The Countess of Rocksbier sat at the head of the table alone with Jacob. Fed upon champagne1 and spices for at least two centuries (four, if you count the female line), the Countess Lucy looked well fed. A discriminating2 nose she had for scents3, prolonged, as if in quest of them; her underlip protruded4 a narrow red shelf; her eyes were small, with sandy tufts for eyebrows5, and her jowl was heavy. Behind her (the window looked on Grosvenor Square) stood Moll Pratt on the pavement, offering violets for sale; and Mrs. Hilda Thomas, lifting her skirts, preparing to cross the road. One was from Walworth; the other from Putney. Both wore black stockings, but Mrs. Thomas was coiled in furs. The comparison was much in Lady Rocksbier's favour. Moll had more humour, but was violent; stupid too. Hilda Thomas was mealy-mouthed, all her silver frames aslant6; egg-cups in the drawing-room; and the windows shrouded7. Lady Rocksbier, whatever the deficiencies of her profile, had been a great rider to hounds. She used her knife with authority, tore her chicken bones, asking Jacob's pardon, with her own hands.
"Who is that driving by?" she asked Boxall, the butler.
"Lady Firtlemere's carriage, my lady," which reminded her to send a card to ask after his lordship's health. A rude old lady, Jacob thought. The wine was excellent. She called herself "an old woman"--"so kind to lunch with an old woman"--which flattered him. She talked of Joseph Chamberlain, whom she had known. She said that Jacob must come and meet-- one of our celebrities9. And the Lady Alice came in with three dogs on a leash10, and Jackie, who ran to kiss his grandmother, while Boxall brought in a telegram, and Jacob was given a good cigar.
A few moments before a horse jumps it slows, sidles, gathers itself together, goes up like a monster wave, and pitches down on the further side. Hedges and sky swoop11 in a semicircle. Then as if your own body ran into the horse's body and it was your own forelegs grown with his that sprang, rushing through the air you go, the ground resilient, bodies a mass of muscles, yet you have command too, upright stillness, eyes accurately13 judging. Then the curves cease, changing to downright hammer strokes, which jar; and you draw up with a jolt14; sitting back a little, sparkling, tingling15, glazed16 with ice over pounding arteries17, gasping18: "Ah! ho! Hah!" the steam going up from the horses as they jostle together at the cross-roads, where the signpost is, and the woman in the apron19 stands and stares at the doorway20. The man raises himself from the cabbages to stare too.
So Jacob galloped21 over the fields of Essex, flopped23 in the mud, lost the hunt, and rode by himself eating sandwiches, looking over the hedges, noticing the colours as if new scraped, cursing his luck.
He had tea at the Inn; and there they all were, slapping, stamping, saying, "After you," clipped, curt24, jocose25, red as the wattles of turkeys, using free speech until Mrs. Horsefield and her friend Miss Dudding appeared at the doorway with their skirts hitched26 up, and hair looping down. Then Tom Dudding rapped at the window with his whip. A motor car throbbed27 in the courtyard. Gentlemen, feeling for matches, moved out, and Jacob went into the bar with Brandy Jones to smoke with the rustics28. There was old Jevons with one eye gone, and his clothes the colour of mud, his bag over his back, and his brains laid feet down in earth among the violet roots and the nettle29 roots; Mary Sanders with her box of wood; and Tom sent for beer, the half-witted son of the sexton-- all this within thirty miles of London.
Mrs. Papworth, of Endell Street, Covent Garden, did for Mr. Bonamy in New Square, Lincoln's Inn, and as she washed up the dinner things in the scullery she heard the young gentlemen talking in the room next door. Mr. Sanders was there again; Flanders she meant; and where an inquisitive30 old woman gets a name wrong, what chance is there that she will faithfully report an argument? As she held the plates under water and then dealt them on the pile beneath the hissing31 gas, she listened: heard Sanders speaking in a loud rather overbearing tone of voice: "good," he said, and "absolute" and "justice" and "punishment," and "the will of the majority." Then her gentleman piped up; she backed him for argument against Sanders. Yet Sanders was a fine young fellow (here all the scraps32 went swirling33 round the sink, scoured34 after by her purple, almost nailless hands). "Women"--she thought, and wondered what Sanders and her gentleman did in THAT line, one eyelid35 sinking perceptibly as she mused36, for she was the mother of nine--three still-born and one deaf and dumb from birth. Putting the plates in the rack she heard once more Sanders at it again ("He don't give Bonamy a chance," she thought). "Objective something," said Bonamy; and "common ground" and something else--all very long words, she noted37. "Book learning does it," she thought to herself, and, as she thrust her arms into her jacket, heard something--might be the little table by the fire--fall; and then stamp, stamp, stamp--as if they were having at each other--round the room, making the plates dance.
