I'd learned all I was going to learn, and probably all I needed to learn, about Jake Pickering's office. For half a minute or so I stood there in the corridor—till I heard someone's footsteps coming down the stairs. I knew why I hated to turn and walk away; now my mission was completed, and I wished it weren't. I walked back to the main corridor, then turned away from the staircase to walk on through the width of the building, passing the doors of Andrew J. Todd, lawyer; Prof. Charles A. Seeley, chemist; The American Engine Company; J.H. Hunter, notary54. Then I came to the The New-York Observer offices facing onto Park Row, and the staircase to the street. Walking downstairs I was suddenly aware of how hungry I was. I had lunch at the Astor House, across Broadway as Carmody had said, catercorner from the post office. But I almost turned around and left when I stepped into the lobby. It was packed with men standing in groups and pairs, talking, nearly every one of them wearing his hat, and the marble floor was covered, and I mean covered, with tobacco juice, as I knew they called it. Even as I stood in the entrance looking around, four or five seconds at most, a dozen men must have turned, each with a swollen55 cheek, to spit more or less expertly and more or less carefully at porcelain56 cuspidors scattered57 all over the big lobby floor; some didn't even bother looking. Trying to think of something else, I walked the length of the lobby past an enormous stick-and-umbrella stand, a railway ticket office, telegraph office, newspaper and cigar stand, and into an enormous, fantastically noisy counter restaurant, with a big oak-framed sign reading NO SWEARING, PLEASE. But I had two dozen Blue Point oysters58 fresh that morning from New York Bay, and they were absolutely great, and I was glad I'd come. I took the El back to Gramercy Park. I'd noticed the station just east of City Hall Park, got on there, and it curved north through Chatham Square, and turned out to be the old Third Avenue El. I was used to people now; already, in my mind, the other passengers were dressed as they ought to be. But at Chatham Square a family got on that I couldn't look away from. They must have arrived from Ellis Island within the hour, and—incredible to a man of the twentieth century—I could tell where they were from by the way they were dressed. The father, who wore a huge drooping59 mustache, and the ten-year-old son, both wore blue cloth caps with shiny black peaks; short, double-breasted, porcelain-buttoned blue jackets; short scarves tied at the throat; pants that flared60 far out from the waist and tapered61 to the ankles; and although the father wore boots, the boy—I was fascinated, and had to force my eyes away—actually wore wooden shoes. The mother was stout62, crimson-cheeked, wore two dozen skirts, and exactly the kind of bonnet63 you can see on the label of a can of Old Dutch Cleanser. On the floor at the father's feet was a carpetbag, and up on the seat beside him a big cloth-wrapped bundle. They looked happy, amiable64, peering out the windows and commenting in what must, of course, have been Dutch. They were marvelous. They looked like a chocolate ad. And I realized that at this moment—almost the last moments—the world was still a wonderfully variegated65 place: that soldiers in Greece were probably still wearing pointed shoes, long white stockings, and little ballet skirts; Turks were in fezzes, their women veiled; plenty of Eskimos hadn't yet seen their first white man or caught his diseases; and Zulus were still happy cannibals in an unbulldozed, unpaved, unpolluted world.
