In the morning, after breakfast, James went for a walk. He wanted to think out clearly what he had better do, feeling that he must make up his mind at once. Hesitation1 would be fatal, and yet to speak immediately seemed so cruel, so brutally2 callous3.
Wishing to be absolutely alone, he wandered through the garden to a little wood of beech-trees, which in his boyhood had been a favourite haunt. The day was fresh and sweet after the happy rain of April, the sky so clear that it affected4 one like a very beautiful action.
James stood still when he came into the wood, inhaling5 the odour of moist soil, the voluptuous6 scents7 of our mother, the Earth, gravid with silent life. For a moment he was intoxicated9 by the paradise of verdure. The beech-trees rose very tall, with their delicate branches singularly black amid the young leaves of the spring, tender and vivid. The eye could not pierce the intricate greenery; it was more delicate than the summer rain, subtler than the mists of the sunset. It was a scene to drive away all thought of the sadness of life, of the bitterness. Its exquisite10 fresh purity made James feel pure also, and like a little child he wandered over the undulating earth, broken by the tortuous11 courses of the streamlets of winter.
The ground was soft, covered with brown dead leaves, and he tried to see the rabbit rustling12 among them, or the hasty springing of a squirrel. The long branches of the briar entangled14 his feet; and here and there, in sheltered corners, blossomed the primrose15 and the violet He listened to the chant of the birds, so joyous16 that it seemed impossible they sang in a world of sorrow. Hidden among the leaves, aloft in the beeches17, the linnet sang with full-throated melody, and the blackbird and the thrush. In the distance a cuckoo called its mysterious note, and far away, like an echo, a fellow-bird called back.
All Nature was rejoicing in the delight of the sunshine; all Nature was rejoicing, and his heart alone was heavy as lead. He stood by a fir-tree, which rose far above the others, immensely tall, like the mast of a solitary18 ship; it was straight as a life without reproach, but cheerless, cold, and silent. His life, too, was without reproach, thought James--without reproach till now.... He had loved Mary Clibborn. But was it love, or was it merely affection, habit, esteem20? She was the only girl he knew, and they had grown up together. When he came from school for his holidays, or later from Sandhurst, on leave, Mary was his constant friend, without whom he would have been miserably21 dull. She was masculine enough to enter into his boyish games, and even their thoughts were common. There were so few people in Little Primpton that those who lived there saw one another continually; and though Tunbridge Wells was only four miles away, the distance effectually prevented very close intimacy22 with its inhabitants. It was natural, then, that James should only look forward to an existence in which Mary took part; without that pleasant companionship the road seemed long and dreary23. When he was appointed to a regiment24 in India, and his heart softened25 at the prospect26 of the first long parting from all he cared for, it was the separation from Mary that seemed hardest to bear.
"I don't know what I shall do without you, Mary," he said.
"You will forget all about us when you've been in India a month."
But her lips twitched27, and he noticed that she found difficulty in speaking quite firmly. She hesitated a moment, and spoke28 again.
"It's different for us," she said, "Those who go forget, but those who stay--remember. We shall be always doing the same things to remind us of you. Oh, you won't forget me, Jamie?"
The last words slipped out against the girl's intention.
"Mary!" he cried.
And then he put his arms round her, and Mary rested her face on his shoulder and began to cry. He kissed her, trying to stop her tears; he pressed her to his heart. He really thought he loved her then with all his strength.
"Mary," he whispered, "Mary, do you care for me? Will you marry me?"
Then quickly he explained that it would make it so much better for both if they became engaged.
"I shan't be able to marry you for a long time; but will you wait for me, Mary?"
She began to smile through her tears.
"I would wait for you to the end of my life."
During the first two years in India the tie had been to James entirely29 pleasurable; and if, among the manifold experiences of his new life, he bore Mary's absence with greater equanimity30 than he had thought possible, he was always glad to receive her letters, with their delicate aroma31 of the English country; and it pleased him to think that his future was comfortably settled. The engagement was a sort of ballast, and he felt that he could compass his journey without fear and without disturbance32. James did not ask himself whether his passion was very ardent33, for his whole education had led him to believe that passion was hardly moral. The proper and decent basis of marriage was similarity of station, and the good, solid qualities which might be supposed endurable. From his youth, the wisdom of the world had been instilled34 into him through many proverbs, showing the advisability of caution, the transitoriness of beauty and desire; and, on the other hand, the lasting35 merit of honesty, virtue36, domesticity, and good temper....