"To-morrow's breakfast, sir," she said, opening the door; and there were Sanders and Bonamy like two bulls of Bashan driving each other up and down, making such a racket, and all them chairs in the way. They never noticed her. She felt motherly towards them. "Your breakfast, sir," she said, as they came near. And Bonamy, all his hair touzled and his tie flying, broke off, and pushed Sanders into the arm-chair, and said Mr. Sanders had smashed the coffee-pot and he was teaching Mr. Sanders--
Sure enough, the coffee-pot lay broken on the hearthrug.
"Any day this week except Thursday," wrote Miss Perry, and this was not the first invitation by any means. Were all Miss Perry's weeks blank with the exception of Thursday, and was her only desire to see her old friend's son? Time is issued to spinster ladies of wealth in long white ribbons. These they wind round and round, round and round, assisted by five female servants, a butler, a fine Mexican parrot, regular meals, Mudie's library, and friends dropping in. A little hurt she was already that Jacob had not called.
"Your mother," she said, "is one of my oldest friends."
Miss Rosseter, who was sitting by the fire, holding the Spectator between her cheek and the blaze, refused to have a fire screen, but finally accepted one. The weather was then discussed, for in deference38 to Parkes, who was opening little tables, graver matters were postponed39. Miss Rosseter drew Jacob's attention to the beauty of the cabinet.
"So wonderfully clever in picking things up," she said. Miss Perry had found it in Yorkshire. The North of England was discussed. When Jacob spoke40 they both listened. Miss Perry was bethinking her of something suitable and manly41 to say when the door opened and Mr. Benson was announced. Now there were four people sitting in that room. Miss Perry aged42 66; Miss Rosseter 42; Mr. Benson 38; and Jacob 25.
"My old friend looks as well as ever," said Mr. Benson, tapping the bars of the parrot's cage; Miss Rosseter simultaneously43 praised the tea; Jacob handed the wrong plates; and Miss Perry signified her desire to approach more closely. "Your brothers," she began vaguely44.
"Archer45 and John," Jacob supplied her. Then to her pleasure she recovered Rebecca's name; and how one day "when you were all little boys, playing in the drawing-room--"
"But Miss Perry has the kettle-holder," said Miss Rosseter, and indeed Miss Perry was clasping it to her breast. (Had she, then, loved Jacob's father?)
"So clever"--"not so good as usual"--"I thought it most unfair," said Mr. Benson and Miss Rosseter, discussing the Saturday Westminster. Did they not compete regularly for prizes? Had not Mr. Benson three times won a guinea, and Miss Rosseter once ten and sixpence? Of course Everard Benson had a weak heart, but still, to win prizes, remember parrots, toady46 Miss Perry, despise Miss Rosseter, give tea-parties in his rooms (which were in the style of Whistler, with pretty books on tables), all this, so Jacob felt without knowing him, made him a contemptible47 ass12. As for Miss Rosseter, she had nursed cancer, and now painted water-colours.
"Running away so soon?" said Miss Perry vaguely. "At home every afternoon, if you've nothing better to do--except Thursdays."
"I've never known you desert your old ladies once," Miss Rosseter was saying, and Mr. Benson was stooping over the parrot's cage, and Miss Perry was moving towards the bell....
The fire burnt clear between two pillars of greenish marble, and on the mantelpiece there was a green clock guarded by Britannia leaning on her spear. As for pictures--a maiden48 in a large hat offered roses over the garden gate to a gentleman in eighteenth-century costume. A mastiff lay extended against a battered49 door. The lower panes50 of the windows were of ground glass, and the curtains, accurately looped, were of plush and green too.
Laurette and Jacob sat with their toes in the fender side by side, in two large chairs covered in green plush. Laurette's skirts were short, her legs long, thin, and transparently51 covered. Her fingers stroked her ankles.
"It's not exactly that I don't understand them," she was saying thoughtfully. "I must go and try again."
"What time will you be there?" said Jacob.
"To-morrow?"
No, not to-morrow.
"This weather makes me long for the country," she said, looking over her shoulder at the back view of tall houses through the window.
"I wish you'd been with me on Saturday," said Jacob.
"I used to ride," she said. She got up gracefully53, calmly. Jacob got up. She smiled at him. As she shut the door he put so many shillings on the mantelpiece.
