His standing6 there makes the real boys feel strange. Eyeballs slide. They're doing this for themselves, not as a show for some adult walking around town in a double?breasted cocoa suit. It seems funny to them, an adult walking up the alley at all. Where's his car? The cigarette makes it more sinister8 still. Is this one of those going to offer them cigarettes or money to go out in back of the ice plant with him? They've heard of such things but are not too frightened; there are six of them and one of him.
The ball, rocketing off the crotch of the rim9, leaps over the heads of the six and lands at the feet of the one. He catches it on the short bounce with a quickness that startles them. As they stare hushed he sights squinting12 through blue clouds of weed smoke, a suddenly dark silhouette14 like a smokestack against the afternoon spring sky, setting his feet with care, wiggling the ball with nervousness in front of his chest, one widespread white hand on top of the ball and the other underneath15, jiggling it patiently to get some adjustment in air itself. The cuticle16 moons on his fingernails are big. Then the ball seems to ride up the right lapel of his coat and comes off his shoulder as his knees dip down, and it appears the ball will miss because though he shot from an angle the ball is not going toward the backboard. It was not aimed there. It drops into the circle of the rim, whipping the net with a ladylike whisper. "Hey!" he shouts in pride.
"Luck," one of the kids says.
"Skill," he answers, and asks, "Hey. O.K. if I play?"
There is no response, just puzzled silly looks swapped19. Rabbit takes off his coat, folds it nicely, and rests it on a clean ashcan lid. Behind him the dungarees begin to scuffle again. He goes into the scrimmaging thick of them for the ball, flips20 it from two weak grubby?knuckled21 child's hands, has it in his own. That old stretched?leather feeling makes his whole body go taut22, gives his arms wings. It feels like he's reaching down through years to touch this tautness23. His arms lift of their own and the rubber ball floats toward the basket from the top of his head. It feels so right he blinks when the ball drops short, and for a second wonders if it went through the hoop24 without rifling the net. He asks, "Hey whose side am Ion?"
In a wordless shuffle25 two boys are delegated to be his. They stand the other four. Though from the start Rabbit handicaps himself by staying ten feet out from the basket, it is still unfair. Nobody bothers to keep score. The surly silence bothers him. The kids call monosyllables to each other but to him they don't dare a word. As the game goes on he can feel them at his legs, getting hot and mad, trying to trip him, but their tongues are still held. He doesn't want this respect, he wants to tell them there's nothing to getting old, it takes nothing. In ten minutes another boy goes to the other side, so it's just Rabbit Angstrom and one kid standing five. This boy, still midget but already diffident with a kind of rangy ease, is the best of the six; he wears a knitted cap with a green pompon well down over his ears and level with his eyebrows28, giving his head a cretinous look. He's a natural. The way he moves sideways without taking any steps, gliding29 on a blessing30: you can tell. The way he waits before he moves. With luck he'll become in time a crack athlete in the high school; Rabbit knows the way. You climb up through the little grades and then get to the top and everybody cheers; with the sweat in your eyebrows you can't see very well and the noise swirls31 around you and lifts you up, and then you're out, not forgotten at first, just out, and it feels good and cool and free. You're out, and sort of melt, and keep lifting, until you become like to these kids just one more piece of the sky of adults that hangs over them in the town, a piece that for some queer reason has clouded and visited them. They've not forgotten him: worse, they never heard of him. Yet in his time Rabbit was famous through the county; in basketball in his junior year he set a B?league scoring record that in his senior year he broke with a record that was not broken until four years later, that is, four years ago.
He sinks shots one?handed, two?handed, underhanded, flatfooted, and out of the pivot32, jump, and set. Flat and soft the ball lifts. That his touch still lives in his hands elates him. He feels liberated33 from long gloom. But his body is weighty and his breath grows short. It annoys him, that he gets winded. When the five kids not on his side begin to groan34 and act lazy, and a kid he accidentally knocks down gets up with a blurred35 face and walks away, Rabbit quits readily. "O.K.," he says. "The old man's going. Three cheers."
To the boy on his side, the pompon, he adds, "So long, ace3." He feels grateful to the boy, who continued to watch him with disinterested36 admiration37 after the others grew sullen38. Naturals know. It's all in how it feels.