I knew we must be getting close to my stop, and looked away from the Dutch family long enough to glance out over this strange low New York, its church spires66 the highest things on the island. It was weird67 to be able to look straight across the city and see the Hudson, and astonishing to see how many trees there were. Most of the cross streets seemed lined with them, and there were a good many on the avenues. Some were fine big ones, taller than the houses around them, and I realized that the greenery of all these trees would give the town a rural look in summer almost like a large village, and I wished I could see it then. We approaching my stop, and for instant, down cross street to the west— Seventeenth?E(were) ighteenth?—Icaughtaglimpseofa(an) fineandsplendid-(a) looking five-story apartment building with a mansard roof. I was almost certain—it was red brick with brownstone facings— that I recognized it as the Stuyvesant. A friend of mine, an artist, who had lived in it till they tore it down, sometime in the fifties, I think, had a watercolor he'd done of it on his livingroom wall. He still missed the place, it was such a magnificent, high-windowed, enormous apartment. It actually had twenty-foot ceilings and four wood-burning fireplaces; New York's first apartment building, he said, known as "Stuyvesant's Folly68" while they were building it because people said no New York gentleman would ever consent to live with a lot of strangers. He liked to talk about it, and I was glad to have had even a glimpse of it. I got off at Twenty-third Street, walked back to 19 Gramercy Park, and Aunt Ada heard the front door open and came in from the kitchen, her hands and forearms white with flour. I asked if Julia were home, and she said no, but that she ought to be here any time now, and I thanked her and went on up to my room. It had been some day and I'd walked more than I had in a long time, so I was glad to stretch out on my bed and wait. Now and then, outside my window as I lay there, I heard children in the park cry out, their voices high and thin in the cold outdoor air. I heard the already familiar hollow clop of horses' hoofs69 and the chink of their harness chains. I didn't want to leave this New York; there was so much more to see in this strange yet familiar city. I fell asleep, of course, and awoke at the sounds of Julia's return: her voice and her aunt's in the hall. I got up quickly, pulling my watch out. It was just past four thirty, and I put on shoes and coat and trotted70 down. They were still there in the hall, looking up at me, Julia still dressed for the street; she was showing her aunt some things she'd bought. We all went into the parlor71, Julia untying72 and pulling off her hat, and I told them the story I'd composed, astonished at how guilty I felt to be looking at these two trusting women and lying. I'd gone to the post office, I said, to cancel the box I'd rented until I got permanent quarters. But I'd found an urgent letter in the box. My brother was sick, and while he'd recover, I added quickly—I didn't want condolences—they needed me meanwhile to help out on my father's farm, so I'd have to leave today; right now in fact. I was suddenly afraid they might ask questions about farming, but of course they didn't. Those two nice women were sympathetic, genuinely. And they said they were sorry I was leaving, and it seemed to me that was genuine, too. Aunt Ada supposed that Iwouldn't leave till after dinner, at least, but I said no, I ought to leave right away; it would be a long train trip. She offered to refund73 part of my week's lodging74, which I refused. Then Julia, suddenly remembering, said, "Oh, no! My portrait!" I'd forgotten it completely, and stood looking at her, my mind scrambling75 for an excuse. Then I realized I didn't want one. I wanted to do this portrait very much; it seemed like a particularly good way to say goodbye. So I nodded and said that if she'd sit for it now—I wanted to avoid Jake —I'd do it right away, then leave. Julia hurried upstairs to get ready—I asked her to keep on the dress she was wearing—and I followed to get my sketchbook from my overcoat pocket. Upstairs I packed my carpetbag, stood looking around the room—ridiculously, I knew I'd miss it—then walked out, carpetbag in one hand, sketchbook in the other, and I flipped77 the cover back to look over the day's sketches78. As I turned toward the stairs Julia stepped down off the enclosed third-floor staircase, almost bumping into me; her hair was freshly coiled on top of her head now. "Oh, may I see!" she said, reaching for my sketchbook. I might have made an excuse, but I was curious and gave her the book. Walking slowly down ahead of me, she looked first at my reference sketches of the farming near the Dakota; they weren't really sketches yet but more like a set of notes to myself, and she didn't comment on them, but turned the page to my sketch76 of City Hall Park and the streets around it. I think I might have guessed the kind of response she made; I knew this was an age of absolute and almost universal faith in progress, and very nearly a love of machinery79 and its potentials. We were downstairs, and now she stopped in the parlor and said, "What are these, Mr. Morley?" Her fingertip lay on the paper at the cars and trucks I'd sketched80 onto Centre Street. "Automobiles81." She repeated it as though it were two words: "Auto82 mobiles." Then she nodded, pleased. "Yes: self-propelled. That's an excellent coinage; is it your own?" I said no, that I'd heard it somewhere, and she nodded again and said, "Perhaps in Jules Verne. In any case, I'm quite certain we will have auto mobiles. And a good thing; so much cleaner than horses." She was already turning the page, and now she looked at my rough of Trinity and Broadway. Before she could comment I took it from her, and very rapidly sketched in the enormous buildings that would someday surround the little church. I handed it back to her, and after a moment she nodded. "Excellent. Wonderfully symbolic83. The highest structure on all of Manhattan to be eventually surrounded by others far taller: yes. But you're a better artist than architect, Mr. Morley; to support buildings this tall, the masonry84 at the base of the walls would need to be half a mile thick!" She smiled, and handed my pad back. "Where shall I sit?" I posed her at a window in a three-quarter view, making her let her hair down, and worked with a very sharp hard pencil to force the best delineation85 I was capable of; no obscuring