***** Rue36 Bab-el-Mandeb, Rue Abou-el-Dardar, Minet-el-Bassal (streets slippery with discarded fluff from the cotton marts) Nouzha (the rose-garden, some remembered kisses) or bus stops with haunted names like Saba Pacha, Mazloum; Zizinia Bacos, Schutz, Gianaclis. A city becomes a world when one loves one of its inhabitants. ***** One of the consequences of frequenting the great house was that I began to be noticed and to receive the attention of those who considered Nessim influential37 and presumed that if he spent his time with me I must also, in some undiscovered fashion, be either rich or distinguished38. Pombal came to my room one afternoon while I was dozing39 and sat on my bed: ‘Look here’ he said, ‘you are beginning to be noticed. Of course a cicisbeo is a normal enough figure in Alexandrian life, but things are going to become socially very boring for you if you go out with those two so much. Look!’ And he handed me a large and florid piece of pasteboard with a printed invitation on it for cocktails40 at the French Consulate41. I read it uncomprehendingly. Pombal said: ‘This is very silly. My chief, the Consul42-General, is impassionated by Justine. All attempts to meet her have failed so far. His spies tell him that you have an entree43 into the family circle, indeed that you are … I know, I know. But he is hoping to displace you in her affections.’ He laughed heavily. Nothing sounded more preposterous44 to me at this time. ‘Tell the Consul-General’ I said … and uttered a forcible remark or two which caused Pombal to click his tongue reprovingly and shake his head. ‘I would love to’ he said ‘but, mon cher, there is a Pecking Order among diplomats45 as there is among poultry46. I depend upon him for my little cross.’ Heaving his bulk round he next produced from his pocket a battered47 little yellow-covered novelette and placed it on my knees. ‘Here is something to interest you. Justine was married when she was very young to a French national, Albanian by descent, a writer. This little book is about her — a post-mortem on her; it is quite decently done.’ I turned the novel over in my hands. It was entitled Moeurs and it was by a certain Jacob Arnauti. The flyleaf showed it to have enjoyed numerous reprintings in the early thirties. ‘How do you know this?’ I asked, and Georges winked48 a large, heavy-lidded reptilian49 eye as he replied. ‘We have been making enquiries. The Consul can think of nothing but Justine, and the whole staff has been busy for weeks collecting information about her. Vive la France!’ When he had gone I started turning the pages of Moeurs, still half-dazed by sleep. It was very well written indeed, in the first person singular, and was a diary of Alexandrian life as seen by a foreigner in the early thirties. The author of the diary is engaged on research for a novel he proposes to do — and the day to day account of his life in Alexandria is accurate and penetrating50; but what arrested me was the portrait of a young Jewess he meets and marries: takes to Europe: divorces. The foundering51 of this marriage on their return to Egypt is done with a savage53 insight that throws into relief the character of Claudia, his wife. And what astonished and interested me was to see in her a sketch54 of Justine I recognized without knowing: a younger, a more disoriented Justine, to be sure. But unmistakable. Indeed whenever I read the book, and this was often, I was in the habit of restoring her name to the text. It fitted with an appalling55 verisimilitude. They met, where I had first seen her, in the gaunt vestibule of the Cecil, in a mirror. ‘In the vestibule of this moribund56 hotel the palms splinter and refract their motionless fronds57 in the gilt-edged mirrors. Only the rich can afford to stay permanently58 — those who live on in the guilt59-edged security of a pensionable old age. I am looking for cheaper lodgings60. In the lobby tonight a small circle of Syrians, heavy in their dark suits, and yellow in their scarlet61 tarbushes, solemnly sit. Their hippopotamus-like womenfolk, lightly moustached, have jingled62 off to bed in their jewellery. The men’s curious soft oval faces and effeminate voices are busy upon jewel-boxes — for each of these brokers carries his choicest jewels with him in a casket; and after dinner the talk has turned to male jewellery. It is all the Mediterranean63 world has left to talk about; a self-interest, a narcissism64 which comes from sexual exhaustion expressing itself in the possessive symbol: so that meeting a man you are at once informed what he is worth, and meeting his wife you are told in the same breathless whisper what her dowry was. They croon like eunuchs over the jewels, turning them this way and that in the light to appraise65 them. They flash their sweet white teeth in little feminine smiles. They sigh. A white-robed waiter