Far to the south and east, I could see the outsize bulk of the Pan Am Building overshadowing and dwarfing41 the entire area around Grand Central Station. Beyond it I saw the dull-gray tip of the Chrysler Building, and to the right of that and farther south the Empire State Building. After that, there was only a nearly solid wall of mist already stained yellow with industrial smoke. To the west, only a block or so away, lay the Hudson River looking like the opaque42 gray sewer43 that it is. On its other shore rose the cliffs of New Jersey44. To the east I saw a between-buildings sliver45 of Central Park. Danziger gestured at the invisible horizons with his fork and said, "There lies what? New York? And the world beyond it? Yes, you can say that, of course; the New York and world of the moment. But you can equally well say that there lies November twenty-sixth. Out there lies the day you walked through this morning; it is filled with the inescapable facts that make it today. It will be almost identical tomorrow, very likely, but not quite. In some households things will have worn out, used today for the last time. An old dish will have finally broken, a hair or two come out gray at the roots, the first flick37 of a new illness begun. Some people alive today will be dead. Some scattered46 buildings will be a little closer to completion. Or destruction. And what will lie out there then, equally inescapably, will be a little different New York and world and therefore a little different day." Danziger began walking forward toward an edge of the roof, cutting off a bite of pie as he walked. "Pretty good pie. You should have had some. I made certain we got a damn good cook." It was nice up here: As we walked, the sun, deflected47 up from the rooftop, felt good on the face. We stopped at the edge of the roof and leaned on the waist-high extension of the building wall, and again Danziger gestured at the city. "The degree of change each day is usually too slight to perceive much difference. Yet those tiny daily changes have brought us from a time when what you'd have seen down there instead of traffic lights and hooting48 fire engines, was farmland, treetops, and streams; cows at pasture, men in tricornered hats; and British sailing ships anchored in a clear-running, tree-shaded East River. It was out there once, Si. Can you see it?" I tried. I stared out at the uncountable thousands of windows in the sooty sides of hundreds of buildings, and down at the streets nearly solid with car tops. I tried to turn it back into a rural scene, imagining a man down there with buckles49 on his shoes and wearing a pigtailed white wig50, walking along a dusty country road called the broad way. It was impossible. "Can't do it, can you? Of course not. You can see yesterday; most of it is still left. And there's plenty of 1965, '62, '58. There's even a good deal left of nineteen hundred. And in spite of all the indistinguishable glass boxes and of monstrosities like the Pan Am Building and other crimes against nature and the people"—he waggled a hand before his face as though erasing51 them from sight—"there are fragments of still earlier days. Single buildings. Sometimes several together. And once you get away from midtown, there are entire city blocks that have been where they still stand for fifty, seventy, even eighty and ninety years. There are scattered places a century or more old, and a very few which actually knew the presence of Washington." Rube was up here now, I saw, wearing a felt hat and a light topcoat, deferentially52 waiting a few token paces out of earshot. "Those places are fragments still remaining, Si"—Danziger's fork swept the horizon once more—"of days which once lay out there as real as the day lying out there now: still-surviving fragments of a clear April morning of 1871, a gray winter afternoon of 1840, a rainy dawn of 1793." He glanced at Rube from the corner of his eye, then looked back to me. "One of those survivals, in my opinion, is close to being a kind of miracle. Have you ever seen the Dakota?" "The what?" He nodded. "If you'd ever seen it, you'd remember that name. Rube!" Rube stepped smartly forward, the alert lieutenant53 responding to the colonel's call. "Show Si the Dakota, will you, please?" Outside the big warehouse, Rube and I walked east to Central Park; I'd picked up my hat and coat in the little ground-level office. In the park we turned onto West Drive, which is the street just inside the western boundary of the park. We walked along under the trees; a few still had their leaves, clean and greener now after the morning's rain, and Rube said, looking around us, "This park itself is something of a miracle of survival, too. Right here in the heart of what must be the world's most changeable city are, not just acres, but several square miles that have been preserved practically unchanged for decades. Lay a Central Park map of the early eighteen eighties beside a map of today, and there on both maps are all the old names and places: the reservoir, the lake, North Meadow, the Green, the pool, Harlem Mere54, the obelisk55. We've photocopied56 some of the old maps to precisely the size of a modern one, then superimposed one over the other between glass sheets, and shot a good strong light through them. Allowing for small mapmakers' errors, they've coincided, the sizes and shapes of the things in the park unchanged through the years. Si, the very curve of this road, and nearly all the roads and even the footpaths57, are unaltered." I didn't doubt it; off to our left, the low boundary wall of the park was not quick-poured concrete but old carefully