But we all know that Nature is a goddess with no sense of decency37, for whom the proprieties38 are simply non-existent; men and women in her eyes have but one point of interest, and she walks abroad, with her fashioning fingers, setting in order the only work she cares for. All the rest is subsidiary, and she is callous to suffering and to death, indifferent to the Ten Commandments and even to the code of Good Society.
James at last made the acquaintance of a certain Mrs. Pritchard-Wallace, the wife of a man in a native regiment, a little, dark-hatred person, with an olive skin and big brown eyes--rather common, but excessively pretty. She was the daughter of a riding-master by a Portuguese39 woman from Goa, and it had been something of a scandal when Pritchard-Wallace, who was an excellent fellow, had married her against the advice of all the regimental ladies. But if those charitable persons had not ceased to look upon her with doubtful eyes, her wit and her good looks for others counterbalanced every disadvantage; and she did not fail to have a little court of subalterns and the like hanging perpetually about her skirts. At first Mrs. Wallace merely amused James. Her absolute frivolity40, her cynical41 tongue, her light-heartedness, were a relief after the rather puritanical42 atmosphere in which he had passed his youth; he was astonished to hear the gay contempt which she poured upon all the things that he had held most sacred--things like the Tower of London and the British Constitution. Prejudices and cherished beliefs were dissipated before her sharp-tongued raillery; she was a woman with almost a witty43 way of seeing the world, with a peculiarly feminine gift for putting old things in a new, absurd light. To Mrs. Wallace, James seemed a miracle of ingenuousness44, and she laughed at him continually; then she began to like him, and took him about with her, at which he was much flattered.
James had been brought up in the belief that women were fashioned of different clay from men, less gross, less earthly; he thought not only that they were pious45, sweet and innocent, ignorant entirely of disagreeable things, but that it was man's first duty to protect them from all knowledge of the realities of life. To him they were an ethereal blending of milk-and-water with high principles; it had never occurred to him that they were flesh and blood, and sense, and fire and nerves--especially nerves. Most topics, of course, could not be broached46 in their presence; in fact, almost the only safe subject of conversation was the weather.
But Mrs. Pritchard-Wallace prided herself on frankness, which is less common in pretty women than in plain; and she had no hesitation in discussing with James matters that he had never heard discussed before. She was hugely amused at the embarrassment47 which made him hesitate and falter48, trying to find polite ways of expressing the things which his whole training had taught him to keep rigidly49 to himself. Then sometimes, from pure devilry, Mrs. Wallace told stories on purpose to shock him; and revelled50 in his forced, polite smile, and in his strong look of disapproval51.
"What a funny boy you are!" she said. "But you must take care, you know; you have all the makings of a perfect prig."
"D'you think so?"
"You must try to be less moral. The moral young man is rather funny for a change, but he palls52 after a time."
"If I bore you, you have only to say so, and I won't bother you again."
"And moral young men shouldn't get cross; it's very bad manners," she answered, smiling.
Before he knew what had happened, James found himself madly in love with Mrs. Wallace. But what a different passion was this, resembling not at all that pallid53 flame which alone he had experienced! How could he recognise the gentle mingling54 of friendship and of common-sense which he called love in that destroying violence which troubled his days like a fever? He dreamed of the woman at night; he seemed only to live when he was with her. The mention of her name made his heart beat, and meeting her he trembled and turned cold. By her side he found nothing to say; he was like wax in her hands, without will or strength. The touch of her fingers sent the blood rushing through his veins55 insanely; and understanding his condition, she took pleasure in touching56 him, to watch the little shiver of desire that convulsed his frame. In a very self-restrained man love works ruinously; and it burnt James now, this invisible, unconscious fire, till he was consumed utterly57--till he was mad with passion. And then suddenly, at some chance word, he knew what had happened; he knew that he was in love with the wife of his good friend, Pritchard-Wallace; and he thought of Mary Clibborn.
There was no hesitation now, nor doubt; James had only been in danger because he was unaware58 of it. He never thought of treachery to his friend or to Mary; he was horror-stricken, hating himself. He looked over the brink59 of the precipice60 at the deadly sin, and recoiled61, shuddering62. He bitterly reproached himself, taking for granted that some error of his had led to the catastrophe63. But his duty was obvious; he knew he must kill the sinful love, whatever pain it cost him; he must crush it as he would some noxious64 vermin.
James made up his mind never to see Mrs. Wallace again; and he thought that God was on his side helping65 him, since, with her husband, she was leaving in a month for England. He applied66 for leave. He could get away for a few weeks, and on his return Mrs. Wallace would be gone. He managed to avoid her for several days, but at last she came across him by chance, and he could not escape.