Rabbit picks up his folded coat and carries it in one hand like a letter as he runs. Up the alley. Past the deserted39 ice plant with its rotting wooden skids40 on the fallen loading porch. Ashcans, garage doors, fences of chicken?wire caging crisscrossing stalks of dead flowers. The month is March. Love makes the air light. Things start anew; Rabbit tastes through sour aftersmoke the fresh chance in the air, plucks the pack of cigarettes from his bobbling shirt pocket, and without breaking stride cans it in somebody's open barrel. His upper lip nibbles41 back from his teeth in self?pleasure. His big suede42 shoes skim in thumps44 above the skittering litter of alley gravel45.
Running. At the end of this block of the alley he turns up a sh=eet, Wilbur Street in the town of Mt. Judge, suburb of the city of Brewer46, fifth largest city in Pennsylvania. Running uphill. Past a block of big homes, small fortresses47 of cement and brick inset with doorways48 of stained and beveled glass and windows of potted plants; and then half the way up another block, which holds a development built all at once in the Thirties. The frame homes climb the hill like a single staircase. The space of six feet or so that each double house rises above its neighbor contains two wan27 windows, wide?spaced like the eyes of an animal, and is covered with composition shingling50 varying in color from bruise51 to dung. The fronts are scabby clapboards, once white. There are a dozen three?story homes, and each has two doors. The seventh door is his. The wood steps up to it are worn; under them there is a cubbyhole of dirt where a lost toy molders. A plastic clown. He's seen it there all winter but he always thought some kid would be coming back for it.
Rabbit pauses in the sunless vestibule, panting. Overhead, a daytime bulb bums52 dustily. Three tin mailboxes hang empty
above a brown radiator53. His downstairs neighbor's door across the hall is shut like a hurt face. There is that smell which is always the same but that he can never identify; sometimes it seems cabbage cooking, sometimes the furnace's rusty54 breath, sometimes something soft decaying in the walls. He climbs the stairs to his home, the top floor.
The door is locked. In fitting the little key into the lock his hand trembles, pulsing with unusual exertion55, and the metal scratches. But when he opens the door he sees his wife sitting in an armchair with an Old?fashioned, watching television turned down low.
"You're here," he says. "What's the door locked for?"
She looks to one side of him with vague dark eyes reddened by the friction56 of watching. "It just locked itself."
"Just locked itself," he repeats, but bends down to kiss her glossy57 forehead nevertheless. She is a small woman whose skin tends toward olive and looks tight, as if something swelling59 inside is straining against her littleness. Just yesterday, it seems to him, she stopped being pretty. With the addition of two short wrinkles at the corners, her mouth has become greedy; and her hair has thinned, so he keeps thinking of her skull60 under it. These tiny advances into age have occurred imperceptibly, so it seems just possible that tomorrow they'll be gone and she'll be his girl again. He makes a stab at kidding her into it. "Whaddeya afraid of? Whodeya thinks gonna come in that door? Errol Flynn?"
She doesn't answer. Carefully he unfolds his coat and goes to the closet with it and takes out a wire hanger61. The closet is in the living room and the door only opens halfway62, since the television set is in front of it. He is careful not to kick the wire, which is plugged into a socket63 on the other side of the door. One time Janice, who is especially clumsy when pregnant or drunk, got the wire wrapped around her foot and nearly pulled the set, a hundred and forty?nine dollars, down smash on the floor. Luckily he got to it while it was still rocking in the metal cradle and before Janice began kicking out in one of her panics. What made her get that way? What was she afraid of ? An order?loving man, he deftly64 inserts the corners of the hanger into the armholes of the coat and with his long reach hangs it on the painted pipe with his other clothes. He wonders if he should remove the Demonstrator badge from the lapel but decides he will wear the same suit tomorrow. He has only two, not counting a dark blue that is too hot for this time of year. He presses the door shut and it clicks but then swings open again an inch or two. Locked doors. It rankles65: his hand trembling in the lock like some old wreck66 and her sitting in here listening to the scratching.
He furs and asks her, "if you're home where's the car? It's not out front."
"It's in front of my mother's. You're in my way."
"In front of your mother's? That's terrific. That's just the frigging place for it."
"What's brought this on?"
"Brought what on?" He moves out of her line of vision and stands to one side.