mortised cut-stone, and the very look of the park, of its bridges and even its trees, is old. "Details are changed, of course," Rube was saying. "The kinds of benches, trash baskets, and painted signs, the way the paths and roads are surfaced. But the old photographs all show that except for automobiles58 on the roadways there is no difference you can see from, say, six or seven stories up." Rube must have timed what he was saying, or maybe it was past experience at this, because now as we passed under a final tree beside the walk, rounding the curve that led off the West Drive and onto the Seventy-second Street exit from the park, he lifted an arm to point ahead. As we walked out from under the branches of the tree he said, "From an upper apartment of that building, for example," and then I saw it and stopped dead in my tracks. There across the street just outside the park stood a tall block-wide structure utterly59 unlike any I'd ever before seen in all New York. One look and you knew it was what Danziger had said: a magnificent survival of another time. I later came back—it was after a snowfall, as you can see— and took photographs of the building, a whole roll of them, the super even taking me up to the roof. The one at the top of the next page I took from where Rube and I stood; the building you see there is pale yellow brick handsomely trimmed in chocolate-colored stone, and as one of my later shots shows, each of its eight stories is just twice as high as the stories of the modern apartment house beside it.
It's a wonderful sight, and the roof almost instantly pulled my eyes up; it was like a miniature town up there—of gables, turrets61, pyramids, towers, peaks. From roof edge to highest peak it must have been forty feet tall; acres of slanted62 surfaces shingled63 in slate64, trimmed with age-greened copper, and peppered with uncountable windows, dormer and flush; square, round, and rectangular; big and small; wide, and as narrow as archers65' slits66. As the shot that I took on the roof shows—at the bottom of the previous page—it rose into flagpoles and ornamental67 stone spires68; itflattened out into promenades69 rimmed60 with lacy wrought-iron fences; and everywhere it sprouted70 huge fireplace chimneys. All I could do was turn to Rube, shaking my head and grinning with pleasure. He was grinning, too, as proud as though he'd built the place. "That's the way they did things in the eighties, sonny! Some of those apartments have seventeen rooms, and I mean big ones; you can actually lose your way in an apartment like that. At least one of them includes a morning room, reception room, several kitchens, I don't know how many bathrooms, and a private ballroom71. The walls are fifteen niches72 thick; the place is a fortress73. Take your time, and look it over; it's worth it." It was. I stood staring up at it, finding more things to be delighted with: handsome balconies of carved stone under some of the big old windows, a wrought-iron balcony running clear around the seventh story, rounded columns of bay windows rising up the building's side into rooftop cupolas. Rube said, "Plenty of light in those apartments: The building's a hollow square around a courtyard with a couple of spectacular big bronze fountains." ''Well, it's great, absolutely great." I was laughing, shaking my head helplessly, it was such a fine old place. "What is it, how come it's still there?""It's the Dakota. Built in the early eighties when this was practically out of town. People said it was so far from anything it might as well be in the Dakotas, so that's what it was called. That's the story, anyway. I know you won't be astonished to learn that a group of progress-minded citizens was all hot to tear it down a few years ago, and replace it with one more nice new modern monster of far more apartments in the same space, low ceilings, thin walls, no ballrooms74 or butler's pantries, but plenty of profit, you can damn well believe, for the owners. For once the tenants75 had money and could fight back; a good many rich celebrities76 live there. They got together, bought it, and now the Dakota seems safe. Unless it's condemned77 to make room for a crosstown freeway right through Central Park.""Can we get in and look around?" "We don't have time today." I looked up at the building again. "Must get a great view of the park from this side." "You sure do." Rube seemed uninterested suddenly, glancing at his watch, and we turned to walk back along West Drive. Presently we walked out of the park; ahead to the west I could see the immense warehouse again, and read the faded lettering just under its roofline: BEEKEY BROTHERS, MOVING STORAGE, 555-8811. If I'd expected Danziger's office, as I think I did, to be luxurious78 and impressive, I was wrong. Just outside it the black-and-white plastic nameplate beside the door merely said E.E. DANZIGER, no title. Rube knocked, Danziger yelled to come in, Rube opened the door, gestured me in, and turned away, murmuring that he'd see me later. Seated behind his desk, Danziger was on the phone, and he gestured me to a chair beside the desk. I sat down—I'd left my hat and coat downstairs again—and looked around as well as I could without seeming too curious. It was just an office, smaller than Rossoff's and a lot more bare. It looked unfinished really, the office of a man who had to have one but wasn't interested in it, and who spent most of his time outside it. The outer wall was simply the old brick of the warehouse covered by a long pleated drape which didn't extend quite far enough to cover it completely. There was a standard-brand carpet; a small hanging