In the great tradition of English education, Marcus and Magid became pen pals1 How theybecame pen pals was a matter of fierce debate (Alsana blamed Millat, Millat claimed Me hadslipped Marcus the address, Me said Joyce had sneaked2 a peek3 in her address book the Joyceexplanation was correct), but either way they were, and from March '91 onwards letters passedbetween them with a frequency let down only by the chronic5 inadequacies of the Bengal postalsystem. Their combined output was incredible. Within two months they had filled a volume at leastas thick as Keats's and by four were fast approaching the length and quantity of the trueepistophiles, St. Paul, Clarissa, Disgusted from Tunbridge Wells. Because Marcus made copies ofall his own letters, Me had to rearrange her filing system to provide a drawer solely7 devoted8 to theircorrespondence. She split the filing system in two, choosing to file by author primarily, thenchronologically, rather than let simple dates rule the roost. Because this was all about people.
People making a connection across continents, across seas. She made two stickers to separate thewads of material. The first said: From Marcus to Magid. The second said: From Magid to Marcus.
An unpleasant mixture of jealousy9 and animosity led Me to abuse her secretarial role. Shepinched small collections of letters that wouldn't be missed, took them home, slipped them fromtheir sheaths, and then, after close readings that would have shamed F. R. Leavis, carefully returnedthem to their file. What she found in those brightly stamped airmail envelopes brought her no joy.
Her mentor10 had a new protege. Marcus and Magid. Magid and Marcus. It even sounded better. Theway Watson and Crick sounded better than Watson, Crick and Wilkins.
John Donne said more than kisses, letters mingle11 souls and so they do; Irie was alarmed to findsuch a commingling12 as this, such a successful merging13 of two people from ink and paper despitethe distance between them. No love letters could have been more ardent14. No passion more fullyreturned, right from the very start. The first few letters were filled with the boundless15 joy of mutualrecognition: tedious for the sneaky mailroom boys of Dhaka, bewildering to Irie, fascinating to thewriters themselves:
It is as if I had always known you; if I were a Hindu I would suspect we met in some former life.
- Magid.
You think like me. You're precise. I like that. Marcus.
You put it so well and speak my thoughts better than I ever could. In my desire to study the law,in my longing17 to improve the lot of my poor country which is victim to every passing whim18 of God,every hurricane and flood in these aims, what instinct is fundamental? What is the root, the dreamwhich ties these ambitions together? To make sense of the world. To eliminate the random19. -Magid.
And then there was the mutual16 admiration20. That lasted a good few months:
What you are working on, Marcus these remarkable21 mice it is nothing less than revolutionary.
When you delve22 into the mysteries of inherited characteristics, surely you go straight to the soul ofthe human condition as dramatically and fundamentally as any poet, except you are armed withsomething essential the poet does not have: the truth. I am in awe6 of visionary ideas and visionaries.
I am in awe of such a man as Marcus Chalfen. I call it an honour to be able to call him friend. I thank you from thebottom of my heart for taking such an inexplicable23 and glorious interest in my family's welfare. -Magid.
It is incredible to me, the bloody24 fuss people make about an idea like cloning. Cloning, when ithappens (and I can tell you it will be sooner rather than later) is simply delayed twinning, and neverin my life have I come across a couple of twins who prove more decidedly the argument againstgenetic determinism than Millat and yourself. In every area in which he lacks, you excel I wish Icould turn that sentence around for a vice26 versa effect, but the hard truth is he excels in nothingapart from charming the elastic27 waistband off my wife's knickers. Marcus.
And finally, there were the plans for the future, plans made blindly and with amorous28 speed,like the English nerd who married a nineteen-stone Mormon from Minnesota because she soundedsexy on the chat line:
You must get to England as soon as possible, early '93 at the very latest. I'll stump29 up some ofthe cash myself if I have to. Then we can enrol30 you in the local school, get the exams over and donewith and send you off post-haste to whichever of the dreaming spires31 tickles32 your fancy (thoughobviously there's only one real choice) and while you're at it you can hurry up and get older, get tothe bar and provide me with the kind of lawyer I need to fight in my corner. My FutureMouse(c)needs a staunch defender33. Hurry up, old chap. I haven't got all millennium34. Marcus.
