Before her, mile after mile, lay the white road—a sword of civilisation6 cleaving7 its way remorselessly across the green wilderness8 of mossy turf, and on either side rose the swelling9 hills and jagged peaks of the great tors, melting in the far distance into a vague, formless blur10 of purple that might be either cloud or tor as it merged11 at last into the dim haze12 of the horizon.
“Oh, blessed, blessed Moor1!” exclaimed Jean. “How I love it! You know, half the people in the world haven’t the least idea what Dartmoor is like. I was enthusing to a woman about it only the other day and she actually said, ‘Oh, yes—Dartmoor. It’s quite flat, I suppose, isn’t it?’ Flat!” with sweeping13 disgust.
Burke, his hand on the wheel of the big car which was eating up the miles with the facility of a boa-constrictor swallowing rabbits, smiled at the indignant little sniff14 with which the speech concluded.
“You don’t like dead levels, then?” he suggested.
She shook her head.
“No, I like hills—something to look up to—to climb.”
“Spiritual as well as temporal?”
She was silent a moment.
“Why, yes, I think I do.”
He smiled sardonically15.
“It’s just that terrible angelic tendency of yours I complain of. It’s too much for any mere16 material man to live up to. I wish you’d step down to my low level occasionally. You don’t seem to be afflicted17 with human passions like the rest of us”—he added, a note of irritation18 in his voice.
“Indeed I am!”
Jean spoke19 impulsively20, out of the depths of that inner, almost unconscious self-knowledge which lies within each one of us, dormant21 until some lance-like question pricks22 it into spontaneous affirmation. She had hardly heeded23 whither the conversation was tending, and she regretted her frank confession24 the instant it had left her lips.
Burke turned and looked at her with a curious speculation25 in his glance.
“I wonder if that’s true?” he said consideringly. “If so, they’re still asleep. I’d give something to be the one to rouse them.”
There was the familiar, half-turbulent quality in his voice—the sound as of something held in leash26. Jean sensed the danger in the atmosphere.
“You’ll house one of them—the quite ordinary, commonplace one of bad temper, if you talk like that,” she replied prosaically27. “You’ve got to play fair, Geoffrey—keep the spirit of the law as well as the letter.”
“All’s fair in love and war—as I told you before,” he retorted.
“Geoffrey”—indignantly.
“Jean!”—mimicking her. “Well, we won’t quarrel about it now. Here we are at our journey’s end. Behold28 the carriage drive!”
The car swung round a sharp bend and then bumped its way up a roughly-made track which served to link a species of cobbled yard, constructed at one side of the bungalow29, to the road along which they had come.
The track cleaved30 its way, rather on the principle of a railway cutting, clean through the abrupt31 acclivity which flanked the road that side, and rising steeply between crumbling32, overhanging banks, fringed with coarse grass and tufted with straggling patches of gorse and heather, debouched on to a broad plateau. Here the road below was completely hidden from view; on all sides there stretched only a limitless vista33 of wild moorland, devoid34 of any sign of habitation save for the bare, creeperless walls of the bungalow itself.
As the scene unfolded, Jean became suddenly conscious of a strange sense of familiarity. An inexplicable35 impress sion of having seen the place on some previous occasion, of familiarity with every detail of it—even to a recognition of its peculiar36 atmosphere of loneliness—took possession of her. For a moment she could not place the memory. Only she knew that it was associated in her mind with something disagreeable. Even now, as, at Burke’s dictation, she waited in the car while he entered the bungalow from the back, passing through in order to admit his guest by way of the front door, which had been secured upon the inside, she was aware of a feeling of intense repugnance37.
And then, in a flash, recollection returned to her. This was the house of her dream—of the nightmare vision which had obsessed38 her during the hours of darkness following her first meeting with Geoffrey Burke.
There stood the solitary39 dwelling40, set amid a wild and desolate41 country, and to one side of it grew three wretched-looking, scrubby little fir trees, all of them bent42 in the same direction by the keen winds as they came sweeping across the Moor from the wide Atlantic. Three Fir Bungalow! Why, the very name itself might have prewarned her!
Her eyes fixed43 themselves on the green-painted door. She knew quite well what must happen next. The door would open and reveal Burke standing44 on the threshold. She watched it with fascinated eyes.
Presently came the sound of steps, then the grating noise of a key turning stiffly in the lock. The door was flung open and Burke strode across the threshold and came to the side of the car to help her out. Jean waited, half terrified, for his first words. Would they be the words of her dream? She felt that if he chanced to say jokingly, “Will you come into my parlour?” she should scream.
