Through the disused graveyard1 in the parish of St. Pancras, Fanny Elmer strayed between the white tombs which lean against the wall, crossing the grass to read a name, hurrying on when the grave-keeper approached, hurrying into the street, pausing now by a window with blue china, now quickly making up for lost time, abruptly2 entering a baker's shop, buying rolls, adding cakes, going on again so that any one wishing to follow must fairly trot3. She was not drably shabby, though. She wore silk stockings, and silver-buckled shoes, only the red feather in her hat drooped4, and the clasp of her bag was weak, for out fell a copy of Madame Tussaud's programme as she walked. She had the ankles of a stag. Her face was hidden. Of course, in this dusk, rapid movements, quick glances, and soaring hopes come naturally enough. She passed right beneath Jacob's window.
The house was flat, dark, and silent. Jacob was at home engaged upon a chess problem, the board being on a stool between his knees. One hand was fingering the hair at the back of his head. He slowly brought it forward and raised the white queen from her square; then put her down again on the same spot. He filled his pipe; ruminated5; moved two pawns6; advanced the white knight7; then ruminated with one finger upon the bishop8. Now Fanny Elmer passed beneath the window.
She was on her way to sit to Nick Bramham the painter.
She sat in a flowered Spanish shawl, holding in her hand a yellow novel.
"A little lower, a little looser, so--better, that's right," Bramham mumbled9, who was drawing her, and smoking at the same time, and was naturally speechless. His head might have been the work of a sculptor10, who had squared the forehead, stretched the mouth, and left marks of his thumbs and streaks11 from his fingers in the clay. But the eyes had never been shut. They were rather prominent, and rather bloodshot, as if from staring and staring, and when he spoke12 they looked for a second disturbed, but went on staring. An unshaded electric light hung above her head.
As for the beauty of women, it is like the light on the sea, never constant to a single wave. They all have it; they all lose it. Now she is dull and thick as bacon; now transparent13 as a hanging glass. The fixed14 faces are the dull ones. Here comes Lady Venice displayed like a monument for admiration15, but carved in alabaster16, to be set on the mantelpiece and never dusted. A dapper brunette complete from head to foot serves only as an illustration to lie upon the drawing-room table. The women in the streets have the faces of playing cards; the outlines accurately17 filled in with pink or yellow, and the line drawn18 tightly round them. Then, at a top-floor window, leaning out, looking down, you see beauty itself; or in the corner of an omnibus; or squatted19 in a ditch--beauty glowing, suddenly expressive20, withdrawn21 the moment after. No one can count on it or seize it or have it wrapped in paper. Nothing is to be won from the shops, and Heaven knows it would be better to sit at home than haunt the plate-glass windows in the hope of lifting the shining green, the glowing ruby22, out of them alive. Sea glass in a saucer loses its lustre23 no sooner than silks do. Thus if you talk of a beautiful woman you mean only something flying fast which for a second uses the eyes, lips, or cheeks of Fanny Elmer, for example, to glow through.
She was not beautiful, as she sat stiffly; her underlip too prominent; her nose too large; her eyes too near together. She was a thin girl, with brilliant cheeks and dark hair, sulky just now, or stiff with sitting. When Bramham snapped his stick of charcoal24 she started. Bramham was out of temper. He squatted before the gas fire warming his hands. Meanwhile she looked at his drawing. He grunted25. Fanny threw on a dressing-gown and boiled a kettle.
"By God, it's bad," said Bramham.
Fanny dropped on to the floor, clasped her hands round her knees, and looked at him, her beautiful eyes--yes, beauty, flying through the room, shone there for a second. Fanny's eyes seemed to question, to commiserate26, to be, for a second, love itself. But she exaggerated. Bramham noticed nothing. And when the kettle boiled, up she scrambled27, more like a colt or a puppy than a loving woman.
Now Jacob walked over to the window and stood with his hands in his pockets. Mr. Springett opposite came out, looked at his shop window, and went in again. The children drifted past, eyeing the pink sticks of sweetstuff. Pickford's van swung down the street. A small boy twirled from a rope. Jacob turned away. Two minutes later he opened the front door, and walked off in the direction of Holborn.
Fanny Elmer took down her cloak from the hook. Nick Bramham unpinned his drawing and rolled it under his arm. They turned out the lights and set off down the street, holding on their way through all the people, motor cars, omnibuses, carts, until they reached Leicester Square, five minutes before Jacob reached it, for his way was slightly longer, and he had been stopped by a block in Holborn waiting to see the King drive by, so that Nick and Fanny were already leaning over the barrier in the promenade28 at the Empire when Jacob pushed through the swing doors and took his place beside them.