The last letter, not the last letter they wrote but the last one Me could stomach, included thisfinal paragraph from Marcus:
Well, things are the same round here except that myfiks are in excellent order, thanks to Irie.
You'll like her: she's a bright girl and she has the most tremendous breasts .. . Sadly, I don't hold outmuch hope for her aspirations35 in the field of' hard science', more specifically in my ownbiotechnology, which she appears to have her heart set on ... she's sharp in a way, but it's the menialwork, the hard grafting36, that she's good at she'd make a lab assistant maybe, but she hasn't any headfor the concepts, no head at all. She could try medicine, I suppose, but even there you need a littlebit more chutzpah than she's got.. . 50 it might have to be dentistry for our Irie (she could fix herown teeth at least), an honest profession no doubt, but one I hope you'll be avoiding .. .
In the end, Irie wasn't offended. She had the sniffles for a while, but they soon passed. She waslike her mother, like her father a great reinventor of herself, a great make-doer. Can't be a warcorrespondent? Be a cyclist. Can't be a cyclist? Fold paper. Can't sit next to Jesus with the 144,000?
Join the Great Crowd. Can't stand the Great Crowd? Marry, Archie. Irie wasn't so upset. She justthought, right: dentistry. I'll be a dentist. Dentistry. Right.
And meanwhile Joyce was below deck trying to sort out Millat's problems with white women.
Which were numerous. All women, of every shade, from midnight-black to albino, were Millat's.
They slipped him phone numbers, they gave him blow jobs in public places, they crossed crowdedbars to buy him a drink, they pulled him into taxis, they followed him home. Whatever it was theRoman nose, the eyes like a dark sea, the skin like chocolate, the hair like curtains of black silk, ormaybe just his pure, simple stink37 it sure as hell worked. Now, don't be jealous. There's no point.
There have always been and always will be people who simply exude38 sex (who breathe it, who sweat it).
A few examples from thin air: the young Brando, Madonna, Cleopatra, Pam Grier, Valentino, a girl called Tamara who livesopposite the London Hippodrome, right slap in the middle of town; Imran Khan, Michelangelo'sDavid. You can't fight that kind of marvelous indiscriminate power, for it is not always symmetry orbeauty per se that does it (Tamara's nose is ever so slightly bent), and there are no means by whichyou can gain it. Surely the oldest American sentence is relevant here, pertinent39 to matters economic,politic and romantic: you either got it or you don't. And Millat had it. In spades. He had the choiceof the known world, of every luscious40 female from a size 8 to a 28, Thai or Tongan, from Zanzibarto Zurich, his vistas41 of available and willing pussy42 extending in every direction as far as the eyecould see. One might reasonably expect a man with such a natural gift to dip into the tun-dishes ofa great variety of women, to experiment far and wide. And yet Millat Iqbal's main squeezes werealmost all exclusively size 10 white Protestant women aged43 fifteen to twenty-eight, living in andaround the immediate44 vicinity of West Hampstead.
Initially this neither bothered Millat nor felt unusual to him. His school was full of girls whofitted the general description. By the law of averages as he was the only guy worth shagging inGlenard Oak- he was going to end up shagging a large proportion of them. And with Karina Cain,the present amour, things were really quite pleasant. He was only cheating on her with three otherwomen (Alexandra Andrusier, Polly Houghton, Rosie Dew), and this was a personal record.
Besides which, Karina Cain was different. It wasn't just sex with Karina Cain. He liked her and sheliked him, and she had a great sense of humour, which felt like a miracle, and she looked after himwhen he was down and he looked after her too, in his own way, bringing her flowers and stuff. Itwas both the law of averages, and a lucky, random thing that had made him happier than he usuallywas. So that was that.