with a polished ebony face brings coffee. A silver hinge flies open upon heavy white (like the thighs66 of Egyptian women) cigarettes each with its few flecks67 of hashish. A few grains of drunkenness before bedtime. I have been thinking about the girl I met last night in the mirror: dark on marble-ivory white: glossy68 black hair: deep suspiring eyes in which one’s glances sink because they are nervous, curious, turned to sexual curiosity. She pretends to be a Greek, but she must be Jewish. It takes a Jew to smell out a Jew; and neither of us has the courage to confess our true race. I have told her I am French. Sooner or later we shall find one another out. ‘The women of the foreign communities here are more beautiful than elsewhere. Fear, insecurity dominates them. They have the illusion of foundering in the ocean of blackness all around. This city has been built like a dyke69 to hold back the flood of African darkness; but the soft-footed blacks have already started leaking into the European quarters: a sort of racial osmosis is going on. To be happy one would have to be a Moslem70, an Egyptian woman — absorbent, soft, lax, overblown; given to veneers71; their waxen skins turn citron-yellow or melon-green in the naphtha-flares. Hard bodies like boxes. Breasts apple-green and hard — a reptilian coldness of the outer flesh with its bony outposts of toes and fingers. Their feelings are buried in the pre-conscious. In love they give out nothing of themselves, having no self to give, but enclose themselves around you in an agonized72 reflection — an agony of unexpressed yearning73 that is at the opposite pole from tenderness, pleasure. For centuries now they have been shut in a stall with the oxen, masked, circumcised. Fed in darkness on jams and scented74 fats they have become tuns of pleasure, rolling on paper-white blue-veined legs. ‘Walking through the Egyptian quarter the smell of flesh changes — ammoniac, sandal-wood, saltpetre, spice, fish. She would not let me take her home — no doubt because she was ashamed of her house in these slums. Nevertheless she spoke wonderfully about her childhood. I have taken a few notes: returning home to find her father breaking walnuts75 with a little hammer on the table by the light of an oil-lamp. I can see him. He is no Greek but a Jew from Odessa in fur cap with greasy76 ringlets. Also the kiss of the Berberin, the enormous rigid77 penis like an obsidian78 of the ice age; leaning to take her underlip between beautiful unfiled teeth. We have left Europe behind here and are moving towards a new spiritual latitude79. She gave herself to me with such contempt that I was for the first time in my life surprised at the quality of her anxiety; it was as if she were desperate, swollen80 with disaster. And yet these women belonging to these lost communities have a desperate bravery very different to ours. They have explored the flesh to a degree which makes them true foreigners to us. How am I to write about all this? Will she come, or has she disappeared forever? The Syrians are going to bed with little cries, like migrating birds.’ She comes. They talk. (‘Under the apparent provincial81 sophistication and mental hardness I thought I detected an inexperience, not of the world to be sure but of society. I was interesting, I realized, as a foreigner with good manners — and she turned upon me now the shy-wise regard of an owl3 from those enormous brown eyes whose faintly bluish eyeballs and long lashes82 threw into relief the splendour of the pupils, glittering and candid83.’) It may be imagined with what breathless, painful anxiety I first read this account of a love-affair with Justine; and truly after many re-readings the book, which I now know almost by heart, has always remained for me a document, full of personal pain and astonishment84. ‘Our love’ he writes in another place ‘was like a syllogism85 to which the true premises86 were missing: I mean regard. It was a sort of mental possession which trapped us both and set us to drift upon the shallow tepid87 waters of Mareotis like spawning88 frogs, a prey89 to instincts based in lassitude and heat…. No, that is not the way to put it. It is not very just. Let me try again with these infirm and unstable90 tools to sketch Claudia. Where shall we begin? ‘Well, her talent for situations had served her well for twenty years of an erratic91 and unpunctual life. Of her origins I learned little, save that she had been very poor. She gave me the impression of someone engaged in giving a series of savage caricatures of herself — but this is common to most lonely people who feel that their true self can find no correspondence in another. The speed with which she moved from one milieu92 to another, from one man, place, date to another, was staggering. But her instability had a magnificence that was truly