Altogether a most reasonable conversation; a most respectable room; an intelligent girl. Only Madame herself seeing Jacob out had about her that leer, that lewdness54, that quake of the surface (visible in the eyes chiefly), which threatens to spill the whole bag of ordure, with difficulty held together, over the pavement. In short, something was wrong.
Not so very long ago the workmen had gilt55 the final "y" in Lord Macaulay's name, and the names stretched in unbroken file round the dome56 of the British Museum. At a considerable depth beneath, many hundreds of the living sat at the spokes57 of a cart-wheel copying from printed books into manuscript books; now and then rising to consult the catalogue; regaining58 their places stealthily, while from time to time a silent man replenished59 their compartments60.
There was a little catastrophe62. Miss Marchmont's pile overbalanced and fell into Jacob's compartment61. Such things happened to Miss Marchmont. What was she seeking through millions of pages, in her old plush dress, and her wig63 of claret-coloured hair, with her gems64 and her chilblains? Sometimes one thing, sometimes another, to confirm her philosophy that colour is sound--or, perhaps, it has something to do with music. She could never quite say, though it was not for lack of trying. And she could not ask you back to her room, for it was "not very clean, I'm afraid," so she must catch you in the passage, or take a chair in Hyde Park to explain her philosophy. The rhythm of the soul depends on it-- ("how rude the little boys are!" she would say), and Mr. Asquith's Irish policy, and Shakespeare comes in, "and Queen Alexandra most graciously once acknowledged a copy of my pamphlet," she would say, waving the little boys magnificently away. But she needs funds to publish her book, for "publishers are capitalists--publishers are cowards." And so, digging her elbow into her pile of books it fell over.
Jacob remained quite unmoved.
But Fraser, the atheist65, on the other side, detesting67 plush, more than once accosted68 with leaflets, shifted irritably69. He abhorred70 vagueness-- the Christian71 religion, for example, and old Dean Parker's pronouncements. Dean Parker wrote books and Fraser utterly72 destroyed them by force of logic73 and left his children unbaptized--his wife did it secretly in the washing basin--but Fraser ignored her, and went on supporting blasphemers, distributing leaflets, getting up his facts in the British Museum, always in the same check suit and fiery74 tie, but pale, spotted75, irritable76. Indeed, what a work--to destroy religion!
Jacob transcribed77 a whole passage from Marlowe.
Miss Julia Hedge, the feminist78, waited for her books. They did not come. She wetted her pen. She looked about her. Her eye was caught by the final letters in Lord Macaulay's name. And she read them all round the dome--the names of great men which remind us--"Oh damn," said Julia Hedge, "why didn't they leave room for an Eliot or a Bronte?"
Unfortunate Julia! wetting her pen in bitterness, and leaving her shoe laces untied79. When her books came she applied80 herself to her gigantic labours, but perceived through one of the nerves of her exasperated81 sensibility how composedly, unconcernedly, and with every consideration the male readers applied themselves to theirs. That young man for example. What had he got to do except copy out poetry? And she must study statistics. There are more women than men. Yes; but if you let women work as men work, they'll die off much quicker. They'll become extinct. That was her argument. Death and gall22 and bitter dust were on her pen-tip; and as the afternoon wore on, red had worked into her cheek-bones and a light was in her eyes.
But what brought Jacob Flanders to read Marlowe in the British Museum? Youth, youth--something savage--something pedantic82. For example, there is Mr. Masefield, there is Mr. Bennett. Stuff them into the flame of Marlowe and burn them to cinders83. Let not a shred84 remain. Don't palter with the second rate. Detest66 your own age. Build a better one. And to set that on foot read incredibly dull essays upon Marlowe to your friends. For which purpose one most collate85 editions in the British Museum. One must do the thing oneself. Useless to trust to the Victorians, who disembowel, or to the living, who are mere8 publicists. The flesh and blood of the future depends entirely86 upon six young men. And as Jacob was one of them, no doubt he looked a little regal and pompous87 as he turned his page, and Julia Hedge disliked him naturally enough.
But then a pudding-faced man pushed a note towards Jacob, and Jacob, leaning back in his chair, began an uneasy murmured conversation, and they went off together (Julia Hedge watched them), and laughed aloud (she thought) directly they were in the hall.