Except KEVIN didn't see it that way. One evening, after BKarina had dropped him of fat a KEVIN meeting in her mother'sRenault, Brother Hifan and Brother Tyrone crossed Kilburn townhall like two man-mountains, determined45 to deliver themselvesat the feet of Muhammed. They loomed46 large.
"Hey, Hifan, my speed, Tyrone, my man, why the long faces?"But brothers Hifan and Tyrone wouldn't tell him why the long faces. Instead they gave him aleaflet. It was called: Who is truly free!1 The Sisters ofKE VIN or the Sisters of Soho Millatthanked them cordially for it. Then he stuffed it in the bottom of his bag.
How was that? they asked him the following week. Was it a good read, Brother Millat? Truthwas, Brother Millat hadn't got round to reading it (and to be honest, he preferred leaflets calledthings like The Big American Devil: How the United States Mafia Rules the World or Scienceversus the Creator: No Contest), but he could see it seemed to matter to Brother Tyrone and BrotherHifan, so he said he had. They looked pleased and gave him another one. This one was called:
Lycra Liberation? Rape47 and the Western World.
"Is light broaching48 your darkness, Brother Millat?" asked Brother Tyrone eagerly, at thefollowing Wednesday's meeting. "Are things becoming clearer?""Clearer' didn't seem to Millat to be exactly the right adjective. Earlier in the week he had setaside some time, read both leaflets and felt peculiar49 ever since. In three short days Karina Cain, adarling of a girl, a real good sort who never really irritated him (on the contrary, who made him feelhappy! Chuffed!), had irritated him more than she had managed in the whole year they'd beenshagging. And no ordinary irritation50. A deep unsettle able unsolvable irritation, like an itch51 on aphantom limb. And it was not clear to him why.
"Yeah, man, Tyrone," said Millat with a nod and a wide grin. "Crystal, mate, crystal."Brother Tyrone nodded back. Millat was pleased to see helooked pleased. It was like being in the real life Mafia or a Bond movie or something. Themboth in their black and white suits, nodding at each other. I understand we understand each other.
"This is Sister Aeyisha," said Brother Tyrone, straightening Millat's green bow-tie and pushinghim towards a tiny, beautiful black girl, with almond eyes and high cheekbones. "She's an Africangoddess.""Really?" said Millat, impressed. "Whereabouts you from?""Clapham North," said Sister Aeyisha, with a shy smile.
Millat clapped his hands together and stamped his foot. "Oh, man, you must know the RedbackCafe?"Sister Aeyisha the African goddess lit up. "Yeah, man, that was my place from way back when!
You go there?""All the time! Wicked place. Well, maybe I'll see you round them gates sometime. It was nice tomeet you, sister. Brother Tyrone, I've got to chip, man, my gal's waiting for me."Brother Tyrone looked disappointed. Just before Millat left, he pressed another leaflet into hishand and continued holding his hand until the paper got damp between their two palms.
"You could be a great leader of men, Millat," said Brother Tyrone (why did everybody keeptelling him that?), looking first at him, then at Karina Cain, the curve of her breasts peeping overthe car door, beeping her car horn in the street. "But at the moment you are half the man. We needthe whole man.""Yeah, wicked, thanks, you too Brother," said Millat, looking briefly52 at the leaflet, and pushingopen the doors. "Laters.""What's that?" asked Karina Cain, reaching over to open the passenger door and spotting theslightly soggy paper in his hand.
Instinctively, Millat put the leaflet straight in his pocket. Which was weird53. He usually showedKarina everything. Now just her asking him grated somehow. And what was she wearing? Samebelly top she always wore. Except wasn't it shorter? Weren't the nipples clearer, more deliberate?
He said, "Nothing." Grumpily. But it wasn't nothing. It wasthe final leaflet in the KEVIN series on Western women. The Right to Bare: The Naked Truthabout Western Sexuality.
Now, while we're on the subject of nakedness, Karina Cain had a nice little body. All creamychub and slender extremities55. And come the weekend she liked to wear something to show it off.