arresting. The more I knew her the less predictable she seemed; the only constant was the frantic93 struggle to break through the barrier of her autism. And every action ended in error, guilt, repentance94. How often I remember — “Darling, this time it will be different, I promise you.” ‘Later, when we went abroad: at the Adlon, the pollen95 of the spotlights96 playing upon the Spanish dancers fuming97 in the smoke of a thousand cigarettes; by the dark waters of Buda, her tears dropping hotly among the quietly flowing dead leaves; riding on the gaunt Spanish plains, the silence pock-marked by the sound of our horses’ hooves: by the Mediterranean lying on some forgotten reef. It was never her betrayals that upset me — for with Justine the question of male pride in possession became somehow secondary. I was bewitched by the illusion that I could really come to know her; but I see now that she was not really a woman but the incarnation of Woman admitting no ties in the society we inhabited. “I hunt everywhere for a life that is worth living. Perhaps if I could die or go mad it would provide a focus for all the feelings I have which find no proper outlet98. The doctor I loved told me I was a nymphomaniac — but there is no gluttony or self-indulgence in my pleasure, Jacob. It is purely99 wasted from that point of view. The waste, my dear, the waste! You speak of taking pleasure sadly, like the puritans do. Even there you are unjust to me. I take it tragically100, and if my medical friends want a compound word to describe the heartless creature I seem, why they will have to admit that what I lack of heart I make up in soul. That is where the trouble lies.” These are not, you see, the sort of distinctions of which women are usually capable. It was as if somehow her world lacked a dimension, and love had become turned inwards into a kind of idolatry. At first I mistook this for a devastating101 and self-consuming egotism, for she seemed so ignorant of the little prescribed loyalties103 which constitute the foundations of affection between men and women. This sounds pompous104, but never mind. But now, remembering the panics and exaltations which she endured, I wonder whether I was right. I am thinking of those tiresome105, dramas — scenes in furnished bedrooms, with Justine turning on the taps to drown the noise of her own crying. Walking up and down, hugging her arms in her armpits, muttering to herself, she seemed to smoulder like a tar-barrel on the point of explosion. My indifferent health and poor nerves — but above all my European sense of humour — seemed at such times to goad106 her beyond endurance. Suffering, let us say, from some imagined slight at a dinner-party she would patrol the strip of carpet at the foot of the bed like a panther. If I fell asleep she might become enraged107 and shake my by the shoulders, crying: “Get up, Jacob, I am suffering, can’t you see?” When I declined to take part in this charade108 she would perhaps break something upon the dressing-table in order to have an excuse to ring the bell. How many fearful faces of night-maids have I not seen confronted by this wild figure saying with a terrifying politeness: “Oblige me by clearing up the dressing-table. I have clumsily broken something.” Then she would sit smoking cigarette after cigarette. “I know exactly what this is” I told her once. “I expect that every time you are unfaithful to me and consumed by guilt you would like to provoke me to beat you up and give a sort of remission for your sins. My dear, I simply refuse to pander109 to your satisfactions. You must carry your own burdens. You are trying hard to get me to use a stockwhip on you. But I only pity you.” This, I must confess, made her very thoughtful for a moment and involuntarily her hands strayed to touch the smooth surface of the legs she had so carefully shaved that afternoon…. ‘Latterly, too, when I began to weary of her, I found this sort of abuse of the emotions so tiresome that I took to insulting her and laughing at her. One night I called her a tiresome hysterical110 Jewess. Bursting into those terrible hoarse111 sobs112 which I so often heard that even now in memory the thought of them (their richness, their melodious113 density) hurts me, she flung herself down on her own bed to lie, limbs loose and flaccid, played upon by the currents of her hysteria like jets from a hose. ‘Did this sort of thing happen so often or is it that my memory has multiplied it? Perhaps it was only once, and the echoes have misled me. At any rate I seem to hear so often the noise she made unstopping the bottle of sleeping tablets, and the small sound of the tablets falling into the glass. Even when I was dozing I would count, to see that she did not take too many. All this was much later, of course; in the early days I would ask her to come into my bed and