"I didn't know you were so fond of hide-and-seek," she said, "I think it's rather a stupid game."
"I don't understand," replied James, growing pale.
"Why have you been dodging67 round corners to avoid me as if I were a dun, and inventing the feeblest excuses not to come to me?"
James stood for a moment, not knowing what to answer; his knees trembled, and he sweated with the agony of his love. It was an angry, furious passion, that made him feel he could almost seize the woman by the throat and strangle her.
"Did you know that I am engaged to be married?" he asked at length.
"I've never known a sub who wasn't. It's the most objectionable of all their vicious habits. What then?" She looked at him, smiling; she knew very well the power of her dark eyes, fringed with long lashes68. "Don't be silly," she added. "Come and see me, and bring her photograph, and you shall talk to me for two hours about her. Will you come?"
"It's very kind of you. I don't think I can."
"Why not? You're really very rude."
"I'm extremely busy."
"Nonsense! You must come. Don't look as if I were asking you to do something quite horrible. I shall expect you to tea."
She bound him by his word, and James was forced to go. When he showed the photograph, Mrs. Pritchard-Wallace looked at it with a curious expression. It was the work of a country photographer, awkward and ungainly, with the head stiffly poised69, and the eyes hard and fixed70; the general impression was ungraceful and devoid71 of charm, Mrs. Wallace noticed the country fashion of her clothes.
"It's extraordinary that subalterns should always get engaged to the same sort of girl."
James flushed, "It's not a very good one of her."
"They always photograph badly," murmured Mrs. Wallace.
"She's the best girl in the world. You can't think how good, and kind, and simple she is; she reminds me always of an English breeze."
"I don't like east winds myself," said Mrs. Wallace. "But I can see she has all sorts of admirable qualities."
"D'you know why I came to see you to-day?"
"Because I forced you," said Mrs. Wallace, laughing.
"I came to say good-bye; I've got a month's leave."
"Oh, but I shall be gone by the time you come back."
"I know. It is for that reason."
Mrs. Wallace looked at him quickly, hesitated, then glanced away.
"Is it so bad as that?"
"Oh, don't you understand?" cried James, breaking suddenly from his reserve. "I must tell you. I shall never see you again, and it can't matter. I love you with all my heart and soul. I didn't know what love was till I met you. God help me, it was only friendship I had for Mary! This is so different. Oh, I hate myself! I can't help it; the mere19 touch of your hand sends me mad with passion. I daren't see you again--I'm not a blackguard. I know it's quite hopeless. And I've given my word to Mary."
The look of her eyes, the sound of her voice, sent half his fine intentions flying before the wind. He lost command over himself--but only for a moment; the old habits were strong.
"I beg your pardon! I oughtn't to have spoken. Don't be angry with me for what I've said. I couldn't help it. You thought me a fool because I ran away from you. It was all I could do. I couldn't help loving you. You understand now, don't you? I know that you will never wish to see me again, and it's better for both of us. Good-bye."
He stretched out his hand.
"I didn't know it was so bad as that," she said, looking at him with kindly72 eyes.
"Didn't you see me tremble when the hem13 of your dress touched me by accident? Didn't you hear that I couldn't speak; the words were dried up in my throat?" He sank into a chair weakly; but then immediately gathering73 himself together, sprang up. "Good-bye," he said. "Let me go quickly."
She gave him her hand, and then, partly in kindness, partly in malice74, bent75 forward and kissed his lips. James gave a cry, a sob76; now he lost command over himself entirely. He took her in his arms roughly, and kissed her mouth, her eyes, her hair--so passionately78 that Mrs. Wallace was frightened. She tried to free herself; but he only held her closer, madly kissing her lips.
"Take care," she said. "What are you doing? Let me go!" And she pushed him away.
She was a cautious woman, who never allowed flirtation79 to go beyond certain decorous lengths, and she was used to a milder form of philandering80.
"You've disarranged my hair, you silly boy!" She went to the glass to put it in order, and when she turned back found that James had gone. "What an odd creature!" she muttered.
