He sat in his room, with the map of England on the wall with its red flags marking the towns where The Day had correspondents, surrounded by telephones and cuttings from papers. He was in the office all day and night. At least that was how it appeared to Humphrey, who met him often and at all times on the stairs. When he was not, by any chance, there, his place was taken by O'Brien, an excitable Irishman, whose tie worked itself gradually up his collar, marking the time when his excitement was at fever-heat like a barometer4.
Rivers had a home, of course, and a wife and a family. He was domesticated5 somewhere out in Herne Hill, from[89] the hours of eight until ten-thirty in the morning; and except once a week no more was seen of him at home. O'Brien generally took the desk on Sundays. But for the rest of his life Rivers lived and breathed with The Day more than any one else. From the time the door closed on him after breakfast, to the time when it closed on him late at night, when he went home, worn-out and tired, he worked for The Day. He was bought as surely as any slave was bought in the days of bondage6. And his price was a magnificent one of four figures.
He expected his men to do as he did, in the service of the paper. For his goodwill7, nothing sufficed but the complete subservience8 of all other interests to the work of The Day. Not until you did that, were you worthy9 to be on the paper and serve him.... And many hearts were broken in that room, with its hopeless gospel of materialism10, where ideals were withered11 and nothing spiritual could survive.
Rivers was one of the young men who had won himself to power by the brute12 force of his intellect. He knew his own business to the tips of his fingers, and, beyond that, nothing mattered. Art and literature and the finer qualities of life could not enter into the practical range of his vision. They were not news. The great halfpenny public cared for nothing but news—a murder mystery, for choice; and the only chance art or literature had of awaking his interest was for the artist to commit suicide in extraordinary circumstances, or for the novelist to murder his publisher. ("By George!" I can hear Rivers saying, "here's a ripping story.... Here's an author murdered his publisher ... 'm ... 'm ... I suppose it's justifiable13 homicide.")
But on news—red-hot news—he was splendid. He might be sitting in his chair, joking idly with anybody who happened to be in the room, and suddenly the boy would bring in a slip from the tape machine: a submarine[90] wreck14! Immediately, the listless, joking man would become swiftly serious and grim. He would decide instantly on the choice of reporters—two should be sent to the scene. "Boy, bring the A.B.C. No train. Damn it, why didn't that kid bring the news in at once. He dawdled15 five minutes. We could have caught the 3.42. Well, look up the trains to Southampton. Four o'clock. O'Brien, telephone up Southampton and tell them to have a car to take The Day reporters on. Boy, ask Mr Wratten and Mr Pride to come up. O'Brien, send a wire to the local chaps—tell 'em to weigh in all they can. Notify the post-office five thousand words from Portsmouth. Too late for photographs to-night—ring through to the artists, we'll have a diagram and a map. Off Southsea, eh? Shove in a picture of Southsea...." And in an hour it would all be over, and Rivers, a new man with news stirring in the world, would playfully punch O'Brien in the chest, and gather about him a reporter or two for company, and bestow16 wonderful largesse17 in the shape of steaks and champagne18. That was the human thing about Rivers. He was master absolute, and yet there was no sharp dividing line between him and the men under him. The discipline was there, but it was never obtruded19. They drank, and joked, and scored off each other, and Rivers, when things were slack, would tell them some of his early adventures, but whenever it came to the test, his authority in his sphere was supreme20. He knew how to get the best work out of his men; and, I think, sometimes, he was sorry for the men who had not, and never would get, a salary of four figures.
Humphrey could not understand him. At times he would be brutally21 cruel, and morose22, scarcely speaking a word to anybody except Wratten, who was generally in his good books; at other times he would come to the office as light-hearted as a child, and urge them all into[91] good-humour, and make them feel that there was no life in the world equal to theirs. Since that day when Humphrey had first met him in Ferrol's room, and he had laughed and said, "You're not a genius, are you?" Rivers had not taken any particular notice of him. When he came into Rivers' room, halting and nervous, he envied the easy freedom of the other reporters who chanced to be there. Wratten sitting on a table, dangling23 his legs, and Tommy Pride, with his hat on the back of his head, and a pipe in his mouth, while a third man might be looking over the diary of the day's events.