faultydraftsmanship with a fine thick dash of a line. The hard pencil also allowed the finest shading and cross-hatching I was capable of. It was turning out well. I had the shape of the face, and I had the eyes and eyebrows86, the hardest part for me, and I was working quite carefully on the hair: I wanted to really catch the way it was. But I was slow: Young Felix Grier came home, and I dragged out my watch and saw that it was just before five. He stood watching for a few moments, not saying anything. He smiled when I looked up at him, and nodded a quick polite approval, but his eyes were worried, and I knew why. I was worried, too—that Jake Pickering would come in and raise hell once again, and it was no part of my mission here to make trouble. I stepped up my speed, trying to hang onto my control; I wanted this good. It seemed unlikely that he'd be home from a job at City Hall before five thirty or six, and I expected to be finished and gone within minutes now. It was my fault, of course, for not thinking of the obvious: that a man like Jake Pickering, hating his job and status as a clerk, would walk back to City Hall and quit his job after seeing Carmody. And now—this time I didn't see him approaching the house—the front door opened, closed, and there he was standing in the hall doorway again. But now he was swaying ever so slightly, and his tie was undone87. His overcoat was unbuttoned, his hands shoved into his pants pockets, and his plug hat, far back on his head, had a streak88 of dried mud at the crown and along one curled rim27. He wasn't out of control; he was drunk but knew what he was seeing. Julia and I staring at him, his eyes moved from her face to the lines on my pad, back to Julia's face, back to the pad. There have been primitive89 people throughout the world who would not permit a likeness90 to be made of themselves; they believed it took something of the living person away. And it may be that this man, not realizing or understanding it, had some of that nearly instinctive91 feeling. Because mysketching of Julia enraged92 him as though in his mind my eyes on her face, my moving pencil taking her likeness, were a kind of deep intimacy93. As it is in a way. In any case, it was somehow unbearable94 to him; more than rage, it was emotion past thought: berserk. His eyes lifted from the pad to my face. They were very small now, the whites reddened, and they were absolutely implacable. He lifted his arm to full length, and his lips parted to bare his teeth like an animal as he pointed at me wordlessly; I don't think there were words for the fury he felt. Then the arm swung in a short arc to point at Julia. His neck looked swollen and his voice was so thick it was hard to understand. He said, "Wait. Stay here. Wait. And I'll show you." Then almost nimbly—the swaying vanished—he swung round on his heel and was gone, the front door opening and slamming an instant later. I finished the portrait: why not? After the door slammed I looked at Julia, and my mouth opened to say something but all I did was shrug95. Nothing to say, except Well, well, well, or something just as inane96, occurred to me. And Julia forced a smile and shrugged97, too, but her face was white and stayed so. I'm not sure why: fear, anger, shock; I don't know. But she was defiant98 too, her chin unconsciously lifted through the rest of the sitting, another ten minutes or so. She liked the portrait: I could tell that she really did by the way she looked at it again and again; and some color came back to her face. My drawing was fully detailed99, very literal; it could have been a Leslie's Illustrated100 Newspaper woodcut. But this one was also a good portrait. Not only did it look like her; I was a good enough artist to manage that, given the time and incentive101, but it also caught something of Julia herself, of the kind of person she was, so far as I knew. Maybe it did capture something of Julia's "soul." Anyway, it was good. The others had come into the house; Byron Doverman just as I was finishing, and then Maud Torrence, each stopping to admire and praise before going on upstairs. Aunt Ada came in from the kitchen to call upstairs, saying dinner would be on the table in five minutes. She admired the drawing too, and then insisted, since I was still here, that I stay for dinner. And unless I wanted to look as though I were running from Jake, leaving Julia to face him alone, I had to stay, and I said I would; the harm, if any, was already done. I was afraid, I realized —I didn't know what the hell this guy might do—but I was curious, too. Still admiring her portrait, Julia looked up at me and asked me to sign it. I took it, fumbling102 in my pocket for the pencil, trying to figure out what to say: I couldn't just write my name and nothing more. Then I thought, "In for a penny, in for a pound," or whatever the saying is, and I wrote "For Julia—Affectionately, admiringly," mentally adding, And to hell with you, Jake, and signed my name. In the time I'd been here I'd thought almost not at all of Rube Prien, Dr. Danziger, Oscar Rossoff, Colonel Esterhazy, or even the project itself; they were motionless in my mind, at the small far-off end of the telescope, dwindled103 and remote. But at dinner they turned real again: what were they going to think of what I'd have to tell them? That I'd disturbed and interfered104 in events with inexcusable clumsiness? Probably; and maybe they'd be right, yet I didn't know how I could have avoided it. The talk at dinner was all of Guiteau, with a little weather, and I wasn't interested. For me now, Guiteau was once again only a name in an old book; tried, executed, and long forgotten, the world I was preparing myself for hardly even knowing his name anymore. I sat eating mechanically,trying to look as though I were interested, responding when spoken to. But as the project and the people in it returned to life in my mind, I began to recede105 from this time and place. I was jerked back into it. We were finishing dinner, Maud Torrence already finished, politely waiting for the others before leaving the table; Felix finishing his bread pudding; Byron holding a cigar, ready to light it as soon as he stood up; the rest of us drinking coffee. We didn't hear the front door open but we felt the draft, the invisible balloon of cold air touching our ankles. I saw Julia, her aunt, and Felix across the table suddenly look up into the parlor, and I turned, with Byron and Maud, to look too. He was standing in the center of the room directly under