To Mrs. Pritchard-Wallace the affair was but an incident, such as might have been the love of Ph?dra had she flourished in an age when the art of living consists in not taking things too seriously; but for Hippolitus a tragedy of one sort or another is inevitable81. James was not a man of easy affections; he made the acquaintance of people with a feeling of hostility82 rather than with the more usual sensation of friendly curiosity. He was shy, and even with his best friends could not lessen83 his reserve. Some persons are able to form close intimacies84 with admirable facility, but James felt always between himself and his fellows a sort of barrier. He could not realise that deep and sudden sympathy was even possible, and was apt to look with mistrust upon the appearance thereof. He seemed frigid85 and perhaps supercilious86 to those with whom he came in contact; he was forced to go his way, hiding from all eyes the emotions he felt. And when at last he fell passionately in love, it meant to him ten times more than to most men; it was a sudden freedom from himself. He was like a prisoner who sees for the first time in his life the trees and the hurrying clouds, and all the various movement of the world. For a little while James had known a wonderful liberty, an ineffable87 bliss88 which coloured the whole universe with new, strange colours. But then he learnt that the happiness was only sin, and he returned voluntarily to his cold prison.... Till he tried to crush it, he did not know how strong was this passion; he did not realise that it had made of him a different man; it was the only thing in the world to him, beside which everything else was meaningless. He became ruthless towards himself, undergoing every torture which he fancied might cleanse89 him of the deadly sin.
And when Mrs. Wallace, against his will, forced herself upon his imagination, he tried to remember her vulgarity, her underbred manners, her excessive use of scent8. She had merely played with him, without thinking or caring what the result to him might be. She was bent on as much enjoyment90 as possible without exposing herself to awkward consequences; common scandal told him that he was not the first callow youth that she had entangled with her provoking glances and her witty tongue. The epithet91 by which his brother officers qualified92 her was expressive93, though impolite. James repeated these things a hundred times: he said that Mrs. Wallace was not fit to wipe Mary's boots; he paraded before himself, like a set of unread school-books, all Mary's excellent qualities. He recalled her simple piety94, her good-nature, and kindly heart; she had every attribute that a man could possibly want in his wife. And yet--and yet, when he slept he dreamed he was talking to the other; all day her voice sang in his ears, her gay smile danced before his eyes. He remembered every word she had ever said; he remembered the passionate77 kisses he had given her. How could he forget that ecstasy95? He writhed96, trying to expel the importunate97 image; but nothing served.
Time could not weaken the impression. Since then he had never seen Mrs. Wallace, but the thought of her was still enough to send the blood racing98 through his veins. He had done everything to kill the mad, hopeless passion; and always, like a rank weed, it had thriven with greater strength. James knew it was his duty to marry Mary Clibborn, and yet he felt he would rather die. As the months passed on, and he knew he must shortly see her, he was never free from a sense of terrible anxiety. Doubt came to him, and he could not drive it away. The recollection of her was dim, cold, formless; his only hope was that when he saw her love might rise up again, and kill that other passion which made him so utterly despise himself. But he had welcomed the war as a respite99, and the thought came to him that its chances might easily solve the difficulty. Then followed the months of hardship and of fighting; and during these the image of Mrs. Wallace had been less persistent100, so that James fancied he was regaining101 the freedom he longed for. And when he lay wounded and ill, his absolute weariness made him ardently102 look forward to seeing his people again. A hotter love sprang up for them; and the hope became stronger that reunion with Mary might awaken103 the dead emotion. He wished for it with all his heart.
But he had seen Mary, and he felt it hopeless; she left him cold, almost hostile. And with a mocking laugh, James heard Mrs. Wallace's words:
"Subalterns always get engaged to the same type of girl. They photograph so badly."
* * *
And now he did not know what to do. The long recalling of the past had left James more uncertain than ever. Some devil within him cried, "Wait, wait! Something may happen!" It really seemed better to let things slide a little. Perhaps--who could tell?--in a day or two the old habit might render Mary as dear to him as when last he had wandered with her in that green wood, James sighed, and looked about him.... The birds still sang merrily, the squirrel leaped from tree to tree; even the blades of grass stood with a certain conscious pleasure, as the light breeze rustled104 through them. In the mid-day sun all things took pleasure in their life; and all Nature appeared full of joy, coloured and various and insouciant105. He alone was sad.
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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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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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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intimacy
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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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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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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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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instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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puritanical
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| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；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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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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52
palls
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| n.柩衣( pall的名词复数 )；墓衣；棺罩；深色或厚重的覆盖物v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的第三人称单数 ) | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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54
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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55
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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56
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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58
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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59
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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60
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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61
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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62
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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63
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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67
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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68
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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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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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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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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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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76
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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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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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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philandering
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| v.调戏，玩弄女性( philander的现在分词 ) | |
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81
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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82
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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83
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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84
intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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88
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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89
cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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90
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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91
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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92
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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93
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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95
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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96
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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98
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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99
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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100
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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101
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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102
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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103
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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104
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
insouciant
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| adj.不在意的 | |
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