Lord! Lord! Was there ever a more bungled1 affair—a more humiliating confession2. Our poor Quintin—great as he was at the preaching, an apostle indeed, none in broad Scotland to come within miles of him in the pulpit—with a lass was simply fair useless. I must e’en tell in a word how mine own wooing sped, that I may prove there was some airt and spunk3 left among the MacClellans.
For by Quintin’s own showing the girl had no loop-hole left, being wooed as if she had been so many sacks of corn. She was fairly tied up to refuse so hopeless and fushionless a suitor.
But of all this there was no suspicion at the time, neither in the parish of Balmaghie, or yet even among ourselves at Ardarroch. For{170} though nothing gets wind so quickly in a parish as the news that the minister is “seekin”—that is, going from home courting, yet such was my brother’s repute for piety5 “within the bounds of the Presbytery,” such the reverence6 in which he was held, that the popular voice considered him altogether trysted to no maiden7, but to the ancient and honourable8 Kirk of Scotland as she had been in the high days of her pride and purity.
“Na,” they would say, “our minister will never taingle himsel’ wi’ marriage engagements while there is a battle to be fought for the Auld9 Banner o’ Blue.” So whereas another might not so much as look over the wall, my brother might have stolen all the horses before their eyes.
And I think it was this great popular repute of him which first set his fellow-ministers against him, far more than any so-called “defections” and differences either ecclesiastical or political.
I have seen him at a sacrament at Dalry hold the listening thousands so that they swayed this way and that like barley10 shaken by the winds. Never beheld12 I the like—the multitude of the folk all bending their faces to{171} one point—careless young lads from distant farms, light-headed limmers of lasses, bairns that had been skipping about the kirk-yard and playing “I spy” among the tombstones while other ministers were preaching—all now fixed13 and spellbound when my brother rose to speak, and his full bell-like voice sounded out from the preaching-tent over their heads.
I think that if at any time he had held up his hand and called them to follow him to battle, every man would have gone forth14 as unquestionably as did Cameron’s folk on that fatal day of the Moss15 of Ayr.
But I who sat there, with eyes sharpened and made jealous by exceeding love for my brother, could see clearly the looks of dark suspicion, the sneers16 that dwelt on sanctimonious17 lips, the frowns of envy and ill-will as Quintin stood up, and the folk poured anxiously inward towards the preaching-tent to hear him. I noted18 also the yet deeper anger of those who succeeded him, when multitudes rose and forsook19 the meeting because there was to be no more of the young minister o’ Balmaghie that day.
Now though it was rather on the point of politics and of the standing20 of the kirk, her{172} right to rule herself without interference of the State, her ancient independence and submission21 to Christ the only head of the church, that Quintin was finally persecuted22 and called in question, yet, as all men know in Galloway, it was really on account of the popular acclaim23, the bruit24 of great talents and godliness which he held among all men, beyond any that ever came into the countryside, and of his quietness and persistence25 also in holding his own and keeping a straight unvarying course amid all threatenings and defections, which brought the final wrath26 upon him and constituted the true head and front of his offending.
Aye, and men saw that the storm was brewing27 over him long before it burst.
For several of the Galloway ministers had deliberately28 left the folk of the mountains for the sake of a comfortable down-sitting in bein and sheltered parishes. Some of them even owed their learning at the Dutch Universities to the poor purses of these covenanting29 societies.
And so when papers came down from the Privy30 Council or from the men who, like Carstairs, posed as little gods and popes infallible,{173} the Presbytery men greedily signed them, swallowing titles, oaths and obligations with shut eye and indiscriminate appetite lest unhappily they would be obliged to consult their consciences.
Such men as constituted the Presbytery of Kirkcudbright had but one motto—a clear and useful one indeed at such a time, “Those in power can do no wrong!”
So three years went uneasily by, and meantime the parish of Balmaghie had grown to know and love our Quintin. There was hardly a rascal31 drover, a common villain32 pig-dealer who was not ready to crack a skull33 at an ill word said of him even in jest. Men who in time past had sneered34 at religion, and had never any good report of ministers, dull clods with ideals tethered to the midden and the byre, waked up at sight of him, and would travel miles to hear him preach.
And thus three happy unstirred years went by. I abode35 in the manse with Quintin, and every morning when I arose at break of day to take the cattle afield, or to set the plough in the glebe, I would see that his window-blind was withdrawn36, his candle alight if it were winter, and that he had already set him down with{174} his book. Or sometimes when the summer evening darkened to dusk I would meet him wandering, his hands clasped behind his back, and his whole soul steeped in meditation37 by the whispering rushes of the waterside.
Yet what a simpleton in worldly things he was; and, mayhap, that was what made me love him the more.