"Hullo, Quain...."
"Good-morning, Mr Rivers."
"O'Brien, what have you got for Quain. Eh? Nothing yet. Go downstairs and wait."
Or else: "Nothing doing this morning. You'd better do this lecture at seven o'clock. Give him the ticket, O'Brien."
And, as Humphrey left the room, he heard Wratten say casually24, "I'll do that Guildhall luncheon25 to-day, Rivers, eh?" And Rivers replied, "Right-O. We shall want a column."
Splendid Wratten, he thought! How long would it be before he acquired such ease, such sure familiarity—how long before he should prove himself worthy to dangle26 his legs freely in the presence of Rivers.
Within a few days something happened that made Humphrey the celebrity27 of a day in the reporters' room. It was a fluke, a happy chance, as most of the good things in life are. A man had killed himself in a London street under most peculiar28 circumstances. He had dressed himself in woman's clothes, and only, after death, when they took him to the hospital, did they find that the dead body was that of a man. He was employed in a solicitor's office near Charing29 Cross Road. His name was Bellowes, and he was married, and[92] lived at Surbiton. These facts were published briefly30 in the afternoon papers. Rivers, scenting31 a mystery, threw his interest into the story. There is nothing like a mystery for selling the paper. He sent for Willoughby.
Humphrey had found Willoughby one of the most astonishing individuals of the reporters' room. He was a tall, slim man, with a hollow-cheeked face and a forehead that was always frowning. His hair fell in disorder32 almost over his eyebrows33, and whenever he wrote he pulled his hair about with his left hand, and mumbled34 the sentences as he wrote them. His speciality was crime: he knew more of the dark underside of human nature than any one Humphrey had met. He knew the intimate byways of crime, and its motives35; every detective in the Criminal Investigation36 Department was his friend, and though by the rigid37 law of Scotland Yard they were forbidden to give information, he could chat with them, make his own deductions38 as well as any detective, and sometimes accompany them when an arrest was expected. He drew his information from unknown sources, and he was always bringing the exclusive news of some crime or other to The Day.
He was a bundle of nerves, for he lived always in a world of expectancy39. At any moment, any hour, day and night, something would be brought to light. Murder and sudden death and mystery formed the horizon of his thoughts.
Humphrey had found a friend in Willoughby. In very contrast to the work in which he was engaged, he kept the room alive with merriment. He could relate stories as well as he could write them, and he spoke40 always with the set phrases of old-time journalism41 that had a ludicrous effect on his listeners. His character was a strange mixture of shrewdness, worldly-wisdom, and ingenuousness42, and this was reflected in the books he carried always with him. In one pocket there would[93] be an untranslatable French novel, and, in the other, by way of counterblast, a Meredith or a Stevenson. He and Humphrey had often talked about books, and Willoughby showed the temperament43 of a cultured scholar and a philosopher when he discussed literature.
Willoughby went up to Rivers' room.
"Here you are, my son," said Rivers, tossing him over the cuttings on the affair of the strange suicide. "Get down to Surbiton and see if you can nose out anything. I'll get some one else to look after the London end."
The some one else chanced to be Humphrey, for there was nobody but him left in the reporters' room. Thus it came about that, a few minutes after Willoughby had set out for Surbiton, Humphrey came out on Fleet Street with instructions to look after the "London end" of the tragedy.
Rivers' parting words were ringing in his ears. They had a sinister44 meaning in them. "... And don't you fall down, young man," he had said, using the vivid journalistic metaphor45 for failure.
The busy people of the street surged about him, as he stood still for a moment trying to think where he should begin on the London end. He felt extraordinarily46 inexperienced and helpless.... He thought how Wratten would have known at once where to go, or how easily Tommy Pride, with his years of training, could do the job. He did not dare ask Rivers to teach him his business—he had enough common sense to know that, at any cost, his ignorance must be hidden under a mask of wisdom.