the multiple flames of the chandelier, staring in at us—confronting us like a bear on his hind11 legs. Still wearing his unbuttoned overcoat, his top hat still far back on his head and shining dully under the overhead light, he stood with his arms dangling106 straight down, fingers limp, shoulders deeply bowed, head thrust forward. He just stood there, swaying a little again, and we had time to see that he'd been hurt, apparently; that his tie was gone, his shirt collar open and slightly torn, that the first couple of studs below it were gone too, and that across his chest the soiled white of his shirtfront was speckled with blood. We even had time—sitting there motionless, staring across the tabletop or turned in our chairs—to see that the speckles of blood were growing, small spots enlarging, bigger ones expanding, then joining. He was still bleeding—it took a moment or so to understand and formulate107 the thought—then Julia cried, "Jake," her voice frightened and concerned, and she stood up so quickly the back of her knees knocked her chair over backward, and I noticed, foolishly, that it made very little sound toppling onto the carpet. She started around the table toward him; now we were all pushing chairs aside, getting to our feet. But Jake flung both hands up and out, fingers spread like claws, halting us, freezing us where we stood—Julia motionless at a corner of the table, the rest of us half standing or sinking back into our chairs. Through a moment or two he looked at us, his teeth bared, yellow and strong-looking. Then his hands moved to his chest, each hand gripped an edge of his shirtfront, then pulled the bloody108 shirt apart, exposing his chest. It was hairy at the sides, black and matted, but more sparsely109 at the center, the skin there very white and visible under the separate hairs. He wasn't wounded or hurt; not accidentally, that is, and not very much. The blood swelling110 out of his skin in slow drops that, no longer blotted111 up by the cloth of his shirt, enlarged now and rolled down out of sight came from dozens and dozens and more dozens of needle pricks112. Incredibly, his chest was newly tattooed113; with five blue-black letters at least two inches high. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity114 or protest or squeeze my eyes shut and pretend this wasn't happening; I didn't know what I wanted to do or what I felt—but the tattooed letters on his chest spelled Julia. He said, "All my life now, I will bear this,'' and he tapped his chest, He said, "Nothing can ever remove it. Because all of my life you will belong to me, and nothing can ever change that." He looked at us, his eyes moving across all our faces; then he turned, and with absolute dignity walked toward the hall and the stairs to his room, and I didn't want to laugh. It was an absolutely absurd gesture, an almost inconceivable action in the century I was used to. But not here. Here and now, there was nothing absurd about it. There couldn't be: This man meant it.
Julia was hurrying across the dining room, paler than ever now; then, running a little, she crossed the parlor, and we heard her running steps up the carpeted stairs. I'd left my packed bag in the hallway, my coat and hat hanging on the big mirrored stand there, and I didn't stay; I wasn't needed. I turned to Aunt Ada, said I had to leave immediately, and she smiled distractedly, shaking my hand across the tabletop, and murmuring good wishes. I said goodbye to the others, who replied with their eyes flicking115 toward the staircase in the hall. And then I was outside, walking toward Twenty-third Street. At Lexington Avenue I took a hansom cab and sat back with my eyes closed. I had no interest at all just now in anything outside. I paid off the cab at Fifty-ninth and Fifth Avenue, where Kate and I had come out of Central Park. And now I walked back into it, and then along the paths, under the occasional lights, heading north and west through the dark unchanging park; and presently, ahead, I saw the gabled bulk of the Dakota, its gaslighted windows, and the flickering116 candle and kerosene117 lights of the truck farms beside it.
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1
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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rusting
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| n.生锈v.（使）生锈( rust的现在分词 ) | |
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jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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retailer
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| n.零售商(人) | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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recessed
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| v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的过去式和过去分词 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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dribbles
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| n.涓滴( dribble的名词复数 )；细滴；少量（液体）v.流口水( dribble的第三人称单数 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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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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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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bandanna
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| n.大手帕 | |
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tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sublet
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| v.转租；分租 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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48
overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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49
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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50
stenciled
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| v.用模板印（文字或图案）( stencil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
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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52
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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53
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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54
notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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55
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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56
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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57
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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58
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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59
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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60
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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61
tapered
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| adj. 锥形的，尖削的，楔形的，渐缩的，斜的 动词taper的过去式和过去分词 | |
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63
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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64
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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65
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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66
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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67
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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69
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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70
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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71
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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72
untying
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| untie的现在分词 | |
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73
refund
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| v.退还，偿还；n.归还，偿还额，退款 | |
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74
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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76
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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flipped
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| 轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
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78
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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79
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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80
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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81
automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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82
auto
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| n.(=automobile)(口语)汽车 | |
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83
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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84
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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85
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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86
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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87
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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88
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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90
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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91
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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94
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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95
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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96
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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97
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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98
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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99
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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100
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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101
incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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102
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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103
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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105
recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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106
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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107
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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108
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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109
sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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110
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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111
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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112
pricks
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| 刺痛( prick的名词复数 )； 刺孔； 刺痕； 植物的刺 | |
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113
tattooed
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| v.刺青，文身( tattoo的过去式和过去分词 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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114
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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115
flicking
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的现在分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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116
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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117
kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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