For about this time there began a stir and a bruit of the matter of little Jean Gemmell, a soft-voiced, die-away lass that I would not have troubled my head about for a moment. She had, truth to tell, set herself to catch our foolish Quintin, whose heart was in good sooth fully38 given to another. And how she did it, let himself tell. But I, that thought nothing of a lass without spirit, would often warn him to beware. But he minded me not, smiling and giving the subject the go-by in a certain sober and serious way he had which somehow silenced me against my will.
But in between my brother’s ill-starred wooing of the bonny lass of Earlstoun, and Jean Gemmell’s meek-eyed courtship of him, I also had been doing somewhat on mine own account.
At the house of Drumglass there abode{175} one who to my mind was worth all the haughty39 damsels of great houses and all the sleek40 and kittenish eyes-makers in broad Scotland.
When first I saw Alexander-Jonita come over the hill, riding a Galloway sheltie barebacked, her dark hair streaming in the wind, and the pony41 speeding over the heather like the black charger of Clavers on the side of Cairn Edward, I knew that there was no hope for my heart. I had indeed fancied myself in love before. So much was expected of a lad in our parts. But Alexander-Jonita was a quest worth some enterprising to obtain.
The neighbours, at least the rigidly42 righteous of them, were inclined to look somewhat askance upon a lass that went so little to the Kirk, and companioned more with the dumb things of the field than with her own kith and kin4. But Quintin would ask such whether their own vineyard was so well kept, their own duty so faultlessly done, that they could afford to keep a stone ready to cast at Alexander-Jonita.
I remember the first time that ever I spoke43 to her words beyond the common greetings and salutations of lad and lass.{176}
It was a clear night in early June. I had been over at Ardarroch seeing my mother, and now having passed high up the Black Water of Dee, I was making my way across the rugged44 fells and dark heathery fastnesses to the manse of Balmaghie.
The mist was rising about the waterside. It lingered in pools and drifts in every meadowy hollow, but the purpling hilltops were clear and bare in the long soft June twilight45.
Suddenly a gun went off, as it seemed in my very ear. I sprang a foot into the air, for who on honourable business would discharge a musket46 in that wild place at such a time.
But ere I had time to think, above me on the ridge47 a figure stood black against the sky—a girl’s shape it was, slim, tall, erect48. She carried something in one hand which trailed on the heather, and a musket was under her arm, muzzle49 down.
I had not yet recovered my breath when a voice came to me.
“Ah, Hob MacClellan, the ill deil tak’ your courting-jaunts this nicht! For had ye bidden at hame I would have gotten baith o’ the red foxes that have been killing50 our weakly lambs. As it is, I gat but this.”{177}
And she held up a great dog fox by the brush before throwing the body into a convenient moss-hole.
It was Alexander-Jonita, the lass whom our college-bred Quintin had once called the Diana of Balmaghie. I care not what he called her. Without question she was the finest lass in the countryside. And that I will maintain to this day.
“Are you going home, Jonita?” cried I, for the direction in which she was proceeding51 led directly away from the house of Drumglass.
“No,” she answered carelessly, “I am biding52 all night in the upper ‘buchts.’ The foxes have been very troublesome of late, and I am thinning them with the gun. I have the feck of the lambs penned up there.”
“And who is with you to help you?” I asked her in astonishment53.
“Only the dogs,” she made answer, shifting the gun from one shoulder to the other.
“But, lassie,” I cried, “ye surely do not sleep out on the hills all your lone54 like this?”
“And what for no?” she answered sharply. “What sweeter bed than a truss of heather? What safer than with two rough tykes of dogs and a good gun at one’s elbow, with the clear{178} airs blowing over and the sheep lying snugly55 about the folds?”
“But when it rains,” I went on, still doubtfully.
“Come and see,” she laughed; “we are near the upper ‘buchts’ now!”
Great stone walls of rough hill boulders56, uncut and unquarried, rose before me. I saw a couple of rough collies sit guardian57 one at either side of the little lintelled gate that led within. The warm smell of gathered sheep, ever kindly58 and welcome to a hill man, saluted59 my nostrils60 as I came near. A lamb bleated61, and in the quiet I could hear it run pattering to nose its mother.
Alexander-Jonita led me about the great “bucht” to a niche63 formed by a kind of cairn built into the side of a wall of natural rock. Here a sort of rude shelter had been made with posts driven into the crevices64 of the rock and roughly covered with turves of heather round the sides of a ten-foot enclosure. The floor was of bare dry rock, but along one side there was arranged a couch of heather tops recently pulled, very soft and elastic65. At first I could not see all this quite clearly in the increasing darkness, but after a little, bit by bit the plan{179} of the shelter dawned upon me, as my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light.