First time Millat noticed her was at some local party when he saw a flash of silver pants, a silverboob-tube, and a bare mound56 of slightly protruding57 belly54 rising up between the two with another bitof silver in the navel. There was something welcoming about Karina Cain's little belly. She hated it,but Millat loved it. He loved it when she wore things that revealed it. But now the leaflets weremaking things clearer. He started noticing what she wore and the way other men looked at her. Andwhen he mentioned it she said, "Oh, I hate that. All those leery old men." But it seemed to Millatthat she was encouraging it; that she positively58 wanted men to look at her, that she was as TheRight to Bare suggested 'prostituting herself to the male gaze'. Particularly white males. Becausethat's how it worked between Western men and Western women, wasn't it? They liked to do it all inpublic. The more he thought about it, the more it pissed him off. Why couldn't she cover up? Whowas she trying to impress? African goddesses from Clapham North respected themselves, whycouldn't Karina Cain? "I can't respect you," explained Millat carefully, making sure he repeated thewords just as he had read them, 'until you respect yourself Karina Cain said she did respect herself,but Millat couldn't believe her. Which was odd, because he'd never known Karina Cain to lie, shewasn't the type.
When they got ready to go out somewhere, he said, "You're not dressing60 for me, you're dressingfor everybody!" Karina said she didn't dress for him or anybody, she dressed for herself. When shesang "Sexual Healing' at the pub karaoke, he said, "Sex is a private thing, between you and me, it'snot for everybody!" Karina said she was singing, not having sex in front of the Rat andCarrot regulars. When they made love, he said, "Don't do that . don't offer it to me like a whore.
Haven't you heard of unnatural61 acts? Besides, I'll take it if I want it and why can't you be a lady,don't make all that noise!" Karina Cain slapped him and cried a lot. She said she didn't know whatwas happening to him. Problem is, thought Millat, as he slammed the door off its hinges, neither doI. And after that row they didn't talk for a while.
About two weeks later, he was doing a shift in the Palace for a little extra money, and hebrought the matter up with Shiva, a newish convert to KEVIN and a rising star within theorganization. "Don't talk to me about white women," groaned62 Shiva, wondering how manygenerations of Iqbals he'd have to give the same advice to. "It's got to the point in the West wherethe women are men! I mean, they've got the same desires and urges as men they want it allthejucking time. And they dress like they want everyone to know they want it. Now is that right? Isit?"But before the debate could progress, Samad came through the double doors looking for somemango chutney and Millat returned to his chopping.
That evening after work, Millat saw a moon-faced, demure63 looking Indian woman through thewindow of a Piccadilly cafe who looked, in profile, not unlike youthful pictures of his mother. Shewas dressed in a black polo-neck, long black trousers and her eyes were partly veiled by long blackhair, her only decoration the red patterns of mhendi on the palms of her hands. She was sittingalone.
With the same thoughtless balls he used when chatting up dolly birds and disco brains, with theguts of a man who had no qualms64 about talking to strangers, Millat went in and started giving herthe back page of The Right to Bare pretty much verbatim, in the hope that she'd understand. Allabout soulmates, about self-respect, about women who seek to bring 'visual pleasure' only to themen who love them. He explained: "It's theliberation of the veil, in nit Look, like here: Free from the shackles65 of male scrutiny66 and thestandards of attractiveness, the woman is free to be who she is inside, immune from beingportrayed as sex symbol and lusted67 after as if she were meat on the shelf to be picked at and lookedover. That's what we think," he said, uncertain if that was what he thought. "That's our opinion," hesaid, uncertain whether it was his opinion. "You see, I'm from this group '
The lady screwed up her face and put her forefinger68 delicately across his lip. "Oh, darling," shemurmured sadly, admiring his beauty. "If I give you money, will you go away?"And then her boyfriend turned up, a surprisingly tall Chinese guy in a leather jacket.