bookshelf on one wall; on another wall a photograph of a woman with her hair in a style of the thirties; on a third wall, a huge aerial photograph of Winfield, Vermont, this view different from the one I'd seen earlier. Danziger's desk was straight from the stock of an office-supplies store, and so were the two leather-padded metal chairs for visitors. On the floor in acorner stood a cardboard Duz carton filled to overflowing79 with a stack of mimeographed papers. On a table against the far wall something bulky lay covered by a rubberized sheet. Danziger finished his phone conversation; it had been something or other about authorizing80 someone to sign vouchers81. He opened his top desk drawer, took out a cigar, peeled off the cellophane, then cut the cigar exactly in half with a pair of big desk scissors, and offered one of the halves to me. I shook my head, and he put it back in the drawer, then put the other half in his mouth, unlighted. "You liked the Dakota," he said; it wasn't a question, but a statement of fact. I nodded, smiling, and Danziger smiled too. He said, "There other essentially82 unchanged buildings in New York, some of them equally fine and a lot older,(are) yet the Dakota is unique; you know why?" I shook my head. "Suppose you were to stand at a window of one of the upper apartments you just saw, and look down into the park; say at dawn when very often no cars are to be seen. All around you is a building unchanged from the day it was built, including the room you stand in and very possibly even the glass pane8 you look through. And this is what's unique in New York: Everything you see outside the window is also unchanged." He was leaning over the desk top staring at me, motionless except for the half cigar which rolled slowly from one side of his mouth to the other. "Listen!" he said fiercely. "The real-estate firm that first managed the Dakota is still in business and we've microfilmed their early records. We know exactly when all the apartments facing the park have stood empty, and for how long." He sat back. "Picture one of those upper apartments standing83 empty for two months in the summer of 1894. As it did. Picture our arranging—as we are—to sublet84 that very apartment for those identical months during the coming summer. And now understand me. If Albert Einstein is right once again—as he is—then hard as it may be to comprehend, the summer of 1894 still exists. That silent empty apartment exists back in that summer precisely as it exists in the summer that is coming. Unaltered and unchanged, identical in each, and existing in each. I believe it may be possible this summer, just barely possible, you understand, for man to walk out of that unchangedapartmentandintothatothersummer."Hesatbackinhis(a) chair, his eyes on mine, the cigar bobbing slightly as he chewed it. After a long moment I said, "Just like that?" "Oh, no!" He shot forward again, leaning across the desk toward me. "Not just like that by a long shot," he said, and suddenly smiled at me. "The uncountable millions of invisible threads that exist in here, Si"—he touched his forehead—"would bind him to this summer, no matter how unaltered the apartment around him." He sat back in his chair, looking at me, still smiling a little. Then he said very softly and matter-of-factly, "But I would say this project began, Si, on the clay it occurred to me that just possibly there is a way to dissolve those threads." I understood; I knew the purpose of the project. I'd understood it for some time, of course, but now it had been put into words. For several seconds I sat nodding slowly, Danziger waiting for me to say something. Finally I did. "Why? Why do you want to?"He slouched back in his chair, one long arm hooked over its back, and shrugged a shoulder. "Why did the Wrights want to build an airplane? To create jobs for stewardesses85? Or give us a way to bomb Vietnam? No, I think all they really had in mind was to see if they could. I think it's why the Russki scientists shot the first satellite into orbit, no matter what supposed purposes they advanced. For no other real reason than to see if they could, like kids blasting a firecracker under a tin can to see if it'll really go up. And I think it was reason enough. For their scientists and ours. Impressive purposes were invented later to justify86 the horrible expense of these toys, but the first tries were just for the hell of it, boy, and that's our reason, too." It was okay with me. I said, "Fine, but why Win-field, Vermont, in 1926? Or Paris of 1451? Or the Dakota apartments in 1894?" "The places aren't important to us." He took the half cigar from his mouth, looked at it distastefully, and put it back. "And neither the times. They're nothing but targets of opportunity. We'renotespeciallyinterestedin theCr(are) ow Indians. Of 1850 or any other time. But as it happens, there are some thousands of federally owned acres of Montana land still virtually untouched, unchanged from the 1850's. For four or five days at most the Department of Agriculture will undertake to close the road through it—no cars or Greyhound buses—and to keep the jets out. They can also provide a herd87 of approximately a thousand buffalo. If we could have the area for a month we wouldn't need the simulation down on the Big Floor. As it is, our man will get used to it here, and—we hope—be ready to make the most of the few days we'll have in the real location. "As for Winfield—" he nodded toward the wall photograph. "It's just a very small town in an area of played-out farmland, virtually abandoned when we got it. For forty years the town was slowly dying, gradually