“Go straight in, will you?” said Burke. “I’ll just run the car round to the garage and then we might as well get tea ready before the others come. I’m starving, aren’t you?”
The spell was broken. The everyday, commonplace words brought with them a rush of overpowering relief, sweeping away the dreamlike sense of unreality and terror, and as Jean nodded and responded gaily45, “Absolutely famished46!” she could have laughed aloud at the ridiculous fears which had assailed47 her.
The inside of the bungalow was in charming contrast to its somewhat forbidding exterior48. Its living-rooms, furnished very simply but with a shrewd eye to comfort, communicated one with the other by means of double doors which, usually left open, obviated49 the cramped50 feeling that the comparatively small size of the rooms might otherwise have produced, while the two lattice windows which each boasted were augmented51 by French windows opening out on to a verandah which ran the whole length of the building.
Jean, having delightedly explored the front portion of the bungalow, joined Burke in the kitchen, guided thither52 by the clinking of crockery and the cheerful crackle of a hearth53 fire wakened into fresh life by the scientific application of a pair of bellows54.
“I had no idea you were such a domesticated55 individual,” she remarked, as she watched him carefully warming the brown earthenware56 teapot as a preliminary to brewing57 the tea while she busied herself making hot buttered toast.
“Oh, Judy and I are quite independent up here, I assure you,” he answered with pardonable pride. “We never bring any of the servants from Willow59 Ferry, but cook for ourselves. A woman comes over every morning to do the ‘chores’—clean the place, and wash up the dishes from the day before, and so on. But beyond that we are self-sufficing.”
“Where does your woman come from? I didn’t see a house for miles round.”
“No, you can’t see the place, but there’s a little farmstead, tucked away in a hollow about three miles from here, which provides us with cream and butter and eggs—-and with our char-lady.”
Jean surveyed with satisfaction a rapidly mounting pile of delicately browned toast, creaming with golden butter.
“There, that’s ready,” she announced at last. “I do hope Judy and Co. will arrive soon. Hot buttered toast spoils with keeping; it gets all sodden60 and tastes like underdone shoe leather. Do you think they’ll be long?”
Burke threw a glance at the grandfather’s clock ticking solemnly away in a corner of the kitchen.
“It’s half-past four,” he said dubiously61. “I don’t think we’ll risk that luscious-looking toast of yours by waiting for them. I’m going to brew58 the tea; the kettle’s boiling.”
“Won’t Judith think it rather horrid62 of us not to wait?”
“Oh, Lord, no! Judy and I never stand on any ceremony with each other. Any old thing might happen to delay them a bit.”
Jean, frankly63 hungry after her spin in the car through the invigorating moorland air, yielded without further protest, and tea resolved itself into a jolly little t锚te-脿-t猫te affair, partaken of in the shelter of the verandah, with the glorious vista of the Moor spread out before her delighted eyes.
Burke was in one of those rare moods of his which never failed to inspire her with a genuine liking64 for him—when the unruly, turbulent devil within him, so hardly held in check, was temporarily replaced by a certain spontaneous boyishness of a distinctly endearing quality—that “little boy” quality which, in a grown man, always appeals so irresistibly65 to any woman.
The time slipped away quickly, and it was with a shock of astonishment66 that Jean realised, on glancing down at the watch on her wrist, that over an hour and a half had gone by while they had been sitting chatting on the verandah.
“Geoffrey! Do you know it’s nearly six o’clock! I’m certain something must have happened. Judy and the Holfords would surely be here by now if they hadn’t had an accident of some sort.”
Burke looked at his own watch.
“Yes,” he acquiesced67 slowly. “It is—getting late.” A look of concern spread itself over Jean’s face.
“I think we ought to get the car out again and go and see if anything has happened,” she said decisively. “They may have had a spill. Were they coming by motor?”
“No. Judy drove down to Newton Abbot in the dog-cart, and the Holfords proposed hiring some sort of conveyance68 from a livery stable.”
“Well, I expect they’ve had a smash of some kind. I’m sure we ought to go and find out! Was Judy driving that excitable chestnut69 of yours?”
He shook his head.
“No—a perfectly70 well-conducted pony71, as meek72 as Moses. We’ll give them a quarter of an hour more. If they don’t turn up by then, I’ll run the car out and we’ll investigate.”