Deep in a blue funk, Millat resolved to walk the eight miles home, beginning in Soho, glaring atthe leggy whores and the crotchless knickers and the feather boas. By the time he reached MarbleArch he had worked himself into such a rage he called Karina Cain from a phone box plasteredwith tits and ass4 (whores, whores, whores) and dumped her unceremoniously. He didn't mind aboutthe other girls he was shagging (Alexandra Andrusier, Polly Houghton, Rosie Dew) because theywere straight up, posh-to tty slags69. But he minded about Karina Cain, because she was his love, andhis love should be his love and nobody else's. Protected like Liotta's wife in Good Fellas or Pacino'ssister in Scarface. Treated like a princess. Behaving like a princess. In a tower. Covered up.
Walking slower now, dragging his heels, there being nobody to go home to, he got waylaid70 inthe Edgware Road, the old fat guys calling him over ("Look, it's Millat, little Millat the Ladies' Man!
Millat the Prince of Pussy-pokers! Too big to have a smoke is he, now?") and gave in with a ruefulsmile. Hookah pipes, hal al fried chicken and illegally imported absinthe consumed aroundwobbling outdoor tables; watching the women hurry by in full purdah, like busy black ghostshaunting the streets, late-night shopping, looking for their errant husbands. Millat liked to watchthem go: the animated71 talk, the exquisite72 colours of the communicative eyes, the bursts oflaughter from invisible lips. He remembered something his father once told him back when theyused to speak to each other. You do not know the meaning of the erotic, Millat, you do not know themeaning of desire, my second son, until you have sat on the Edgware Road with a bubbling pipe,using all the powers of your imagination to visualize73 what is beyond the four inches of skin ha jibreveals, what is under those great sable74 sheets.
About six hours later Millat turned up at the Chalfen kitchen table, very, very drunk, weepy andviolent. He destroyed Oscar's Lego fire station and threw the coffee machine across the room. Thenhe did what Joyce had been waiting for these twelve months. He asked her advice.
It seemed like months had been spent across that kitchen table since then, Joyce shooing peopleout of the room, going through her reading material, wringing75 her hands; the smell of dopemingling with the steam that rose off endless cups of strawberry tea. For Joyce truly loved him andwanted to help him, but her advice was long and complex. She had read up on the subject. And itappeared Millat was filled with self-revulsion and hatred76 of his own kind; that he had possibly aslave mentality77, or maybe a colour-complex centred around his mother (he was far darker than she),or a wish for his own annihilation by means of dilution78 in a white gene25 pool, or an inability toreconcile two opposing cultures .. . and it emerged that 60 per cent of Asian men did this . and 90per cent of Muslims felt that... it was a known fact that Asian families were often .. . andhormonally boys were more likely to ... and the therapist she'd found him was really very nice,three days a week and don't worry about the money . and don't worry about Joshua, he's justsulking .. . and, and, and.
Way-back-when in the fuddle of the hash and the talk Millat remembered a girl called KarinaSomethingoranother whom he had liked. And she liked him. And she had a great sense of humour which felt like a miracle,and she looked after him when he was down and he looked after her too, in his own way, bringingher flowers and stuff. She seemed distant now, like conker fights and childhood. And that was that.
There was trouble at the Joneses. Me was about to become the first Bowden or Jones (possibly,maybe, all things willing, by the grace of God, fingers crossed) to enter a university. Her A-levelswere chemistry, biology and religious studies. She wanted to study dentistry (white collar! 2 poundsk+ I), which everyone was very pleased about, but she also wanted to take a 'year off' in thesubcontinent and Africa (Malaria! Poverty! Tapeworm!), which led to three months of open warfarebetween her and Clara. One side wanted finance and permission, the other side was resolved toconcede neither. The conflict was protracted79 and bitter, and all mediators were sent homeempty-handed (She has made up her mind, there are no arguments to be had with the womanSamad) or else embroiled80 in the war of words (Why can't she go to Bangladesh if she wants to? Areyou saying my country is not good enough for your daughter? - Alsana).
