in a cold grey light. It had nothing to do with him. It was going on. He felt stationary91. That his body was moving was nothing. His thoughts were not moving. Everything was absurd. The new sharply outlined world, with its curious interwoven activities (he saw how they were dovetailed), was moving on. The world with which he had been concerned—the world in which he had been miserable92, elated, crestfallen93, amused, [Pg 330]disgusted—the world in which he had known affection and companionship and spite and jealousy—was moving backward, sinking from under his feet while he himself stood on the verge94 of a nonsensical dawn that had its light from a setting sun. Away from him, backward and forward, everything moved faster and faster, making him dizzy, intolerably dizzy, sick and cold with it.
He had intended to go to London, but at the station he saw a sign indicating a train for Plymouth. The name started out of the blurred95 past and relieved him, a little restored his balance, and he saw clearly the scenes of his boyhood—the grimy little office where he had been articled, the ships, the Hoe and the Sound. Then all that too slipped away from him.
He took the train for Plymouth, and had a carriage all to himself as far as Crewe. He sat stupidly staring out of the window. The train was going so fast. Why did everything move so fast? . . . He was very tired. At Crewe a man entered the carriage. He had not thought of that. He must change. He must be alone. The train moved on before he could bring himself to stir. . . . With the presence of the man at the other end of the carriage his mood changed. Out of the cold mists that were upon him a desire rose and took possession of him. He did not know what desire it was but it took the form of an itch96 to speak to the man. He stole glances at him but his lips would not obey him. The man said:
“It’s a fine day.”
Frederic agreed that it was a fine day, and the desire in him fell back into the void. The man was part of the absurd world that had nothing to do with him, the world that went on, the trivial, silly world. How trivial and silly everything was: the train was silly, movement was silly; absurd and grotesque97 was the man’s voice and his idiotic98 comment on the day, and that was silly too. A day was but the passage out of night into night. The whole world was nothing, moving out of nothing into nothing. Some things were clear because they did not matter; other things were blurred because they had mattered to him, Frederic, who mattered no longer because he was standing33 [Pg 331]still and everything else was moving. . . . His eyes mechanically read the legend—“To Stop the Train Pull Down the Cord Outside the Window. Penalty for Improper99 Use, ￡5.”
“I could stop it,” he thought, “but it would only move on again. Everything moves on again.”
With that slight movement in his mind old habit reasserted itself and he began to crave100 for self-pity, but the unfamiliar101 presence of the man made that impossible. That habit of mind needed the co-operation of other habits. It was isolated102 and fell away again. . . . There had been so much clear-cut action in the last few hours, action for a purpose, action that could not be recalled and therefore drove him on to the fulfilment of the purpose.
“I must be alone,” thumped103 Frederic’s mind, and the train-wheels took it up, “alone, alone, alone.”
He became exasperated with the presence of the other man. What right had he in the world where there was nothing but Frederic, nothing at all, an empty world where a man must at last make sure, make very sure, that he is nothing?
The man got out at Bristol. It seemed to Frederic that he had come and gone like a shadow. So little time, the emptiness of the world moving so swiftly, and through it Plymouth coming nearer and nearer to him. Plymouth appeared to him as a sort of monster, a dogging shadow that had run after him for a long time, terrifying him, to spring ahead and come to meet him. And yet it was still behind. Everything was two things, behind and in front; the contradiction made it nothing. . . .
He was frozen with terror. Back, back, this way; no, that; now the other. . . . “It will have me! It will have me! Why? I am nothing. I am nothing. It doesn’t believe that I am nothing. . . . No, no. There is nothing but myself, myself, myself. . . .”
He drew the revolver from his pocket.
“No, no. I will go back. I will go back.”
He sat absolutely numbed104 for a long time. Suddenly he thought of his wife, coldly, clearly. He saw himself in her. She was stronger than he. He must show her that he was the stronger.
[Pg 332]
He thought of his father and passed into a golden stream of peace. He would go to his father. . . “I will arise and go to my father and say unto him, ‘Father, I have sinned against Heaven and before thee and am no more worthy105 to be called thy son.’ . . .” His father would understand as he had understood before. . . . But then he knew that all that his mother had thought of him would be sponged away from her mind, and he remembered with what bitterness she had spoken of Minna.
“Too difficult,” he thought. “Too many people.”
The train gathered speed down an incline. Faster and faster. His terror lest the journey should come to an end clutched him back into the present. He must make haste. He must be the quicker.