The reporter thrust suddenly face to face with a mystery that must be unravelled47 in a few hours is a fit subject for tragedy. He is a social outlaw48. He has not the authority of the detective, and none of the secret information of a department at his hand. He is a trespasser[94] in private places, a Peeping Tom, with his eye to a chink in the shuttered lives of others. His inner self wrenches49 both ways; he loathes50 and loves his duty. The human man in him says, "This is a shocking tragedy!" The journalist subconsciously51 murmurs52, "This will be a column at least." Tears, and broken hearts, and the dismal53 tragedy of it all pass like a picture before him, and leave him unmoved.
The public stones him for obeying their desires. He would gladly give up all this sorry business ... and perhaps his salvation54 lies in his own hand if he becomes sufficiently55 strong and bold to cry "Enough!"
And this is the tragedy of it—he is neither strong nor bold; and so we may appreciate the picture of Humphrey Quain faced for the first time with the crisis that comes into every journalist's life, when his work revolts his finer senses.
He went blindly up the street, and newsboys ran towards him with raucous56 shouts, offering the latest news of the suicide. He bought a copy, and read through the story. It occurred to him that the best thing he could do was to go to the offices near Charing Cross Road, where the dead man had worked.
He took an omnibus. It was five o'clock in the evening, and most of the passengers were City men going home. Lucky people—their work was finished, and his was not yet begun.
When he came to the building he wanted, he paused outside. It was a ghastly business. What on earth should he say? What right had he to go and ask questions—there would be an inquest. Surely the public could wait till then for the sordid57 story. It was ghoulish.
He went into the office and asked the young man at the counter whether Mr Parfitt (the name of the partner) was in. The young man must have guessed his business[95] in a moment. Humphrey felt as if he had a placard hanging round his neck, "I am a newspaper man." "No," snapped the young man, curtly58, "he's out."
"When will he be back?" asked Humphrey.
"I don't know," the young man answered, obstinately59. "Who are you from?" That was a form of insult reserved for special occasions: it implied, you see, that the caller was obviously not of such appearance as to suggest that he was anything but a paid servant.
Humphrey said: "I wanted to talk about this sad tragedy of—"
The young man looked him up and down, and said, "We've nothing to say."
"But—" began Humphrey.
"We've nothing to say." The young man's lips closed tightly together with a grimace60 of absolute finality. Humphrey hesitated: he knew that the whole mystery lay within the knowledge of this spiteful person, if only he could be overcome.
"Look here," said the young man, threateningly. "Why don't you damn reporters mind your own business. You're the seventh we've 'ad up 'ere. We've nothing to say. See?" His voice rose to a shriller key. He was a very unpleasant young man, but fortunately he dropped his "h's," which modified, in some strange way, in Humphrey's mind the effect of his onslaught. The young man who had at first seemed somebody of importance, faded away now merely to an underbred nonentity61. Humphrey laughed at him.
"You might keep your h's if you can't keep your temper," he said.
Then he left the office, feeling sorry for himself. It was nearly six o'clock, and he was no further. A hall-porter sat reading a paper in front of the fireplace. Humphrey tried diplomacy62. He remarked on the tragedy: the hall-porter agreed it was very tragic63.[96] There had been seven other reporters before him (marvellous how policemen and hall-porters seemed to know him at once). Humphrey felt in his pocket for half-a-crown and slipped it into the porter's hand. The porter thanked him with genuine gratitude64.
"Well," said Humphrey, "what sort of a chap was this Mr Bellowes?"
"Can't say as how I ever saw him," said the porter; "this is my first day here."
"O lord!" groaned65 Humphrey.
He was in the street again, pondering what he should do. And suddenly that intuitive reasoning power of his began to work. A man who worked in the neighbourhood would conceivably be known to the shopkeepers round about. He visited the shops adjoining the building where the dead man worked, but none of them yielded any information, not even the pawnbrokers66. The men whom he asked seemed quite willing to help, but they knew nothing. Finally, he went into the Green Lion public-house which stands at the corner by a court.