She is watching a group of children called Mouseketeers perform a musical number in which Darlene is a flower girl in Paris and Cubby is a cop and that smirky68 squeaky tall kid is a romantic artist. He and Darlene and Cubby and Karen (dressed as an old French lady whom Cubby as a cop helps across the street) dance. Then the commercial shows the seven segments of a Tootsie Roll coming out of the wrapper and turning into the seven letters of "Tootsie." They, too, sing and dance. Still singing, they climb back into the wrapper. It echoes like an echo chamber69. Son of a bitch: cute. He's seen it fifty times and this time it turns his stomach. His heart is still throbbing71; his throat feels narrow.
Janice asks, "Harry72, do you have a cigarette? I'm out."
"Huh? On the way home I threw my pack into a garbage can. I'm giving it up." He wonders how anybody could think of smoking, with his stomach on edge the way it is.
Janice looks at him at last. "You threw it into a garbage can! Holy Mo. You don't drink, now you don't smoke. What are you doing, becoming a saint?"
"Shh."
The big Mouseketeer has appeared, Jimmie, a grown man who wears circular black ears. Rabbit watches him attentively73; he respects him. He expects to learn something from him helpful in his own line of work, which is demonstrating a kitchen gadget74 in several five?and?dime75 stores around Brewer. He's had the job for four weeks. "Proverbs, proverbs, they're so true," Jimmie sings, strumming his Mouseguitar, "proverbs tell us what to do; proverbs help us all to bee ? better ? Mouse?ke?teers."
Jimmie sets aside his smile and guitar and says straight out through the glass, "Know Thyself, a wise old Greek once said. Know Thyself. Now what does this mean, boys and girls? It means, be what you are. Don't try to be Sally or Johnny or Fred next door; be yourself. God doesn't want a tree to be a waterfall, or a flower to be a stone. God gives to each one of us a special talent." Janice and Rabbit become unnaturally76 still; both are Christians77. God's name makes them feel guilty. "God wants some of us to become scientists, some of us to become artists, some of us to become firemen and doctors and trapeze artists. And He gives to each of us the special talents to become these things, provided we work to develop them. We must work, boys and girls. So: Know Thyself. Learn to understand your talents, and then work to develop them. That's the way to be happy." He pinches his mouth together and winks79.
That was good. Rabbit tries it, pinching the mouth together and then the wink78, getting the audience out front with you against some enemy behind, Walt Disney or the MagiPeel Peeler Company, admitting it's all a fraud but, what the hell, making it likable. We're all in it together. Fraud makes the world go round. The base of our economy. Vitaconomy, the modem80 housewife's password, the one?word expression for economizing81 vitamins by the MagiPeel Method.
Janice gets up and turns off the set when the six?o'clock news tries to come on. The little hard star left by the current slowly dies.
Rabbit asks, "Where's the kid?"
"At your mother's."
"At my mother's? The car's at your mother's and the kid's at my mother's. Jesus. You're a mess."
She stands up and her pregnancy82 infuriates him with its look of stubborn lumpiness. She wears one of those maternity83 skirts with a U cut in the belly84. A white crescent of slip shines under the hem7 of her blouse. "I was tired."
"No wonder," he says. "How many of those have you had?" He gestures at the Old?fashioned glass. Sugar has stained the side she drank from.
She tries to explain. "I left Nelson at your mother's on my way to my mother's to go into town with her. We went in in her car and walked around looking at the spring clothes in the windows and she bought a nice Liberty scarf at Kroll's at a sale. Purply Paisley." She falters86; her little narrow tongue pokes87 between her parted lips.
He feels frightened. When confused, Janice is a frightening person. Her eyes dwindle88 in their frowning sockets89 and her little mouth hangs open in a dumb slot. Since her hair has begun to thin back from her shiny forehead, he keeps getting the feeling of her being brittle90, and immovable, of her only going one way, toward deeper wrinkles and skimpier hair. He married relatively91 late, when he was twenty?three and she was two years out of high school, still scarcely adult, with shy small breasts that when she lay down flattened92 against her chest so that they were only there as a tipped softness. Nelson was born seven months after the Episcopal service, in prolonged labor93: Rabbit's fright then mixes with his fright now and turns it tender. "What did you buy?"
"A bathing suit."
"A bathing suit! Chh. In March?"
She closes her eyes for a moment; he can feel the undertow of liquor sweep over her and is disgusted. "It made it seem closer to when I could fit into it."
"What the hell ails17 you? Other women like being pregnant. What's so damn fancy about you? Just tell me. What is so frigging
She opens her brown eyes and tears fill them and break over the lower lids and drop down her cheeks, pink with injury, while she looks at him and says "You bastard94" very thoughtfully.