losing population. For the last thirty of those years hardly anyone wasted money modernizing88 and trying to fight the inevitable89. It's an old story in parts of New England; the ghost towns aren't all in the West. This one was more isolated90 than most, so we bought it through another agency simply as a target of opportunity. Supposedly to build a dam on its site." Danziger grinned. "We've closed off the road into it, and now we're restoring it; God, it's fun! The reverse, for a change, of running a freeway through the heart of a fine old town or replacing a lovely old place with a windowless monstrosity; it would drive the destroyer mentalities91 insane with frustration92, but our people are having a wonderful time." He sat smiling like a sailor talking about his all-time-best shore leave. "They're ripping out all the neon, they'll tear out every dial phone, unscrew every frosted light bulb. We've carted out most of the electrical appliances already: power lawn mowers and the like. We're removing every scrap93 of plastic, restoring the buildings, and tearing down the few new ones. We're even removing the paving from certain streets, turning them back into lovely dirt roads. When we're finished, the bakery will be ready with string and white paper to wrap fresh-baked bread in. There'll be little water sprays in Gelardi's store to keep the fresh vegetables cool. The fire engine will be horse-drawn, all automobiles the right kind, and the newspaper will begin turning out daily duplicates of those it published in 1926. We're working from an extensive study andcollation of photographs and town records, and when 'finished I think forgotten little Winfield will once more be the way it was in 1926; now what d(we) o (re) you think of that?" I was smiling with him. "Sounds impressive. And expensive." "Not at all." Danziger shook his head firmly. "It will cost, all told, only a little over three million dollars, less than the cost of two hours of war, and a better buy. All this for the benefit of one man; you saw him this morning out on the Big Floor." "The man on the porch of the little frame house." "Yes; it's a duplicate of one in Winfield. In it, as well as he can, John is doing his level best to work himself into the mood of living in Winfield, Vermont, in the year 1926. Then, when he's ready and when we are, for about ten days—the longest period that is practical—some two hundred actors and extras will begin walking the restored streets of Winfield, driving the old cars, sitting out on the porches if it's warm enough. They'll be told it has to do with an experimental movie technique; hidden cameras catching94 their impromptu95 but authentic96 actions, which must be maintained at all times when outdoors. Among the two hundred—all those having actual dealings with John—will be some twenty-odd people from the project. We hope John will be mentally ready to make the most of those brief ten days." Chewing his cigar stump97, the old man sat staring across his office at the huge photograph on the wall. Then he looked at me again. "And that's the purpose of all our constructions down on the Big Floor. They're preparatory: temporary substitutes for the real sites because they're either not available yet not available for a long enough time. There aren't many thousand-year-old buildingsanywhe(or) re, for example, but one of them is Notre Dame98 cathedral in Paris. The actual site will be given to us for less than five hours, between midnight and dawn of one night only. Electricity and gas to be turned off on the .le de Cite and along the Right and Left banks within eye range of the cathedral. And we'll be allowed to stage-set the immediate99 area. It's the best we could arrange—through the State Department—with the French government. They think it's being done for a movie. We even prepared a full shooting script to show them; realistically bad, which I expect convinced them. No one in the project has a great deal of hope for this particular attempt; there will be only a matter of hours in which to make it, not nearly enough, I'm afraid. And it'reaching a long way back; could anyone really achieve a sense of what it was like? I must doubt it,(s) but still I have hope. We do the best we can, that's all, with the sites we discover." Danziger stood, and beckoning100 me to follow, he walked to the covered table. "And now, except for countless details, you know what this project is. I've saved the best for last: your assignment." He pulled the dust from the table and exposed a model, three-dimensional and beautifullymade.Fromabody(cover) of white-capped green water a wooded island rose to a peak. Facing the island across a strait, a slanted cliff rose from a boulder-strewn beach. Above the rock face of the cliff grew timber, and among the trees stood a white house with a railed veranda101.