self-conscious, sullen114, cold, she would obey me. I was foolish enough to think that I could thaw115 her out and give her the physical peace upon which — I thought — mental peace must depend. I was wrong. There was some unresolved inner knot which she wished to untie116 and which was quite beyond my skill as a lover or a friend. Of course. Of course. I knew as much as could be known of the psychopathology of hysteria at that time. But there was some other quality which I thought I could detect behind all this. In a way she was not looking for life but for some integrating revelation which would give it point. ‘I have already described how we met — in the long mirror of the Cecil, before the open door of the ballroom117, on a night of carnival118. The first words we spoke were spoken, symbolically119 enough, in the mirror. She was there with a man who resembled a cuttle-fish and who waited while she examined her dark face attentively120. I stopped to adjust an unfamiliar121 bow-tie. She had a hungry natural candour which seemed proof against any suggestion of forwardness as she smiled and said: “There is never enough light.” To which I responded without thought: “For women perhaps. We men are less exigent.” We smiled and I passed her on my way to the ballroom, ready to walk out of her mirror-life forever, without a thought. Later the hazards of one of those awful English dances, called the Paul Jones I believe, left me facing her for a waltz. We spoke a few disjointed words — I dance badly; and here I must confess that her beauty made no impression on me. It was only later when she began her trick of drawing hasty ill-defined designs round my character, throwing my critical faculties122 into disorder123 by her sharp penetrating stabs; ascribing to me qualities which she invented on the spur of the moment out of that remorseless desire to capture my attention. Women must attack writers — and from the moment she learned I was a writer she felt disposed to make herself interesting by dissecting124 me. All this would have been most flattering to my amour-propre had some of her observations been further from the mark. But she was acute, and I was too feeble to resist this sort of game — the mental ambuscades which constitute the opening gambits of a flirtation125. ‘From here I remember nothing more until that night — that marvellous summer night on the moon-drenched balcony above the sea with Justine pressing a warm hand on my mouth to stop me talking and saying something like: “Quick. Engorge-moi. From desire to revulsion — let’s get it over.” She had, it seemed, already exhausted126 me in her own imagination. But the words were spoken with such weariness and humility127 — who could forbear to love her? ‘It is idle to go over all this in a medium as unstable as words. I remember the edges and corners of so many meetings, and I see a sort of composite Justine, concealing128 a ravenous129 hunger for information, for power through self-knowledge, under a pretence130 of feeling. Sadly I am driven to wonder whether I ever really moved her — or existed simply as a laboratory in which she could work. She learned much from me: to read and reflect. She had achieved neither before. I even persuaded her to keep a diary in order to clarify her far from commonplace thoughts. But perhaps what I took to be love was merely a gratitude131. Among the thousand discarded people, impressions, subjects of study — somewhere I see myself drifting, floating, reaching out arms. Strangely enough it was never in the lover that I really met her but in the writer. Here we clasped hands — in that amoral world of suspended judgements where curiosity and wonder seem greater than order — the syllogistic132 order imposed by the mind. This is where one waits in silence, holding one’s breath, lest the pane133 should cloud over. I watched over her like this. I was mad about her. ‘She had of course many secrets being a true child of the Mouseion, and I had to guard myself desperately134 against jealousy135 or the desire to intrude136 upon the hidden side of her life. I was almost successful in this and if I spied upon her it was really from curiosity to know what she might be doing or thinking when she was not with me. There was, for example, a woman of the town whom she visited frequently, and whose influence on her was profound enough to make me suspect an illicit137 relationship; there was also a man to whom she wrote long letters, though as far as I could see he lived in the city. Perhaps he was bedridden? I made inquiries138, but my spies always brought me back uninteresting information. The woman was a fortune-teller, elderly, a widow. The man to whom she wrote — her pen shrilling139 across the cheap notepaper — turned out to be a doctor who held a small part-time post on a local consulate. He was not bedridden; but he was a