Nobody laughed in the reading-room. There were shirtings, murmurings, apologetic sneezes, and sudden unashamed devastating88 coughs. The lesson hour was almost over. Ushers89 were collecting exercises. Lazy children wanted to stretch. Good ones scribbled90 assiduously--ah, another day over and so little done! And now and then was to be heard from the whole collection of human beings a heavy sigh, after which the humiliating old man would cough shamelessly, and Miss Marchmont hinnied like a horse.
Jacob came back only in time to return his books.
The books were now replaced. A few letters of the alphabet were sprinkled round the dome. Closely stood together in a ring round the dome were Plato, Aristotle, Sophocles, and Shakespeare; the literature of Rome, Greece, China, India, Persia. One leaf of poetry was pressed flat against another leaf, one burnished91 letter laid smooth against another in a density92 of meaning, a conglomeration93 of loveliness.
"One does want one's tea," said Miss Marchmont, reclaiming94 her shabby umbrella.
Miss Marchmont wanted her tea, but could never resist a last look at the Elgin Marbles. She looked at them sideways, waving her hand and muttering a word or two of salutation which made Jacob and the other man turn round. She smiled at them amiably95. It all came into her philosophy-- that colour is sound, or perhaps it has something to do with music. And having done her service, she hobbled off to tea. It was closing time. The public collected in the hall to receive their umbrellas.
For the most part the students wait their turn very patiently. To stand and wait while some one examines white discs is soothing96. The umbrella will certainly be found. But the fact leads you on all day through Macaulay, Hobbes, Gibbon; through octavos, quartos, folios; sinks deeper and deeper through ivory pages and morocco bindings into this density of thought, this conglomeration of knowledge.
Jacob's walking-stick was like all the others; they had muddled99 the pigeon-holes perhaps.
There is in the British Museum an enormous mind. Consider that Plato is there cheek by jowl with Aristotle; and Shakespeare with Marlowe. This great mind is hoarded100 beyond the power of any single mind to possess it. Nevertheless (as they take so long finding one's walking-stick) one can't help thinking how one might come with a notebook, sit at a desk, and read it all through. A learned man is the most venerable of all--a man like Huxtable of Trinity, who writes all his letters in Greek, they say, and could have kept his end up with Bentley. And then there is science, pictures, architecture,--an enormous mind.
They pushed the walking-stick across the counter. Jacob stood beneath the porch of the British Museum. It was raining. Great Russell Street was glazed and shining--here yellow, here, outside the chemist's, red and pale blue. People scuttled101 quickly close to the wall; carriages rattled102 rather helter-skelter down the streets. Well, but a little rain hurts nobody. Jacob walked off much as if he had been in the country; and late that night there he was sitting at his table with his pipe and his book.
The rain poured down. The British Museum stood in one solid immense mound103, very pale, very sleek104 in the rain, not a quarter of a mile from him. The vast mind was sheeted with stone; and each compartment in the depths of it was safe and dry. The night-watchmen, flashing their lanterns over the backs of Plato and Shakespeare, saw that on the twenty-second of February neither flame, rat, nor burglar was going to violate these treasures--poor, highly respectable men, with wives and families at Kentish Town, do their best for twenty years to protect Plato and Shakespeare, and then are buried at Highgate.
Stone lies solid over the British Museum, as bone lies cool over the visions and heat of the brain. Only here the brain is Plato's brain and Shakespeare's; the brain has made pots and statues, great bulls and little jewels, and crossed the river of death this way and that incessantly105, seeking some landing, now wrapping the body well for its long sleep; now laying a penny piece on the eyes; now turning the toes scrupulously106 to the East. Meanwhile, Plato continues his dialogue; in spite of the rain; in spite of the cab whistles; in spite of the woman in the mews behind Great Ormond Street who has come home drunk and cries all night long, "Let me in! Let me in!"
In the street below Jacob's room voices were raised.
But he read on. For after all Plato continues imperturbably107. And Hamlet utters his soliloquy. And there the Elgin Marbles lie, all night long, old Jones's lantern sometimes recalling Ulysses, or a horse's head; or sometimes a flash of gold, or a mummy's sunk yellow cheek. Plato and Shakespeare continue; and Jacob, who was reading the Phaedrus, heard people vociferating round the lamp-post, and the woman battering108 at the door and crying, "Let me in!" as if a coal had dropped from the fire, or a fly, falling from the ceiling, had lain on its back, too weak to turn over.
The Phaedrus is very difficult. And so, when at length one reads straight ahead, falling into step, marching on, becoming (so it seems) momentarily part of this rolling, imperturbable109 energy, which has driven darkness before it since Plato walked the Acropolis, it is impossible to see to the fire.