“When it rains,” she said, going back to my question, “I set a post in the middle for a tent pole, spread my plaid over it and fasten it down at the sides with stones.”
“Jonita,” said I, “does your sister never come up hither with you?”
“Who—our Jean!” she cried, astonished, “faith, no! Jean takes better with the inside of a box-bed and the warmth of the peat-grieshoch[11] on the hearth66! And, indeed, the lass is not over-strong. But as for me, more than the cheeping of the house-mice, I love the chunnering of the wild fowl67 in their nests and the bleat62 of the sheep. These are honey and sweetness to me.”
“But, Jonita,” I went on, “surely no girl is strong enough to take shower and wind-buffet night and day on the wild moors68 like this. Why, you make me ashamed, me that am born and bred to the trade.”
“And what am I?” she asked sharply, “I am over twenty, and yet nothing but an ignorant lass and careless of seeming otherwise. I am not even like my sister Jean that can look{180} and nod as if she understood everything your brother is talking about, knowing all the while naught69 of the matter. But, at least, I ken11 the ways of the hills. Feel that!”
She thrust her arm suddenly out to me.
I clasped it in my hands, sitting meantime on a great stone in the angle, while she stood beside me with the dogs on either side of her. It was a smooth, well-rounded arm, cool and delicate of skin, that she gave into my fingers. Her loose sleeve fell back, and if I had dared to follow my desire, I should have set my lips to it, so delightful70 did the touch of it seem to me. But I refrained me, and presently underneath71 the satin skin I felt the muscles rise nobly, tense yet easy, clean of curve and spare flesh, moulded alike for strength and suppleness72.
“I would not like to pull at the swingle-tree with you, my lass,” said I, “and if it came to a Keltonhill collieshangie I would rather have you on my side than against me.”
And I think she was more pleased at that than if I had told her she was to be a great heiress.
As I waited there on the rough stones of the sheepfold, and looked at the slight figure{181} sitting frankly73 and easily beside me, thinking, as I knew, no more of the things of love than if she had been a neighbour lad of the hills, a kind of jealous anger came over me.
“Jonita,” said I, “had ye never a sweetheart?”
“A what?” cried Jonita in a tone of as much surprise as if I had asked her if she had ever possessed74 an elephant.
“A lad that loved you as other maids are loved.”
“I have heard silly boys speak nonsense,” she said, “but I am no byre-lass to be touselled in corners by every night-raker that would come visiting at the Drumglass.”
“Jonita,” I went on, “hath none ever helped you with your sheep on the hill, run when you wanted him, stopped when you told him, come like a collie to your foot when he was called?”
“None, I tell you, has ever sat where you are sitting, Hob MacClellan! And hear ye this, had I thought you a silly ‘cuif’ like the rest, it would have been the short day of December and the long again before I had asked you to view my bower75 under the rock.”
“I was only asking, Jonita,” said I; “ye ken{182} that ye are the bonniest lass in ten parishes, and to me it seemed a strange thing that ye shouldna hae a lad.”
“Bah,” said she, “lads are like the pebbles76 in the brook77. They are run smooth with many experiences, courting here and flattering there. What care I whether or no this one or that comes chapping at my door? There are plenty more in the brook. Besides, are there not the hills and the winds and the clear stars over all, better and more enduring than a thousand sweethearts?”
“But,” said I, “the day will come, Jonita, when you may be glad of the friend’s voice, the kindly eye, the helping78 hand, the arm beneath the head——”
“I did not say that I desired to have no friends,” she said, as it seemed in the darkness, a little shyly.
“Will you let me be your friend?” I said, impulsively79, taking her hand.
“I do not know,” said Alexander-Jonita; “I will tell you in the morning. It is over-dark to-night to see your eyes.”
“Can you not believe?” said I. “Have you ever heard that I thus offered friendship to any other maid in all the parish?”{183}
“You might have offered it to twenty and they taken it every one for aught I care. But Alexander-Jonita Gemmell accepts no man’s friendship till she has tried him as a fighter tries a sword.”
“Then try me, Jonita!” I cried, eagerly.
“I will,” said she, promptly80; “rise this instant from the place where ye sit, look not upon me, touch me not, say neither good e’en nor yet good-day, but take the straight road and the ready to the manse of Balmaghie.”
The words were scarce out of her mouth when with a leap so quick that the collies had not even time to rise, I was over the dyke81 and striding across the moss and whinstone-crag towards the house by the waterside, where my brother’s light had long been burning over his books.