Rabbit goes to his wife and, putting his arms around her, has a vivid experience of her ? her tear?hot breath, the blood?tinged95 white of her eyes. In an affectionate reflex he dips his knees to bring his loins against her, but her solid belly prevents him. He straightens to his full height above her and says, "O.K. You bought a bathing suit."
Sheltered by his chest and arms she blurts96 with an earnestness he didn't know she still could hold, "Don't run from me, Harry. I love you."
"I love you. Now come on, you bought a bathing suit."
"Red," she says, rocking sadly against him. But her body when tipsy has a brittleness97, an unconnectedness, that feels disagreeable in his arms. "With a strap98 that ties behind your neck and a pleated skirt you can take off for the water. Then my varicose veins99 hurt so much Mother and I went into the basement of Kroll's and had chocolate sodas100. They've redone the whole luncheonette section, the counter isn't there any more. But my legs still hurt so Mother brought me home and said you could pick up the car and Nelson. I thought a drink might help the pain."
"Hnuh."
"I thought you'd be home before now. Where were you?"
"Oh, clowning around. I played ball with some kids down the alley." The couple has parted.
"I tried to take a nap but I couldn't. Mother said I looked tired."
"You're supposed to look tired. You're a modem housewife."
"And meanwhile you're off in the alley playing like a twelveyear?old?"
It gripes him that she didn't see his crack about being a housewife, based on the "image" the MagiPeel people tried to have their salesmen sell to, as ironical101 and at bottom pitying and fond. There seems no escaping it: she is dumb. He says, "Well what's the difference if you're sitting here watching a program for kids under two?"
"Who was shushing a while ago?"
"Ah, Janice." He sighs. "Screw you. Just screw you."
She looks at him clearly a long moment. "I'll get supper," she at last decides.
He is all repentance102. "I'll run over and get the car and bring the kid back. The poor kid must think he has no home. What the hell makes your mother think my mother has nothing better to do than take care of other people's kids?" Indignation rises in him again at her missing the point of why he wanted to watch Jimmie, for professional reasons ? to earn a living to buy sugar for her to put into her rotten old Old?fashioneds.
She moves into the kitchen, angry but not angry enough. She should be really sore, or not sore at all, since all he had said was what he has done a couple hundred times. Say, on the average once every three days for three years. What's that? Three hundred. That often? Then why is it always a struggle? She used to make it easier before they got married. She could be sudden then. Just a girl. Nerves like new thread. Skin smelled like fresh cotton. Her girlfriend at work had an apartment in Brewer they used. Pipeframe bed, silver medallions in the wallpaper; a view westward103 of the great blue gas tanks by the edge of the river. After work, working both at Kroll's then, she selling candy and cashews in a white smock with ` Jan" stitched on her pocket and he lugging104 easy chairs and maple105 end tables around on the floor above, hammering apart packing crates106 from nine to five, the itch70 of the packing excelsior getting into his nose and eyes and making them burn. That filthy107 black crescent of bins108 behind the elevators, the floor covered with bent109 nails, his palms black and Chandler the fairy mincing110 in every hour on the hour telling him to wash his hands so he wouldn't foul111 the furniture. Lava112 soap. Its lather113 was gray. Hip18 hands grew yellow calluses from using the crowbar. After 5:30, the dirty day done, they would meet by the doors, chained to keep customers out, a green?glass?paved chamber of silence between the two sets of doors, in the shallow side windows the bodiless mannequin heads in their feathered hats and necklaces of pink pearls eavesdropping114 on the echoing farewell gossip. Every employee hated Kroll's, yet they left it slow as swimming. Janice and Rabbit would meet in this chamber, with the dim light and green floor like something underwater, and push at the one unchained door, push up into the light, and walk, never admitting they were going there, toward the silver medallions, hand in hand tired walking gently against the current of home?going traffic, and make love with the late daylight coming level in the window. She was shy about him seeing her. She made him keep his eyes shut. And then with a shiver come as soon as he was in, her inside softly grainy, like a silk slipper115. Lying side by side on this other girl's bed, feeling lost, having done the final thing; the wall's silver and the fading day's gold.
The kitchen is a small room off the living room, a tight aisle85 between machines that were modern five years ago. She drops something metal, a pan or cup. "Think you can make it without burning yourself ?" he calls in.
"Are you still here?" is the answer.