"Hullo, never noticed you," said Nick, five minutes later.
"Miss Elmer," said Nick.
Jacob took his pipe out of his mouth very awkwardly.
Very awkward he was. And when they sat upon a plush sofa and let the smoke go up between them and the stage, and heard far off the high- pitched voices and the jolly orchestra breaking in opportunely30 he was still awkward, only Fanny thought: "What a beautiful voice!" She thought how little he said yet how firm it was. She thought how young men are dignified31 and aloof32, and how unconscious they are, and how quietly one might sit beside Jacob and look at him. And how childlike he would be, come in tired of an evening, she thought, and how majestic33; a little overbearing perhaps; "But I wouldn't give way," she thought. He got up and leant over the barrier. The smoke hung about him.
And for ever the beauty of young men seems to be set in smoke, however lustily they chase footballs, or drive cricket balls, dance, run, or stride along roads. Possibly they are soon to lose it. Possibly they look into the eyes of faraway heroes, and take their station among us half contemptuously, she thought (vibrating like a fiddle-string, to be played on and snapped). Anyhow, they love silence, and speak beautifully, each word falling like a disc new cut, not a hubble-bubble of small smooth coins such as girls use; and they move decidedly, as if they knew how long to stay and when to go--oh, but Mr. Flanders was only gone to get a programme.
"The dancers come right at the end," he said, coming back to them.
And isn't it pleasant, Fanny went on thinking, how young men bring out lots of silver coins from their trouser pockets, and look at them, instead of having just so many in a purse?
Then there she was herself, whirling across the stage in white flounces, and the music was the dance and fling of her own soul, and the whole machinery34, rock and gear of the world was spun35 smoothly36 into those swift eddies37 and falls, she felt, as she stood rigid38 leaning over the barrier two feet from Jacob Flanders.
Her screwed-up black glove dropped to the floor. When Jacob gave it her, she started angrily. For never was there a more irrational39 passion. And Jacob was afraid of her for a moment--so violent, so dangerous is it when young women stand rigid; grasp the barrier; fall in love.
It was the middle of February. The roofs of Hampstead Garden Suburb lay in a tremulous haze40. It was too hot to walk. A dog barked, barked, barked down in the hollow. The liquid shadows went over the plain.
The body after long illness is languid, passive, receptive of sweetness, but too weak to contain it. The tears well and fall as the dog barks in the hollow, the children skim after hoops41, the country darkens and brightens. Beyond a veil it seems. Ah, but draw the veil thicker lest I faint with sweetness, Fanny Elmer sighed, as she sat on a bench in Judges Walk looking at Hampstead Garden Suburb. But the dog went on barking. The motor cars hooted42 on the road. She heard a far-away rush and humming. Agitation43 was at her heart. Up she got and walked. The grass was freshly green; the sun hot. All round the pond children were stooping to launch little boats; or were drawn back screaming by their nurses.
At mid-day young women walk out into the air. All the men are busy in the town. They stand by the edge of the blue pond. The fresh wind scatters44 the children's voices all about. My children, thought Fanny Elmer. The women stand round the pond, beating off great prancing45 shaggy dogs. Gently the baby is rocked in the perambulator. The eyes of all the nurses, mothers, and wandering women are a little glazed46, absorbed. They gently nod instead of answering when the little boys tug47 at their skirts, begging them to move on.
And Fanny moved, hearing some cry--a workman's whistle perhaps--high in mid-air. Now, among the trees, it was the thrush trilling out into the warm air a flutter of jubilation48, but fear seemed to spur him, Fanny thought; as if he too were anxious with such joy at his heart--as if he were watched as he sang, and pressed by tumult49 to sing. There! Restless, he flew to the next tree. She heard his song more faintly. Beyond it was the humming of the wheels and the wind rushing.
She spent tenpence on lunch.
"Dear, miss, she's left her umbrella," grumbled50 the mottled woman in the glass box near the door at the Express Dairy Company's shop.
"Perhaps I'll catch her," answered Milly Edwards, the waitress with the pale plaits of hair; and she dashed through the door.
"No good," she said, coming back a moment later with Fanny's cheap umbrella. She put her hand to her plaits.
"Oh, that door!" grumbled the cashier.
Her hands were cased in black mittens51, and the finger-tips that drew in the paper slips were swollen52 as sausages.
"Pie and greens for one. Large coffee and crumpets. Eggs on toast. Two fruit cakes."
Thus the sharp voices of the waitresses snapped. The lunchers heard their orders repeated with approval; saw the next table served with anticipation53. Their own eggs on toast were at last delivered. Their eyes strayed no more.