I did not so much as look about me till I was on the crest82 of the hill. Then for a single moment I stood looking back into the clear grey bath of night behind me, where the lass I loved was keeping her watch in the lonely sheepfold.
Yet I was pleased with myself too. For though my dismissal had been so swift and unexpected,{184} I felt that I had not done by any means badly for myself.
At least I could call Alexander-Jonita my friend. And there was never a lad upon all the hills of heather that could do so much.
点击收听单词发音
1 bungled | |
v.搞糟,完不成( bungle的过去式和过去分词 );笨手笨脚地做;失败;完不成 | |
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2 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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3 spunk | |
n.勇气,胆量 | |
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4 kin | |
n.家族,亲属,血缘关系;adj.亲属关系的,同类的 | |
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5 piety | |
n.虔诚,虔敬 | |
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6 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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7 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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8 honourable | |
adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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9 auld | |
adj.老的,旧的 | |
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10 barley | |
n.大麦,大麦粒 | |
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11 ken | |
n.视野,知识领域 | |
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12 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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13 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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14 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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15 moss | |
n.苔,藓,地衣 | |
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16 sneers | |
讥笑的表情(言语)( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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17 sanctimonious | |
adj.假装神圣的,假装虔诚的,假装诚实的 | |
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18 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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19 forsook | |
forsake的过去式 | |
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20 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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21 submission | |
n.服从,投降;温顺,谦虚;提出 | |
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22 persecuted | |
(尤指宗教或政治信仰的)迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 ); 烦扰,困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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23 acclaim | |
v.向…欢呼,公认;n.欢呼,喝彩,称赞 | |
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24 bruit | |
v.散布;n.(听诊时所听到的)杂音;吵闹 | |
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25 persistence | |
n.坚持,持续,存留 | |
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26 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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27 brewing | |
n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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28 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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29 covenanting | |
v.立约,立誓( covenant的现在分词 ) | |
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30 privy | |
adj.私用的;隐密的 | |
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31 rascal | |
n.流氓;不诚实的人 | |
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32 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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33 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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34 sneered | |
讥笑,冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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36 withdrawn | |
vt.收回;使退出;vi.撤退,退出 | |
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37 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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38 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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39 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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40 sleek | |
adj.光滑的,井然有序的;v.使光滑,梳拢 | |
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41 pony | |
adj.小型的;n.小马 | |
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42 rigidly | |
adv.刻板地,僵化地 | |
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43 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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44 rugged | |
adj.高低不平的,粗糙的,粗壮的,强健的 | |
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45 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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46 musket | |
n.滑膛枪 | |
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47 ridge | |
n.山脊;鼻梁;分水岭 | |
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48 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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49 muzzle | |
n.鼻口部;口套;枪(炮)口;vt.使缄默 | |
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50 killing | |
n.巨额利润;突然赚大钱,发大财 | |
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51 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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52 biding | |
v.等待,停留( bide的现在分词 );居住;(过去式用bided)等待;面临 | |
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53 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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54 lone | |
adj.孤寂的,单独的;唯一的 | |
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55 snugly | |
adv.紧贴地;贴身地;暖和舒适地;安适地 | |
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56 boulders | |
n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 );巨砾;(受水或天气侵蚀而成的)巨石;漂砾 | |
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57 guardian | |
n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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58 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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59 saluted | |
v.欢迎,致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 );赞扬,赞颂 | |
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60 nostrils | |
鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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61 bleated | |
v.(羊,小牛)叫( bleat的过去式和过去分词 );哭诉;发出羊叫似的声音;轻声诉说 | |
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62 bleat | |
v.咩咩叫,(讲)废话,哭诉;n.咩咩叫,废话,哭诉 | |
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63 niche | |
n.壁龛;合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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64 crevices | |
n.(尤指岩石的)裂缝,缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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65 elastic | |
n.橡皮圈,松紧带;adj.有弹性的;灵活的 | |
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66 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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67 fowl | |
n.家禽,鸡,禽肉 | |
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68 moors | |
v.停泊,系泊(船只)( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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69 naught | |
n.无,零 [=nought] | |
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70 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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71 underneath | |
adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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72 suppleness | |
柔软; 灵活; 易弯曲; 顺从 | |
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73 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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74 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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75 bower | |
n.凉亭,树荫下凉快之处;闺房;v.荫蔽 | |
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76 pebbles | |
[复数]鹅卵石; 沙砾; 卵石,小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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77 brook | |
n.小河,溪;v.忍受,容让 | |
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78 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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79 impulsively | |
adv.冲动地 | |
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80 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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81 dyke | |
n.堤,水坝,排水沟 | |
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82 crest | |
n.顶点;饰章;羽冠;vt.达到顶点;vi.形成浪尖 | |
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