The stalemate was so pronounced that land had been divided and allocated81; Me claimed herbedroom and the attic82, Archie, a conscientious83 objector, asked only for the spare room, a televisionand a satellite (state) dish, and Clara took everything else, with the bathroom acting84 as sharedterritory. Doors were slammed. The time for talking was over.
On the 25th of October 1991, 01.00 hours, Me embarked85 upon a late-night attack. She knewfrom experience that her mother was most vulnerable when in bed; late at night she spoke86 softlylike a child, her fatigue87 gave her a pronounced lisp; it was at this point that you were most likely toget whatever it was you'd been pining for: pocket money, a new bike, a later curfew. It wassuch a well-worn tactic88 that until now Me had not considered it worthy89 of this, her fiercest andlongest dispute with her mother. But she hadn't any better ideas.
The? Wha -? Iss sa middle of sa nice ... Go back koo bedMe opened the door further, letting yet more hall light flood the bedroom.
Archie submerged his head in a pillow. "Bloody hell, love, it's one in the morning! Some of ushave got work tomorrow.""I want to talk to Mum," said Me firmly, walking to the end of the bed. "She won't talk to meduring the day, so I'm reduced to this."The, pleaze .. . I'm exhaushed.. . I'm shrying koo gesh shome shleep.""I don't just want to have a year off, I need one. It's essential I'm young, I want someexperiences. I've lived in this bloody suburb all my life. Everyone's the same here. I want to go andsee the people of the world .. . that's what Joshua's doing and his parents support him!""Well, we can't bloody afford it," grumbled90 Archie, emerging from the eiderdown. "We haven'tall got posh jobs in science, now have we?""I don't care about the money I'll get a job, somehow or something, but I do want yourpermission! Both of you. I don't want to spend six months away and spend every day thinkingyou're angry.""Well, it's not up to me, love, is it? It's your mother, really, I...""Yes, Dad. Thanks for stating the bloody obvious.""Oh, right," said Archie huffily, turning to the wall. Till keep my comments to me self then"Oh, Dad, I didn't mean .. . Mum? Can you please sit up and speak properly? I'm trying to talkto you? It seems like I'm talking to myself here?" said Me with absurd intonations91, for this was theyear Antipodean soap operas were teaching a generation ofEnglish kids to phrase everything as a question. "Look, I want your permission, yeah?"Even in the darkness, Me could see Clara scowl92. "Permishon for what? Koo go and share andogle at poor black folk? Dr. Livingshone, I prejume? Iz dat what you leant from da Shalfenz?
Because if th ash what you want, you can do dat here. Jush sit and look at me for shix munfs!""It's nothing to do with that! I just want to see how other people live!""An' gek you shelf killed in da pros59 ness Why don' you go necksh door, dere are uwer peopledere. Go shee how dey live!"Infuriated, Irie grabbed the bed knob and marched round Clara's side of the bed. "Why can't youjust sit up properly and talk to me properly and drop the ridiculous little girl voice.
In the darkness Irie kicked over a glass and sucked in a sharp breath as the cold water seepedbetween her toes and into the carpet. Then, as the last of the water ran away, Irie had the strange'
and horrid93 sensation that she was being bitten.
"Owl""Oh, for God's sake," said Archie, reaching over to the side lamp and switching it on. "Whatnow?"Irie looked down to where the pain was. In any war, this was too low a blow. The front set ofsome false teeth, with no mouth attached to them, were bearing down upon her right foot.
"Fucking hell! What the fuck are they?"But the question was unnecessary; even as the words formed in her mouth, Irie had already puttwo and two together. The midnight voice. The perfect daytime straightness and whiteness.
Clara hurriedly stretched to the floor and prised her teeth from Irie's foot and, as it was too latefor disguise now, placed them directly on the bedside table.