Damp cubes of pastry54 fell into mouths opened like triangular55 bags.
Nelly Jenkinson, the typist, crumbled56 her cake indifferently enough. Every time the door opened she looked up. What did she expect to see?
The coal merchant read the Telegraph without stopping, missed the saucer, and, feeling abstractedly, put the cup down on the table-cloth.
"Did you ever hear the like of that for impertinence?" Mrs. Parsons wound up, brushing the crumbs57 from her furs.
"Hot milk and scone58 for one. Pot of tea. Roll and butter," cried the waitresses.
The door opened and shut.
Such is the life of the elderly.
It is curious, lying in a boat, to watch the waves. Here are three coming regularly one after another, all much of a size. Then, hurrying after them comes a fourth, very large and menacing; it lifts the boat; on it goes; somehow merges59 without accomplishing anything; flattens60 itself out with the rest.
What can be more violent than the fling of boughs61 in a gale62, the tree yielding itself all up the trunk, to the very tip of the branch, streaming and shuddering63 the way the wind blows, yet never flying in dishevelment away? The corn squirms and abases64 itself as if preparing to tug itself free from the roots, and yet is tied down.
Why, from the very windows, even in the dusk, you see a swelling65 run through the street, an aspiration66, as with arms outstretched, eyes desiring, mouths agape. And then we peaceably subside67. For if the exaltation lasted we should be blown like foam68 into the air. The stars would shine through us. We should go down the gale in salt drops--as sometimes happens. For the impetuous spirits will have none of this cradling. Never any swaying or aimlessly lolling for them. Never any making believe, or lying cosily69, or genially70 supposing that one is much like another, fire warm, wine pleasant, extravagance a sin.
"People are so nice, once you know them."
"I couldn't think ill of her. One must remember--" But Nick perhaps, or Fanny Elmer, believing implicitly71 in the truth of the moment, fling off, sting the cheek, are gone like sharp hail.
"Oh," said Fanny, bursting into the studio three-quarters of an hour late because she had been hanging about the neighbourhood of the Foundling Hospital merely for the chance of seeing Jacob walk down the street, take out his latch-key, and open the door, "I'm afraid I'm late"; upon which Nick said nothing and Fanny grew defiant72.
"I'll never come again!" she cried at length.
"Don't, then," Nick replied, and off she ran without so much as good- night.
How exquisite73 it was--that dress in Evelina's shop off Shaftesbury Avenue! It was four o'clock on a fine day early in April, and was Fanny the one to spend four o'clock on a fine day indoors? Other girls in that very street sat over ledgers74, or drew long threads wearily between silk and gauze; or, festooned with ribbons in Swan and Edgars, rapidly added up pence and farthings on the back of the bill and twisted the yard and three-quarters in tissue paper and asked "Your pleasure?" of the next comer.
In Evelina's shop off Shaftesbury Avenue the parts of a woman were shown separate. In the left hand was her skirt. Twining round a pole in the middle was a feather boa. Ranged like the heads of malefactors on Temple Bar were hats--emerald and white, lightly wreathed or drooping75 beneath deep-dyed feathers. And on the carpet were her feet--pointed gold, or patent leather slashed76 with scarlet77.
Feasted upon by the eyes of women, the clothes by four o'clock were flyblown like sugar cakes in a baker's window. Fanny eyed them too. But coming along Gerrard Street was a tall man in a shabby coat. A shadow fell across Evelina's window--Jacob's shadow, though it was not Jacob. And Fanny turned and walked along Gerrard Street and wished that she had read books. Nick never read books, never talked of Ireland, or the House of Lords; and as for his finger-nails! She would learn Latin and read Virgil. She had been a great reader. She had read Scott; she had read Dumas. At the Slade no one read. But no one knew Fanny at the Slade, or guessed how empty it seemed to her; the passion for ear-rings, for dances, for Tonks and Steer--when it was only the French who could paint, Jacob said. For the moderns were futile78; painting the least respectable of the arts; and why read anything but Marlowe and Shakespeare, Jacob said, and Fielding if you must read novels?
"Fielding," said Fanny, when the man in Charing79 Cross Road asked her what book she wanted.
She bought Tom Jones.
At ten o'clock in the morning, in a room which she shared with a school teacher, Fanny Elmer read Tom Jones--that mystic book. For this dull stuff (Fanny thought) about people with odd names is what Jacob likes. Good people like it. Dowdy80 women who don't mind how they cross their legs read Tom Jones--a mystic book; for there is something, Fanny thought, about books which if I had been educated I could have liked-- much better than ear-rings and flowers, she sighed, thinking of the corridors at the Slade and the fancy-dress dance next week. She had nothing to wear.