Hitherto public-houses had not interested him very much: he went into them rarely, because in Easterham, where every one's doings were noted67, it was considered the first step downwards68 to be seen going into a public-house. Thus, he had grown up without acquiring the habit of promiscuous69 drinking.
There were a good many people in the bar, and the briskness70 of business was marked by the frequent pinging noise of the bell in the patent cash till, as a particularly plain-looking young woman pulled the drawer open to drop money in. Humphrey asked for bottled beer. "Cannock's?" the barmaid asked. "Please." She gave him the drink. He said "Thank you." She said "Thank you." She gave him the change, and said "Thank you" again. Whereupon, in accordance with our polite[97] custom, he murmured a final "'Kyou." Then she went away with an airy greeting to some fresh customer.
Presently she came back to where Humphrey was standing71. He plunged72 boldly.
"Sad business this of Mr Bellowes?" he ventured, taking a gulp73 at his beer. She raised her eyebrows in inquiry74.
"Haven't you read about—" he held a crumpled75 evening paper in his hand. "The tragedy, I mean."
"Oh yes," she said. "Very sad, isn't it?"
A man came between them. "'Ullo, Polly, lovely weather, don't it?" he said, cheerfully, counting out six coppers76, and making them into a neat pile on the table. "Same as usual."
"Now then, Mister Smart!" said Polly, facetiously77, bringing him a glass of whisky. "All the soda78."
"Up to the pretty, please," he said, adding "Whoa-er" as the soda-water bubbled to the level of the fluted79 decorations round the glass. Small talk followed, frequently interrupted by fresh arrivals. A quarter of an hour passed. The cheerful man had one more drink, and finally departed, with Polly admonishing80 him to "Be good," to which he replied, "I always am." Humphrey ordered another Cannock.
"Did he often come here?"
"Who?" asked Polly. "Mr Jobling—the man who's gone out?"
"No. I mean Mr Bellowes."
"I'm sure I don't know," she said a little distantly. "Those gentlemen over there"—nodding to a corner of the bar where two men stood in the shadows—"can tell you all about him. They were telling me something about him just before you came in. Fourpence, please."
Humphrey took with him his glass of beer, and went to the two men. They were both drinking whisky, and[98] they seemed to be in a good humour. They turned at Humphrey's wavering "Excuse me...."
"Eh?" said one of the men.
"Excuse me..." Humphrey repeated. "I'm told you knew Mr Bellowes."
"Well," said the other man, a little truculently81. "What if we did?"
It seemed to Humphrey that the most absolute frankness was desirable here.
"Look here," he said, "I wish you'd help me by telling me something about him. Here's my card.... I'm on The Day."
The younger of the two men smiled, and winked82. "You've got a nerve," he said. "Why, you couldn't print it if we told you."
"Couldn't I? Well, never mind. Let's have a drink on it anyway."
Humphrey began his third Cannock, and the others drank whisky. One of them, in drinking, spilt a good deal of the liquor over his coat lapel, and did not bother to wipe it off: he was slightly drunk.
"It's bringing a bad reputation on the firm," said the elder man. "Name in all the papers."
Humphrey was seized with an idea. He knew now that the whole secret of the mystery was within his grasp. One of the men, at least, was from the solicitor's office. The instinct of the journalist made him courageous83: he would never leave the bar until he got the story.
"I'll tell you what," he said, "I'll promise to keep the name of the firm out of The Day; I'll just refer to it as a firm of solicitors84!"
"That's not a bad notion," said the younger man. He drew the elder man aside and they talked quietly for a few minutes. Then more drinks were ordered. Humphrey tackled his fourth Cannock. His head was just beginning to ache.
[99]
A tantalizing85 half-hour passed. The younger man seemed more friendly to Humphrey—he had some friends in Fleet Street; did Humphrey know them, and so on. The elder man was growing more drunk. He swayed a little now. Humphrey's ears buzzed, and his vision was not so acute. The outlines of people were blurred86 and indistinct. "Good lord," he murmured to himself, "I'm getting drunk too." He was pleasantly happy, and smiled into his sixth glass of beer. He confided87 to the elder man that he admired him for his constancy to the dead man, and they began to talk over the bad business as friends. The elder man even called him "Ol' chap." They really were very affectionate.