The minutes crawled by on leaden feet. Jean felt restless and uneasy and more than a trifle astonished that Burke should manifest so little anxiety concerning his sister’s whereabouts. Then, just before the quarter of an hour was up, there came the shrill73 tinkle74 of a bicycle bell, and a boy cycled up to the gate and, springing off his machine, advanced up the cobbled path with a telegram in his hand.
Jean’s face blanched75, and she waited in taut76 suspense77 while Burke ripped open the ominous78 orange-coloured envelope.
“What is it?” she asked nervously79. “Have they—is it bad news?”
There was a pause before Burke answered. Then, he handed the flimsy sheet to her, remarking shortly:
“They’re not coming.”
Jean’s eyes flew along the brief message.
“Returning to-morrow. Am staying the night with Holfords.
Judy.”
Her face fell.
“How horribly disappointing!” Her glance fluttered, regretfully to the faint disc of the moon showing like a pallid80 ghost of itself in a sky still luminous81 with the afternoon sunlight.
“I shan’t see my moonlit Moor to-night after all!” she continued. “I wonder what has happened to make them change their plans?”
Burke volunteered no suggestion but stood staring moodily82 at the swiftly receding83 figure of the telegraph boy.
“Well,” Jean braced84 herself to meet the disappointment, “there’s nothing for it but for you to run me back home, Geoffrey. We ought to start at once.”
“Very well. I’ll go and get the car out,” he answered. “I suppose it’s the only thing to be done.”
He moved off in the direction of the garage, Jean walking rather disconsolately85 beside him.
“I am disappointed!” she declared. “I just hate the sight of a telegraph boy! They always spoil things. I rather wonder you get your telegrams delivered at this outlandish spot,” she added musingly86.
“Oh, of course we have to pay mileage87. There’s no free delivery to the ‘back o’ beyond’!”
As he spoke, Burke vanished into the semi-dusk of the garage, and presently Jean heard sounds suggestive of ineffectual attempts to start the engine, accompanied by a muttered curse or two. A few minutes later Burke reappeared, looking Rather hot and dusty and with a black smear88 of oil across his cheek.
“You’d better go back to the bungalow,” he said gruffly.
“There’s something gone wrong with the works, and it will take me a few minutes to put matters right.”
Jean nodded sympathetically and retreated towards the house, leaving him to tinker with the car’s internals. It was growing chilly—the “cool of the evening” manifests itself early up on Dartmoor—and she was not at all sorry to find herself indoors. The wind had dropped, but a curious, still sort of coldness seemed to be permeating89 the atmosphere, faintly moist, and, as Jean stood at the window, gazing out half absently, she suddenly noticed a delicate blur of mist veiling the low-lying ground towards the right of the bungalow. Her eyes hurriedly swept the wide expanse in front of her. The valleys between the distant tors were hardly visible. They had become mere basins cupping wan90 lakes of wraithlike91 vapour which, even as she watched them, crept higher, inch by inch, as though responding to some impulse of a rising tide.
Jean had lived long enough in Devonshire by this time to know the risks of being caught in a mist on Dartmoor, and she sped out of the room, intending to go to the garage and warn Burke that he must hurry. He met her on the threshold of the bungalow, and she turned back with him into the room she had just quitted.
“Are you ready?” she asked eagerly. “There’s a regular moor mist coming on. The sooner we start the better.”
He looked at her oddly. He was rather pale and his eyes were curiously92 bright.
“The car won’t budge93,” he said. “I’ve been tinkering at her all this time to no purpose.”
Jean stared at him, a vague apprehension94 of disagreeable possibilities presenting itself to her mind. Their predicament would be an extremely awkward one if the car remained recalcitrant95!
“Won’t budge?” she repeated. “But you must make it budge, Geoffrey. We can’t—we can’t stay here! What’s gone wrong with it?”
Burke launched out into a string of technicalities which left Jean with a confused feeling that the mechanism96 of a motor must be an invention of the devil designed expressly for the chastening of human nature, but from which she succeeded in gathering97 the bare skeleton fact that something had gone radically98 wrong with the car’s running powers.
Her apprehensions99 quickened.
“What are we to do?” she asked blankly.
“Make the best of a bad job—and console each other,” he suggested lightly.
She frowned a little. It did not seem to her quite the moment for jesting.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Geoffrey,” she said sharply. “We’ve got to get back somehow. What can you do?”
“I can’t do anything more than I’ve done. Here we are and here we’ve got to stay.”
“You know that’s impossible,” she said, in a quick, low voice.
He looked at her with a sudden devil-may-care glint in his eyes.