He goes to the closet and takes out the coat he hung up so neatly116. It seems to him he's the only person around here who cares about neatness. The clutter117 behind him in the room ? the Old?fashioned glass with its corrupt118 dregs, the chock?full ashtray119 balanced on the easy?chair arm, the rumpled120 rug, the floppy121 stacks of slippery newspapers, the kid's toys here and there broken and stuck and jammed, a leg off a doll and a piece of bent cardboard that went with some breakfast?box cutout, the rolls of fuzz under the radiators122, the continual crisscrossing mess ? clings to his back like a tightening123 net. He tries to sort out picking up his car and then his kid. Or should he pick up the kid first? He wants more to see the kid. It would be quicker to walk over to Mrs. Springer's, she lived closer. But suppose she was watching out the window for him to come so she could pop out and tell him how tired Janice looked? Who wouldn't be tired after tramping around trying to buy something with you you miserable124 nickel?hugger? You fat hag. You old gypsy. If he had the kid along this might not happen. Rabbit likes the idea of walking up from his mother's place with his boy. Two?and?a?half, Nelson walks like a trooper, with choppy stubborn steps. They'd walk along under the trees and then like magic there would be Daddy's car at a curb125. But it will take longer this way, what with his own mother talking slyly and roundabout about how incompetent126 Janice is. He hated it when his mother went on like that; maybe she did it just to kid him, but he couldn't take her lightly, she was somehow too powerful, at least with him. He had better go for the car first and pick the kid up with it. But he doesn't want to do it this way. He just doesn't. The problem knits in front of him and he feels sickened by the intricacy.
Janice calls from the kitchen, "And honey pick up a pack of cigarettes, could you?" in a normal voice that says everything is forgiven, everything is the same.
Rabbit freezes, standing looking at his faint yellow shadow on the white door that leads to the hall, and senses he is in a trap. It seems certain. He goes out.
Outdoors it is growing dark and cool. The Norway maples127 exhale128 the smell of their sticky new buds and the broad livingroom windows along Wilbur Street show beyond the silver patch of a television set the warm bulbs burning in kitchens, like fires at the backs of caves. He walks downhill. The day is gathering129 itself in. He now and then touches with his hand the rough bark of a tree or the dry twigs130 of a hedge, to give himself the small answer of a texture131. At the comer, where Wilbur Street meets Potter Avenue, a mailbox stands leaning in twilight132 on its concrete post. Tall two?petaled street sign, the cleat?gouged133 trunk of the telephone pole holding its insulators134 against the sky, fire hydrant like a golden bush: a grove135. He used to love to climb the poles. To shinny up from a friend's shoulders until the ladder of spikes136 came to your hands, to get up to where you could hear the wires sing. Their song was a terrifying motionless whisper. It always tempted137 you to fall, to let the hard spikes in your palms go and feel the space on your back, feel it take your feet and ride up your spine138 as you fell. He remembers how hot your hands felt at the top, robbed full of ?splinters from getting up to where the spikes began. Listening to the wires as if you could hear what people were saying, what all that secret adult world was about. The insulators giant blue eggs in a windy nest.
As he walks along Potter Avenue the wires at their silent height strike into and through the crowns of the breathing maples. At the next corner, where the water from the ice plant used to come down, sob139 into a drain, and reappear on the other side of the street, Rabbit crosses over and walks beside the gutter140 where the water used to run, coating the shallow side of its course with ribbons of green slime waving and waiting to slip under your feet and dunk you if you dared walk on them. He can remember falling in but not why he was walking along this slippery edge in the first place. Then he remembers. To impress the girls ? Lorry Bingaman, Margaret Schoelkopf, sometimes Barbara Cobb and Mary Hoyer ? he walked home from grade school with. Margaret's nose would often start bleeding, far no reason. She had had so much life. Her father was a drunk and her parents had made her wear high?laced shoes long after everybody else had stopped.
He turns down Kegerise Street, a narrow gravel alley curving past the blank back side of a small box factory where mostly middle?aged141 women work, the cement?block face of a wholesale142 beer outlet143, and a truly old stone farmhouse144, now boarded up, one of the oldest buildings in town, thick crude masonry145 of Indianskin sandstone. This farmhouse, which once commanded half of the acreage the town is now built on, still retains, behind a shattered and vandalized fence, its yard, a junkheap of brown stalks and eroded146 timber that will in the summer bloom with an unwanted wealth of weeds, waxy147 green wands and milky148 pods of silk seeds and airy yellow heads almost liquid with pollen149.