"But WHY did he do it?" said Humphrey; "that's what beats me."
"Oh, well, you see he was in love with this girl ..."
"Which girl?"
"Why, Miss Sycamore ... you know the little girl that sings, 'Come Round and See Me in the Evening,' in the Pompadour Girl."
"No. Was he?"
"Was he not," said the elder man, with a hiccough. "Why, he used to be talking to me all day about her.... And the letters. My word, you should see the letters ... he used to show them to me before he sent them off. Full of high thinking and all that."
And gradually the whole story came out, in scattered88 pieces, that Humphrey saw he could put together into a real-life drama. Never once did he think of the dead man, or the dead man's wife in Surbiton (Willoughby was probably doing his best there). He only saw the secret drama unfolding itself like a novelist's plot. The meetings, the letters, the double life of Bellowes, a respectable churchwarden in Surbiton; a libertine89 in London—and then she threw him over; declined to see him when he called at the stage door; he had[100] dressed himself as a woman, hoping to pass the stage-door keeper. Perhaps if he had got as far as the dressing-room, maddened by the breakage of his love, and the waste of his intrigue90, there might have been a double tragedy. And so to the final grotesque91 death in the street.
It was eight o'clock when Humphrey had the whole story in his mind, and by that time, though he knew he had drunk far too much, he was not so drunk as the other two men.
"There you are, old boy," said the elder man, affectionately. "You can print it all, and keep my name and the name of the firm out of the papers."
"So long," said the younger man, as they parted at the door of the bar. "You won't have another."
"I'd better get back now," Humphrey replied. "Thanks awfully92. You've done me a good turn."
He walked back to the office; the late evening papers still bore on their posters the word "Mystery"—but he alone of all the people hurrying to and fro knew the key of the mystery. He had set forth a few hours ago—it seemed years—ignorant of everything, and, behold93, he had put a finger into the tragedy of three lives. All that feeling of revolt and hatred94 of his business passed away from him, and left in its place nothing but a great joy that he had succeeded, where he never dreamt success was possible. After this he knew he must be a journalist for ever, a licensed95 meddler96 in the affairs of other people.
And so, with his head throbbing97, and his legs a little unsteady, he came back to the office of The Day. It was nine o'clock; Rivers had left the office for the night, and O'Brien was out at dinner. He went to Mr Selsey, and told him briefly all he knew.
"Where did you get it from?" Selsey asked.
"From some friends of his; I promised I wouldn't[101] mention the name of the firm of solicitors he worked in."
"What about Miss Sycamore?"
"Miss Sycamore?" echoed Humphrey, blankly.
"Yes. Haven't you got her? We must know what she says. It mayn't be true."
Humphrey's head swam. He was appalled98 at the idea of having to go out again, and face the woman in the sordid case. Selsey looked at the clock. "I'll send somebody else up to see her—she's at the Hilarity99 Theatre, isn't she? You'd better get on with the main story. Write all you can."
He went to the reporters' room; nobody was there except Wratten, just finishing his work. Humphrey sat down at a desk, and began to write. His brain was whirling with the facts he had learnt; they tumbled over one another, until he did not know how to tell them all. He started to write, and he found that he could not even begin the story. He tore up sheet after sheet in despair. The clock went past the quarter and Humphrey was still staring helplessly at the blank paper. Wratten finished his work and dashed out with his copy to the sub-editor's room.
"I'm drunk," he said to himself. "That's what's the matter."
And later: "What a fool I was to drink so much."
And then, as if in excuse: "But I shouldn't have got the story if I hadn't drunk with them."
A boy came to him. "Mr Selsey says have you got the first sheets of your story."
"Tell him he'll have them in a few minutes," Humphrey said.
And when Wratten came into the room he found Humphrey with his head on his outstretched arms, and his shoulders shaken with his sobbing100.
[102]
"Hullo! What's up, old man?" asked Wratten, bending over him. "Not well?"