homosexual, and dabbled140 in hermetic philosophy which is now so much in vogue141. Once she left a particularly clear impression on my blotting-pad and in the mirror (the mirror again!) I was able to read:—”my life there is a sort of Unhealed Place as you call it which I try to keep full of people, accidents, diseases, anything that comes to hand. You are right when you say it is an apology for better living, wiser living. But while I respect your disciplines and your knowledge I feel that if I am ever going to come to terms with myself I must work through the dross142 in my own character and burn it up. Anyone could solve my problem artificially by placing it in the lap of a priest. We Alexandrians have mere17 pride than that — and more respect for religion. It would not be fair to God, my dear sir, and whoever else I fail (I see you smile) I am determined143 not to fail Him whoever He is.” ‘It seemed to me then that if this was part of a love-letter it was the kind of love-letter one could only address to a saint; and again I was struck, despite the clumsiness and incorrectness of the writing, by the fluency144 with which she could dissociate between ideas of different categories. I began to see her in an altered light; as somebody who might well destroy herself in an excess of wrongheaded courage and forfeit145 the happiness which she, in common with all the rest of us, desired and lived only to achieve. These thoughts had the effect of qualifying my love for her, and I found myself filled sometimes by disgust for her. But what made me afraid was that after quite a short time I found to my horror that I could not live without her. I tried. I took short journeys away from her. But without her I found life full of consuming boredom146 which was quite insupportable. I had fallen in love. The very thought filled me with an inexplicable147 despair and disgust. It was as if I unconsciously realized that in her I had met my evil genius. To come to Alexandria heart-whole and to discover an amor fati — it was a stroke of ill-luck which neither my health nor my nerves felt capable of supporting. Looking in the mirror I reminded myself that I had turned forty and already there was a white hair or two at my temples! I thought once of trying to end this attachment148, but in every smile and kiss of Justine I felt my resolutions founder52. Yet with her one felt all around the companionship of shadows which invaded life and filled it with a new resonance149. Feeling so rich in ambiguities150 could not be resolved by a sudden act of the will. I had at times the impression of a woman whose every kiss was a blow struck on the side of death. When I discovered, for example (what I knew) that she had been repeatedly unfaithful to me, and at times when I had felt myself to be closest to her, I felt nothing very sharp in outline; rather a sinking numbness151 such as one might feel on leaving a friend in hospital, to enter a lift and fall six floors in silence, standing152 beside a uniformed automaton153 whose breathing one could hear. The silence of my room deafened154 me. And then, thinking about it, gathering155 my whole mind about the fact I realized that what she had done bore no relation to myself: it was an attempt to free herself for me: to give me what she knew belonged to me. I cannot say that this sounded any better to my ears than a sophistry156. Nevertheless my heart seemed to know the truth of this and dictated157 a tactful silence to me to which she responded with a new warmth, a new ardour, of gratitude added to love. This again disgusted me somewhat. ‘Ah! but if you had seen her then as I did in her humbler, gentler moments, remembering that she was only a child, you would not have reproached me for cowardice158. In the early morning, sleeping in my arms, her hair blown across that smiling mouth, she looked like no other woman I could remember: indeed like no woman at all, but some marvellous creature caught in the Pleistocene stage of her development. And later again, thinking about her as I did and have done these past few years I was surprised to find that though I loved her wholly and knew that I should never love anyone else — yet I shrank from the thought that she might return. The two ideas co-existed in my mind without displacing one another. I thought to myself with relief “Good. I have really loved at last. That is something achieved”; and to this my alter ego102 added: “Spare me the pangs159 of love requited160 with Justine.” This enigmatic polarity of feeling was something I found completely unexpected. If this was love then it was a variety of the plant which I have never seen before. (“Damn the word” said Justine once. “I would like to spell it backwards161 as you say the Elizabethans did God. Call it evol and make it a part of ‘evolution’ or ‘revolt’. Never use the word to me.”)’