He had dropped the revolver into his pocket again. Now he fumbled106 for it. It caught in the lining107, and he tugged108 at it with feverish109 impatience110. . . . His heart leaped on the report, which seemed to come from far away. . . . He felt nothing; less and less; out of the swiftly moving world he was sinking downward, downward, gathering111 speed, falling, falling into nothing.
In the small hours of the morning Mr. Clibran-Bell rang furiously at the bell of the house in Burdley Park. After many minutes Francis came down in his dressing-gown with a candle in his hand. Mr. Clibran-Bell stepped into the hall.
“Frederic,” he said, “has not been home all night. Jessie is at my house. . . . My dear friend, my dear old friend . . .”
“Has . . . something happened?”
“He’s . . . he’s at Plymouth. Dead. They found him in the train, shot in the side.”
Francis stood very still, his mind slowly grasping this new appalling112 fact. Tears trickled113 down his cheeks into his beard.
“I shall go to Plymouth by the first train,” said Mr. Clibran-Bell, “I must get at the truth for Jessie’s sake.”
“Yes. It is very good of you.”
[Pg 333]
It was a long time after Mr. Clibran-Bell had gone before Francis went upstairs again. The candle burnt itself out. His thoughts see-sawed up and down.
“Frederic—dead. Frederic—dead.”
When he had groped his way back to his own existence, burdened with this new catastrophe114, he said to himself:
“I can’t go on. . . . I can’t go on.”
He saw Frederic lying huddled115 in the corner of a railway carriage, strangers to whom he was nothing finding him. . . . Then he thought of that other dead body that he had seen long, long ago, the woman lying in the little dark house, under the guttering116 light of the tallow candle and the clement117 light of the moon. Death violent, death insistent118, death that would not be shrouded119 away or softened120 or made seeming blessed with words or tears. Tears! Death was too harsh. And yet it mattered nothing how it came about. It was always the same: bitter, the bitter end to bitterness. All life was salt with the savour of death. Vain, vain the endeavour to sweeten it. Sweetness and corruption121, were they not yoke-fellows? . . . Words from the Bible passed through Francis Folyat’s mind: “I am the resurrection and the Life,” and again: “For behold122, the days are coming in which they shall say, Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bare, and the paps which never gave suck,” and again in his bitter grief he turned to the Book of Job:
“My days are past, my purposes are broken off, even the thoughts of my heart.
“They change the night into day: the light is short because of darkness.
“If I wait, the grave is mine house; I have made my bed in the darkness.
“I have said to corruption, Thou art my father: to the worm, Thou art my mother and my sister.
“And where is now my hope? As for my hope, who shall see it?
“They shall go down to the base of the pit where our rest together is in the dust.”
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1
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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2
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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3
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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4
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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7
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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9
reconciliations
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| 和解( reconciliation的名词复数 )； 一致； 勉强接受； （争吵等的）止息 | |
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10
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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11
prying
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| 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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12
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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13
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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21
wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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trespassed
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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28
organise
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| vt.组织，安排，筹办 | |
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bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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imbroglio
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| n.纷乱，纠葛，纷扰，一团糟 | |
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pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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43
battalions
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| n.（陆军的）一营（大约有一千兵士）( battalion的名词复数 )；协同作战的部队；军队；（组织在一起工作的）队伍 | |
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44
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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45
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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46
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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47
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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48
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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49
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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50
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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51
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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52
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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53
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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54
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；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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55
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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56
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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57
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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58
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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59
deficit
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| n.亏空，亏损；赤字，逆差 | |
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60
banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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61
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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62
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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63
rectified
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| [医]矫正的，调整的 | |
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64
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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65
embezzlement
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| n.盗用，贪污 | |
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66
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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68
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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69
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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70
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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71
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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72
constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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73
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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74
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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76
overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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78
writs
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| n.书面命令，令状( writ的名词复数 ) | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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premiums
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| n.费用( premium的名词复数 )；保险费；额外费用；（商品定价、贷款利息等以外的）加价 | |
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81
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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82
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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83
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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84
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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85
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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87
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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88
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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89
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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91
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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92
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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94
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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96
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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97
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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98
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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99
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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100
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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101
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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102
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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103
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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106
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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107
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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108
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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110
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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111
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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112
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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113
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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114
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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115
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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116
guttering
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| n.用于建排水系统的材料；沟状切除术；开沟 | |
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117
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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118
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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119
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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120
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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121
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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122
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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