"Shatishfied?" asked Clara wearily. (It wasn't that she haddeliberately not told her. There just never seemed a good time.)But Irie was sixteen and everything feels deliberate at that age. To her, this was yet another itemin a long list of parental94 hypocrisies95 and untruths, this was another example of the Jones/ Bowdengift for secret histories, stories you never got told, history you never entirely96 uncovered, rumouryou never unravelled97, which would be fine if every day was not littered with clues, and suggestions;shrapnel in Archie's leg .. . photo of strange white Grandpa Durham .. . the name "Ophelia' and theword 'madhouse' ... a cycling helmet and an ancient mudguard .. . smell of fried food fromO'ConnelTs .. . faint memory of a late night car journey, waving to a boy on a plane .. . letters withSwedish stamps, Horst Ibelgaufts, if not delivered return to sender... Oh what a tangled98 web weweave. Millat was right: these parents were damaged people, missing hands, missing teeth. Theseparents were full of information you wanted to know but were too scared to hear. But she didn'twant it any more, she was tired of it. She was sick of never getting the whole truth. She wasreturning to sender.
"Well, don't look so shocked, love," said Archie amicably99. "It's just some bloody teeth. So nowyou know. It's not the end of the world."But it was, in a way. She'd had enough. She walked back into her room, packed her schoolworkand essential clothes into a big rucksack and put a heavy coat over her nightie. She thought aboutthe Chalfens for half a second, but she knew already there were no answers there, only more placesto escape. Besides, there was only one spare room and Millat had it. Irie knew where she had to go,deep into the heart of it, where only the n 17 would take her at this time of night, sitting on the topdeck, seats decorated with puke, rumbling100 through 47 bus stops before it reached its destination.
But she got there in the end.
"Lord a Jesus," mumbled101 Hortense, iron-curlers unmoved, ib bleary-eyed on the doorstep. TheAmbrosia Jones, is that you?"
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pals
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| n.朋友( pal的名词复数 )；老兄；小子；（对男子的不友好的称呼）家伙 | |
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sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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peek
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| vi.偷看，窥视；n.偷偷的一看，一瞥 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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jealousy
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mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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commingling
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| v.混合，掺和，合并( commingle的现在分词 ) | |
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merging
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| 合并（分类） | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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21
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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delve
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| v.深入探究，钻研 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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24
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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gene
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| n.遗传因子，基因 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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29
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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30
enrol
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| v.（使）注册入学，（使）入学，（使）入会 | |
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31
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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32
tickles
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| （使）发痒( tickle的第三人称单数 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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33
defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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34
millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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36
grafting
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| 嫁接法，移植法 | |
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37
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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38
exude
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| v.(使)流出，(使)渗出 | |
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39
pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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41
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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42
pussy
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| n.(儿语)小猫，猫咪 | |
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43
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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48
broaching
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| n.拉削；推削；铰孔；扩孔v.谈起( broach的现在分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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49
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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50
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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51
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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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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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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pros
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| abbr.prosecuting 起诉；prosecutor 起诉人；professionals 自由职业者；proscenium （舞台）前部n.赞成的意见( pro的名词复数 )；赞成的理由；抵偿物；交换物 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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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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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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65
shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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lusted
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| 贪求（lust的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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slags
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| n.矿渣( slag的名词复数 )；贱妇；淫妇；妓女v.（使）成渣（状）( slag的第三人称单数 )；诋毁；贬损；辱骂 | |
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waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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73
visualize
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| vt.使看得见，使具体化，想象，设想 | |
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74
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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75
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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76
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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77
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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78
dilution
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| n.稀释，淡化 | |
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79
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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embroiled
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| adj.卷入的；纠缠不清的 | |
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81
allocated
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| adj. 分配的 动词allocate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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82
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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83
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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84
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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85
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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86
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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87
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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88
tactic
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| n.战略，策略；adj.战术的，有策略的 | |
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89
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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90
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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91
intonations
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| n.语调，说话的抑扬顿挫( intonation的名词复数 )；（演奏或唱歌中的）音准 | |
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92
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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93
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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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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95
hypocrisies
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| n.伪善，虚伪( hypocrisy的名词复数 ) | |
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96
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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97
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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98
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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99
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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100
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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101
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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