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1
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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knowledgeable
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| adj.知识渊博的；有见识的 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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12
flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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excrement
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| n.排泄物，粪便 | |
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gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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meretricious
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| adj.华而不实的，俗艳的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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razed
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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hacked
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| 生气 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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brokers
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| n.（股票、外币等）经纪人( broker的名词复数 )；中间人；代理商；（订合同的）中人v.做掮客（或中人等）( broker的第三人称单数 )；作为权力经纪人进行谈判；以中间人等身份安排… | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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37
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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38
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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39
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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40
cocktails
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| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
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41
consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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42
consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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43
entree
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| n.入场权，进入权 | |
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44
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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45
diplomats
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| n.外交官( diplomat的名词复数 )；有手腕的人，善于交际的人 | |
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46
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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47
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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48
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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49
reptilian
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| adj.（像）爬行动物的；（像）爬虫的；卑躬屈节的；卑鄙的n.两栖动物；卑劣的人 | |
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50
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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51
foundering
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| v.创始人( founder的现在分词 ) | |
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52
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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53
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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54
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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55
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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56
moribund
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| adj.即将结束的，垂死的 | |
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57
fronds
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| n.蕨类或棕榈类植物的叶子( frond的名词复数 ) | |
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58
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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59
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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60
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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61
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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62
jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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63
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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64
narcissism
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| n.自我陶醉，自恋 | |
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65
appraise
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| v.估价，评价，鉴定 | |
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66
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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67
flecks
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| n.斑点，小点( fleck的名词复数 )；癍 | |
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68
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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69
dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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70
Moslem
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| n.回教徒，穆罕默德信徒；adj.回教徒的，回教的 | |
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71
veneers
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| n.饰面薄板( veneer的名词复数 )；虚假的外表；虚饰；牙罩冠 | |
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72
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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73
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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74
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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75
walnuts
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| 胡桃（树）( walnut的名词复数 )； 胡桃木 | |
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76
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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77
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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78
obsidian
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| n.黑曜石 | |
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79
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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80
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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81
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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82
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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83
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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84
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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85
syllogism
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| n.演绎法，三段论法 | |
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86
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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87
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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88
spawning
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| 产卵 | |
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89
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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90
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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91
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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92
milieu
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| n.环境；出身背景；(个人所处的)社会环境 | |
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93
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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94
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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95
pollen
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| n.[植]花粉 | |
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96
spotlights
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| n.聚光灯（的光）( spotlight的名词复数 )；公众注意的中心v.聚光照明( spotlight的第三人称单数 )；使公众注意，使突出醒目 | |
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97
fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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98
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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99
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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100
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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101
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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102
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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103
loyalties
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| n.忠诚( loyalty的名词复数 )；忠心；忠于…感情；要忠于…的强烈感情 | |
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104
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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105
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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106
goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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107
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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108
charade
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| n.用动作等表演文字意义的字谜游戏 | |
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109
pander
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| v.迎合；n.拉皮条者，勾引者；帮人做坏事的人 | |
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110
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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111
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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112
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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113
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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114
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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115
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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116
untie
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| vt.解开，松开；解放 | |
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117
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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118
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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119
symbolically
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| ad.象征地，象征性地 | |
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120
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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121
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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122
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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123
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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124
dissecting
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| v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的现在分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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125
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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126
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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127
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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128
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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129
ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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130
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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131
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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132
syllogistic
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| adj.三段论法的，演绎的，演绎性的 | |
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133
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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134
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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135
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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136
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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137
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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138
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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139
shrilling
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的现在分词 )； 凄厉 | |
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140
dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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141
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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142
dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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143
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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144
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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145
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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146
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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147
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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148
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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149
resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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150
ambiguities
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| n.歧义( ambiguity的名词复数 )；意义不明确；模棱两可的意思；模棱两可的话 | |
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151
numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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152
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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153
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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154
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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155
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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156
sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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157
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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158
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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159
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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160
requited
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| v.报答( requite的过去式和过去分词 )；酬谢；回报；报复 | |
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161
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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