"We're building this down on the Big Floor." Danziger touched the peak of the wooded island. "This is Angel Island in San Francisco Bay; it is state and federally owned. Except for a long-abandoned immigration station and an abandoned Nike site, both hidden by trees, the island looks now as it looked at the turn of the century when this house"—he touched its tiny roof—"was new. It was the first house built here, and it took the best view, nearest the water. The actual house still exists, and except from its rear windows you can't see the newer houses around it. And Angel Island blocks off the Bay bridges. So the site is as it was except for modern shipping102 and power boats passing through the strait. For two full days and three nights we can have the strait as it was, including two cargo103 sailing-ships and some smaller ones." Danziger smiled at me and put a big heavy hand on my shoulder. "San Francisco has always been a charming place to visit. But they say the city that was lost in the earthquake and fire of 1906 was particularly lovely, nothing like it on earth anymore. And that, Si—San Francisco in 1901—is your assignment." No one likes anticlimax104: There was a kind of innocent drama about this moment that I liked, and I hated to spoil it. But I had to, and I shook my head, frowning. "No. If I have a choice, Dr. Danziger, then not San Francisco. I want to be the man who tries in New York." "New York?" He moved one shoulder in a puzzled shrug24. "Well, I wouldn't myself, but if you like, you may. I thought I was offering you something exceptional, but—" I had to interrupt, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Dr. Danziger, but I don't mean the New York of 1894." He wasn't smiling now; he stood staring intently into my eyes, wondering if he hadn't made a big mistake about me. "Oh?" he said softly. "When?" "In January—I don't remember the date, but I'll find out—of the year 1882." Before I'd even finished he was shaking his head no. "Why?" I felt foolish saying it. "To ... watch a man mail a letter." "Just watch? That's all?" he said curiously105, and I nodded. He turned abruptly106, walked to the side of his desk, picked up the phone, dialed two digits107, and stood waiting. "Fran? Check our records on the Dakota; they're on film. For parkside vacancies108 in January 1882." We waited. I put in the time studying the model on the table, walking around it, stooping to squint109 across it. Then Danziger picked up a pen, scribbled110 rapidly on a scratch pad, said, "Thank you, Fran," and hung up. He ripped the sheet from the pad, turned to me, and his voice was disappointed. "I'm sorry to say there are two vacancies in January of 1882. One on the second floor, which is no good. But the other is on the seventh floor and runs for the entire month, from the first of the year on into February. Frankly111, I'd hoped there would be none, and that your purpose would therefore be impossible, ending the matter. Si, there can be no private purposes inthis project. This is a deadly serious venture, and that's not what it's for. So maybe you'd better tell me what you have in mind." "I want to. But I don't want to just tell you, sir, I want to show you. In the morning. Because if you actually see what I'm talking about, I think you may agree." "I don't think so." He was shaking his head again, but once more now his eyes were friendly. "By all means show me, though; in the morning if you like. Go on home now, Si; it's been quite a day."
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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astronomers
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| n.天文学者，天文学家( astronomer的名词复数 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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unified
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| (unify 的过去式和过去分词)； 统一的； 统一标准的； 一元化的 | |
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crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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physicist
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| n.物理学家，研究物理学的人 | |
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plausibly
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| 似真地 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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warehouse
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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synthetic
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| adj.合成的，人工的；综合的；n.人工制品 | |
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outlast
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warily
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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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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36
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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37
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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38
vents
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| （气体、液体等进出的）孔、口( vent的名词复数 )； （鸟、鱼、爬行动物或小哺乳动物的）肛门； 大衣等的)衩口； 开衩 | |
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39
rusting
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| n.生锈v.（使）生锈( rust的现在分词 ) | |
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40
puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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41
dwarfing
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| n.矮化病 | |
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42
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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43
sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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44
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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45
sliver
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| n.裂片，细片，梳毛；v.纵切，切成长片，剖开 | |
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46
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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47
deflected
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| 偏离的 | |
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48
hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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49
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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50
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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51
erasing
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| v.擦掉( erase的现在分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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52
deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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53
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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54
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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55
obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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56
photocopied
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| v.影印，照相复制（photocopy的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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58
automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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rimmed
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| adj.有边缘的，有框的v.沿…边缘滚动；给…镶边 | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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shingled
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| adj.盖木瓦的；贴有墙面板的v.用木瓦盖(shingle的过去式和过去分词形式) | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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70
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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ballrooms
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| n.舞厅( ballroom的名词复数 ) | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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authorizing
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| 授权，批准，委托( authorize的现在分词 ) | |
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81
vouchers
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| n.凭证( voucher的名词复数 )；证人；证件；收据 | |
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82
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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83
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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84
sublet
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| v.转租；分租 | |
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85
stewardesses
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| （飞机上的）女服务员，空中小姐( stewardess的名词复数 ) | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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87
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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88
modernizing
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| 使现代化，使适应现代需要( modernize的现在分词 )； 现代化，使用现代方法 | |
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89
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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90
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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91
mentalities
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| n.心态( mentality的名词复数 )；思想方法；智力；智能 | |
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92
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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93
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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94
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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95
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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97
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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98
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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99
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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100
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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101
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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102
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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103
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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104
anticlimax
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| n.令人扫兴的结局；突降法 | |
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105
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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106
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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107
digits
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| n.数字( digit的名词复数 )；手指，足趾 | |
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108
vacancies
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| n.空房间( vacancy的名词复数 )；空虚；空白；空缺 | |
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109
squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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110
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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111
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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