The dialogue draws to its close. Plato's argument is done. Plato's argument is stowed away in Jacob's mind, and for five minutes Jacob's mind continues alone, onwards, into the darkness. Then, getting up, he parted the curtains, and saw, with astonishing clearness, how the Springetts opposite had gone to bed; how it rained; how the Jews and the foreign woman, at the end of the street, stood by the pillar-box, arguing.
Every time the door opened and fresh people came in, those already in the room shifted slightly; those who were standing110 looked over their shoulders; those who were sitting stopped in the middle of sentences. What with the light, the wine, the strumming of a guitar, something exciting happened each time the door opened. Who was coming in?
"That's Gibson."
"The painter?"
"But go on with what you were saying."
They were saying something that was far, far too intimate to be said outright111. But the noise of the voices served like a clapper in little Mrs. Withers's mind, scaring into the air blocks of small birds, and then they'd settle, and then she'd feel afraid, put one hand to her hair, bind98 both round her knees, and look up at Oliver Skelton nervously112, and say:
"Promise, PROMISE, you'll tell no one." ... so considerate he was, so tender. It was her husband's character that she discussed. He was cold, she said.
Down upon them came the splendid Magdalen, brown, warm, voluminous, scarcely brushing the grass with her sandalled feet. Her hair flew; pins seemed scarcely to attach the flying silks. An actress of course, a line of light perpetually beneath her. It was only "My dear" that she said, but her voice went jodelling between Alpine113 passes. And down she tumbled on the floor, and sang, since there was nothing to be said, round ah's and oh's. Mangin, the poet, coming up to her, stood looking down at her, drawing at his pipe. The dancing began.
Grey-haired Mrs. Keymer asked Dick Graves to tell her who Mangin was, and said that she had seen too much of this sort of thing in Paris (Magdalen had got upon his knees; now his pipe was in her mouth) to be shocked. "Who is that?" she said, staying her glasses when they came to Jacob, for indeed he looked quiet, not indifferent, but like some one on a beach, watching.
"Oh, my dear, let me lean on you," gasped114 Helen Askew115, hopping116 on one foot, for the silver cord round her ankle had worked loose. Mrs. Keymer turned and looked at the picture on the wall.
"Look at Jacob," said Helen (they were binding97 his eyes for some game).
And Dick Graves, being a little drunk, very faithful, and very simple- minded, told her that he thought Jacob the greatest man he had ever known. And down they sat cross-legged upon cushions and talked about Jacob, and Helen's voice trembled, for they both seemed heroes to her, and the friendship between them so much more beautiful than women's friendships. Anthony Pollett now asked her to dance, and as she danced she looked at them, over her shoulder, standing at the table, drinking together.
The magnificent world--the live, sane117, vigorous world .... These words refer to the stretch of wood pavement between Hammersmith and Holborn in January between two and three in the morning. That was the ground beneath Jacob's feet. It was healthy and magnificent because one room, above a mews, somewhere near the river, contained fifty excited, talkative, friendly people. And then to stride over the pavement (there was scarcely a cab or policeman in sight) is of itself exhilarating. The long loop of Piccadilly, diamond-stitched, shows to best advantage when it is empty. A young man has nothing to fear. On the contrary, though he may not have said anything brilliant, he feels pretty confident he can hold his own. He was pleased to have met Mangin; he admired the young woman on the floor; he liked them all; he liked that sort of thing. In short, all the drums and trumpets118 were sounding. The street scavengers were the only people about at the moment. It is scarcely necessary to say how well-disposed Jacob felt towards them; how it pleased him to let himself in with his latch-key at his own door; how he seemed to bring back with him into the empty room ten or eleven people whom he had not known when he set out; how he looked about for something to read, and found it, and never read it, and fell asleep.
Indeed, drums and trumpets is no phrase. Indeed, Piccadilly and Holborn, and the empty sitting-room119 and the sitting-room with fifty people in it are liable at any moment to blow music into the air. Women perhaps are more excitable than men. It is seldom that any one says anything about it, and to see the hordes120 crossing Waterloo Bridge to catch the non-stop to Surbiton one might think that reason impelled121 them. No, no. It is the drums and trumpets. Only, should you turn aside into one of those little bays on Waterloo Bridge to think the matter over, it will probably seem to you all a muddle--all a mystery.