They are real, thought Fanny Elmer, setting her feet on the mantelpiece. Some people are. Nick perhaps, only he was so stupid. And women never-- except Miss Sargent, but she went off at lunch-time and gave herself airs. There they sat quietly of a night reading, she thought. Not going to music-halls; not looking in at shop windows; not wearing each other's clothes, like Robertson who had worn her shawl, and she had worn his waistcoat, which Jacob could only do very awkwardly; for he liked Tom Jones.
There it lay on her lap, in double columns, price three and sixpence; the mystic book in which Henry Fielding ever so many years ago rebuked81 Fanny Elmer for feasting on scarlet, in perfect prose, Jacob said. For he never read modern novels. He liked Tom Jones.
"I do like Tom Jones," said Fanny, at five-thirty that same day early in April when Jacob took out his pipe in the arm-chair opposite.
Alas82, women lie! But not Clara Durrant. A flawless mind; a candid83 nature; a virgin84 chained to a rock (somewhere off Lowndes Square) eternally pouring out tea for old men in white waistcoats, blue-eyed, looking you straight in the face, playing Bach. Of all women, Jacob honoured her most. But to sit at a table with bread and butter, with dowagers in velvet85, and never say more to Clara Durrant than Benson said to the parrot when old Miss Perry poured out tea, was an insufferable outrage86 upon the liberties and decencies of human nature--or words to that effect. For Jacob said nothing. Only he glared at the fire. Fanny laid down Tom Jones.
She stitched or knitted.
"What's that?" asked Jacob.
"For the dance at the Slade."
And she fetched her head-dress; her trousers; her shoes with red tassels87. What should she wear?
"I shall be in Paris," said Jacob.
And what is the point of fancy-dress dances? thought Fanny. You meet the same people; you wear the same clothes; Mangin gets drunk; Florinda sits on his knee. She flirts88 outrageously--with Nick Bramham just now.
"In Paris?" said Fanny.
"On my way to Greece," he replied.
For, he said, there is nothing so detestable as London in May.
He would forget her.
A sparrow flew past the window trailing a straw--a straw from a stack stood by a barn in a farmyard. The old brown spaniel snuffs at the base for a rat. Already the upper branches of the elm trees are blotted89 with nests. The chestnuts90 have flirted91 their fans. And the butterflies are flaunting92 across the rides in the Forest. Perhaps the Purple Emperor is feasting, as Morris says, upon a mass of putrid93 carrion94 at the base of an oak tree.
Fanny thought it all came from Tom Jones. He could go alone with a book in his pocket and watch the badgers95. He would take a train at eight- thirty and walk all night. He saw fire-flies, and brought back glow- worms in pill-boxes. He would hunt with the New Forest Staghounds. It all came from Tom Jones; and he would go to Greece with a book in his pocket and forget her.
She fetched her hand-glass. There was her face. And suppose one wreathed Jacob in a turban? There was his face. She lit the lamp. But as the daylight came through the window only half was lit up by the lamp. And though he looked terrible and magnificent and would chuck the Forest, he said, and come to the Slade, and be a Turkish knight or a Roman emperor (and he let her blacken his lips and clenched96 his teeth and scowled97 in the glass), still--there lay Tom Jones.
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graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ruminated
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| v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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pawns
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| n.（国际象棋中的）兵( pawn的名词复数 )；卒；被人利用的人；小卒v.典当，抵押( pawn的第三人称单数 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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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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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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commiserate
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| v.怜悯，同情 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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42
hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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scatters
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| v.（使）散开， （使）分散，驱散( scatter的第三人称单数 )；撒 | |
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prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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46
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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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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jubilation
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| n.欢庆，喜悦 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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50
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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51
mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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52
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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54
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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56
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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57
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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scone
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| n.圆饼，甜饼，司康饼 | |
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merges
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| （使）混合( merge的第三人称单数 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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60
flattens
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| 变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的第三人称单数 )； 彻底打败某人，使丢脸； 停止增长（或上升）； （把身体或身体部位）紧贴… | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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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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abases
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| 使谦卑( abase的第三人称单数 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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cosily
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| adv.舒适地，惬意地 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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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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ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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flirts
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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putrid
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| adj.腐臭的；有毒的；已腐烂的；卑劣的 | |
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94
carrion
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| n.腐肉 | |
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badgers
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| n.獾( badger的名词复数 )；獾皮；（大写）獾州人（美国威斯康星州人的别称）；毛鼻袋熊 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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