“You never can tell beforehand whether things are impossible or not. I know I used to think that heaven on earth was—impossible,” he said slowly. “I’m not so sure now.” He drew a step nearer her. “Would you mind so dreadfully if we had to stay here, little Miss Prunes-and-Prisms?”
Jean stared at him in amazement100—in amazement which slowly turned to incredulous horror as a sudden almost unbelievable idea flashed into her mind, kindled101 into being by the leaping, half-exultant102 note in his tones.
“Geoffrey———” Her lips moved stiffly, even to herself, her voice sounded strange and hoarse103. “Geoffrey, I don’t believe there is anything wrong with the car at all!... Or if there is, you’ve tampered104 with it on purpose.... You’re not being straight with me——”
She broke off, her startled gaze searching his face as though she would wring105 the truth from him. Her eyes were very wide and dilated106, but back of the anger that blazed in them lurked107 fear—stark fear.
For a moment Burke was silent. Then he spoke, with a quiet deliberateness that held something ominous, inexorable, in its very calm.
“You’re right,” he said slowly. “I’ve not been straight with you. But I’ll be frank with you now. The whole thing—asking you to come here to-day, the moonlight expedition for to-night—everything—was all fixed up, planned solely108 to get you here. The car won’t run for the simple reason that I’ve put it out of action. I wasn’t quite sure whether or no you could drive a car, you see!”
“I can’t,” said Jean. Her voice was quite expressionless.
“No? So much the better, then. But I wasn’t going to leave any weak link in the chain by which I hold you.”
“By which you hold me?” she repeated dully. She felt stunned109, incapable110 of protest, only able to repeat, parrotlike, the words he had just used.
“Yes. Don’t you understand the position? It’s clear enough, I should think!” He laughed a little recklessly. “Either you promise to marry me, in which case I’ll take you home at once—the car’s not damaged beyond repair—or you stay here, here at the bungalow with me, until tomorrow morning.”
With a sharp cry she retreated from him, her face ash-white.
“No—no! Not that!” The poignancy111 of that caught-back cry wrenched112 the words from his lips in hurrying, vehement113 disclaimer. “You’ll be perfectly safe—as safe as though you were my sister. Don’t look like that.... Jean! Jean! Could you imagine that I would hurt you—you when I worship—my little white love?” The words rushed out in a torrent114, hoarse and shaken and passionately115 tender. “Before God, no! You’ll be utterly116 safe, Jean, sweetest, beloved—I swear it!” His voice steadied and deepened. “Sacred as the purest love in the whole world could hold you.” He was silent a moment; then, as the tension in her face gradually relaxed, he went on: “But the world won’t know that!” The note of tenderness was gone now, swept away by the resurgence117 of a fierce relentlessness—triumphant, implacable—that meant winning at all costs. “The world won’t know that,” he repeated. “After tonight, for your own sake—because a woman’s reputation cannot stand the breath of scandal, you’ll be compelled to marry me. You’ll have no choice.”
Jean stood quite still, staring in front of her. Once her lips moved, but no sound came from them. Slowly, laboriously118 almost, she was realising exactly what had happened, her mind adjusting itself to the recognition of the trap in which she had been caught.
Her dream had come true, after all—horribly, inconceivably true.
The heavy silence which had fallen seemed suddenly filled with the dream-Burke’s voice—mocking and exultant:
“... you’ll be stamped with the mark of the beast for ever. It’s too late to try and run away.... It’s too late.”
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收听单词发音
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1
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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3
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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4
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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5
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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7
cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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8
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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9
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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10
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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12
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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13
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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14
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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15
sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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16
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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19
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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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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21
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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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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23
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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26
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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prosaically
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| adv.无聊地；乏味地；散文式地；平凡地 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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cleaved
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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35
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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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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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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39
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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40
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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41
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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42
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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43
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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44
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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45
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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46
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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47
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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48
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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49
obviated
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| v.避免，消除（贫困、不方便等）( obviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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51
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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52
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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53
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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54
bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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55
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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56
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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57
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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59
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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69
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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72
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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74
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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mileage
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| n.里程，英里数；好处，利润 | |
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smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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permeating
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| 弥漫( permeate的现在分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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wraithlike
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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recalcitrant
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| adj.倔强的 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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98
radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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99
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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100
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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101
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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102
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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103
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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104
tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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105
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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106
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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108
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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109
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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110
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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111
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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112
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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113
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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114
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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115
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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116
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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117
resurgence
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| n.再起，复活，再现 | |
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118
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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