They cross the Bridge incessantly. Sometimes in the midst of carts and omnibuses a lorry will appear with great forest trees chained to it. Then, perhaps, a mason's van with newly lettered tombstones recording122 how some one loved some one who is buried at Putney. Then the motor car in front jerks forward, and the tombstones pass too quick for you to read more. All the time the stream of people never ceases passing from the Surrey side to the Strand123; from the Strand to the Surrey side. It seems as if the poor had gone raiding the town, and now trapesed back to their own quarters, like beetles124 scurrying125 to their holes, for that old woman fairly hobbles towards Waterloo, grasping a shiny bag, as if she had been out into the light and now made off with some scraped chicken bones to her hovel underground. On the other hand, though the wind is rough and blowing in their faces, those girls there, striding hand in hand, shouting out a song, seem to feel neither cold nor shame. They are hatless. They triumph.
The wind has blown up the waves. The river races beneath us, and the men standing on the barges126 have to lean all their weight on the tiller. A black tarpaulin127 is tied down over a swelling128 load of gold. Avalanches129 of coal glitter blackly. As usual, painters are slung130 on planks131 across the great riverside hotels, and the hotel windows have already points of light in them. On the other side the city is white as if with age; St. Paul's swells132 white above the fretted133, pointed134, or oblong buildings beside it. The cross alone shines rosy-gilt. But what century have we reached? Has this procession from the Surrey side to the Strand gone on for ever? That old man has been crossing the Bridge these six hundred years, with the rabble135 of little boys at his heels, for he is drunk, or blind with misery136, and tied round with old clouts137 of clothing such as pilgrims might have worn. He shuffles138 on. No one stands still. It seems as if we marched to the sound of music; perhaps the wind and the river; perhaps these same drums and trumpets--the ecstasy139 and hubbub140 of the soul. Why, even the unhappy laugh, and the policeman, far from judging the drunk man, surveys him humorously, and the little boys scamper141 back again, and the clerk from Somerset House has nothing but tolerance142 for him, and the man who is reading half a page of Lothair at the bookstall muses143 charitably, with his eyes off the print, and the girl hesitates at the crossing and turns on him the bright yet vague glance of the young.
Bright yet vague. She is perhaps twenty-two. She is shabby. She crosses the road and looks at the daffodils and the red tulips in the florist's window. She hesitates, and makes off in the direction of Temple Bar. She walks fast, and yet anything distracts her. Now she seems to see, and now to notice nothing.
收听单词发音 |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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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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protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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nettle
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| n.荨麻；v.烦忧，激恼 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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32
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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33
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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35
eyelid
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| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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36
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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37
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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38
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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39
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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40
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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41
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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42
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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43
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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44
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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45
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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46
toady
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| v.奉承；n.谄媚者，马屁精 | |
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47
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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48
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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49
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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50
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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51
transparently
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| 明亮地，显然地，易觉察地 | |
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52
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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53
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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54
lewdness
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| n. 淫荡, 邪恶 | |
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55
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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56
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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57
spokes
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| n.（车轮的）辐条( spoke的名词复数 )；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 | |
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58
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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59
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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60
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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61
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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62
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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63
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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64
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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65
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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66
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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67
detesting
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的现在分词 ) | |
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68
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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69
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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70
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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71
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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72
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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73
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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74
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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75
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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76
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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77
transcribed
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的过去式和过去分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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78
feminist
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| adj.主张男女平等的，女权主义的 | |
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79
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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80
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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81
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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82
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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83
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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84
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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85
collate
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| vt.(仔细)核对，对照；(书籍装订前)整理 | |
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86
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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87
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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88
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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89
ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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90
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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91
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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92
density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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93
conglomeration
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| n.团块，聚集，混合物 | |
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94
reclaiming
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| v.开拓( reclaim的现在分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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95
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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96
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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97
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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98
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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99
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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100
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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102
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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103
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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104
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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105
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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106
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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107
imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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108
battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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109
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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110
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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111
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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112
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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113
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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114
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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115
askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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116
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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117
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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118
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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119
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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120
hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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121
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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123
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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124
beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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125
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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126
barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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127
tarpaulin
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| n.涂油防水布，防水衣，防水帽 | |
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128
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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129
avalanches
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| n.雪崩( avalanche的名词复数 ) | |
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130
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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131
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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132
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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133
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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134
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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135
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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136
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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137
clouts
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| n.猛打( clout的名词复数 )；敲打；（尤指政治上的）影响；（用手或硬物的）击v.（尤指用手）猛击，重打( clout的第三人称单数 ) | |
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138
shuffles
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| n.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的名词复数 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的第三人称单数 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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139
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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140
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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141
scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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142
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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143
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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