Humphrey lifted a red-eyed face to Wratten. "I'm drunk," he said. "My head's awful."
"Bosh!" Wratten said cheerfully, "you're sober enough. Selsey's delighted you've got your story. I suppose it was a hard story to get."
Humphrey groaned. "I can't write it.... I can't get even the beginning of it."
"That happens to all of us. I have to begin my story half a dozen times before I get the right one. Look here, let me help you. Tell me as much as you can." He touched the bell, and a boy appeared. "Go and get a cup of black coffee—a large cup, Napoleon," he said jovially101 to the boy, giving him a sixpenny piece.
By the time the coffee had arrived, Humphrey had told Wratten the story. "By George!" said Wratten, "that's fine! Now, let's do it between ourselves. Don't bother about plans. Start right in with the main facts and put them at the top. Always begin with the fact, and tell the story in the first two paragraphs—then you've got the rest of the column to play about in."
The coffee woke Humphrey up. In a quarter of an hour, with Wratten's help, the story was well advanced, and Selsey's boy had gone away with the first slips. Whenever he came to a dead stop, Wratten told him how to continue. "Wrap it up carefully," Wratten said. "Talk about the dead man's pure love for anything that was artistic102: say that he was a slave to art, and that Miss Sycamore typified art for him. That'll please her. Say that she never encouraged his attentions, and that realizing life was empty without her, he killed himself. Make it the psychological tragedy of a man in love with an Ideal that he could never attain103. And don't gloat."
The story was finished. "That's all right," Wratten said.
[103]
"Look here—" Humphrey began, but something choked his throat. He felt as if Wratten had rescued him from the terror of failure: his glimpse of brotherhood104 overwhelmed him.
"Stow it!" said Wratten, unconcernedly. "It's the paper I was thinking of. Well, I'm off. Don't say a word about it in the morning."
And there it was, in the morning, the whole story with glaring headlines, an exclusive story for The Day. Humphrey, riding down Gray's Inn Road, saw the bills in the shop-windows, and two men in the omnibus were discussing it: his head was dull with the drink of last night, but he felt exhilarated when he thought of it all. He wanted to tell the two men in the omnibus that he had written the story in The Day. He came to the office and the fellows in the reporters' room seemed as glad as he was. Willoughby told him of his Surbiton adventure, and how Mrs Bellowes declined to see anybody. And when he went into Rivers' room, the great man smiled and said facetiously, "Well, young man, I suppose you're pleased with yourself." He winked at Wratten. "You'll be editor one day, eh?"
"It's a jolly good story," said Wratten, "the best The Day's had for a long time."
Humphrey smiled weakly. He would have told Rivers just how it came to be such a jolly good story, if Wratten had not frowned meaningly at him. And not until Rivers said: "Come off that desk, young man, and see what you can do with this—" handing him a job, did Humphrey realize that he was at ease, dangling his legs with the great ones.
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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domesticated
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| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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subservience
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| n.有利，有益；从属（地位），附属性；屈从，恭顺；媚态 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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dawdled
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| v.混（时间）( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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largesse
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| n.慷慨援助，施舍 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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23
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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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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25
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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dangle
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| v.(使)悬荡，(使)悬垂 | |
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27
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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33
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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34
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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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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40
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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41
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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42
ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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unravelled
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的过去式和过去分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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wrenches
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| n.一拧( wrench的名词复数 )；（身体关节的）扭伤；扳手；（尤指离别的）悲痛v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的第三人称单数 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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loathes
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的第三人称单数 )；极不喜欢 | |
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subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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pawnbrokers
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| n.当铺老板( pawnbroker的名词复数 ) | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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75
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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76
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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facetiously
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| adv.爱开玩笑地；滑稽地，爱开玩笑地 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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80
admonishing
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| v.劝告( admonish的现在分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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81
truculently
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82
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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83
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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84
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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85
tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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86
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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87
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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88
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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89
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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92
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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93
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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94
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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meddler
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| n.爱管闲事的人，干涉者 | |
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97
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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98
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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99
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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100
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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101
jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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102
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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103
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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104
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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