So there is some space between the old stone house and the Sunshine Athletic150 Association, a tall thin brick building like a city tenement151 misplaced in this disordered alley of back sides and leftovers152. The entrance is made ominous153 by a strange shed, the size of an outhouse, erected154 each winter across the door, to protect the bar from the weather. Rabbit has several times entered the club. There was no sunshine in it. The first floor was a bar and the second was full of card tables where the old bucks156 of the town sat muttering strategically. Alcohol and cards Rabbit both associates with a depressing kind of sin, sin with bad breath, and he was further depressed157 by the political air of the place. His old basketball coach, Marty Tothero, who before scandal had ousted158 him from the high school had a certain grip on local affairs, lived in this building supposedly and still, they said, manipulated. Rabbit dislikes manipulation but he had liked Tothero. Next to his mother Tothero had had the most force.
The thought of his old coach crouching159 in there frightens him. He walks on, past a body shop and an unused chicken house. His progress is always down, for the town of Mt. Judge is built on the east side of the mountain Mt. Judge, whose west face overlooks the city of Brewer. Though the town and the city meet along the highway that skirts the mountain on the south on the way to Philadelphia fifty miles away, they will never merge160, for between them the mountain lifts a broad green spine, two miles long north to south, assaulted by gravel pits and cemeteries161 and new developments but above a line preserved, hundreds of acres of forest Mt. Judge boys can never wholly explore. Much of it is penetrated162 by the sound of cars climbing the scenic163 drives in second gear. But in long patches of forgotten pine plantation164 the needle?hushed floor of land glides165 up and up, on and on, under endless tunnels of dead green and you seem to have passed through silence into something worse. And then, coming upon a patch of sunlight the branches neglect to keep out or upon a softened166 stone?filled cellar pit dug by some brave and monstrous167 settler centuries ago, you become vividly168 frightened, as if this other sign of life will call attention to yourself, and the menace of the trees will become active. Your fear trills like an alarm bell you cannot shut off, the louder the faster you run, hunchbacked, until distinctly, with a gasp169 of the clutch, a near car shifts gears, and the stumpy white posts of the guard fence dawn behind the pine trunks. Then, safe on the firm blacktop, you can decide whether to walk back down home or to hike up to the Pinnacle170 Hotel for a candy bar and a view of Brewer spread out below like a carpet, a red city, where they paint wood, tin, even red bricks red, an orange rose flowerpot red that is unlike the color of any other city in the world yet to the children of the county is the only color of cities, the color all cities are.
The mountain brings dusk early to the town. Now, just a few minutes after six a day before the vernal equinox, all the houses and gravel?roofed factories and diagonal hillside streets are in the shadow that washes deep into the valley of farmland east of the mountain. Huts on the shadow's shore, twin rows of ranchhouses blare from their picture windows the reflection of the setting sun. One by one, as suddenly as lamps, these windows dim as the sunlight ebbs171, drawing across the development and across the tan fenced land waiting for planting and a golf course that at the distance could be a long pasture except for the yellow beans of sand, which are traps. Rabbit pauses at the end of the alley, where he has an open view. He used to caddy over there.
Pricked172 by an indefinite urgency, he turns away, going left on Jackson Road, where he lived for twenty years. His parents' home is in a two?family brick house on the corner; but it is their neighbors, the Bolgers, who had the corner half, with a narrow side yard Mrs. Angstrom had always envied. The Bolgers' windows getting all that light and here we sit wedged in.
Rabbit stealthily approaches his old home on the grass, hopping173 the little barberry hedge and the wire meant to keep kids on the pavement. He sneaks174 down the strip of grass between the two cement walks that go with the two brick walls; he used to live behind the one and the Zims behind the other. All day long Mrs. Zim, who was plain, with big thyroid eyes and bluish, slack skin, screamed at her daughter Carolyn, who was prettier than a fiveyear?old girl had a right to be. Mr. Zim was a thick?upped redhead, and in Carolyn thick and thin, red and blue, health and high?strungness had blended just right; her precocious175 beauty was like something that had happened elsewhere, in France or Persia or Heaven. Even Harry, six years older and blind to girls, could see this. All day long Mrs. Zim screamed at her and when Mr. Zim came home from work the two of them would shout together for hours. It would begin with Mr. defending the little girl, and then as the neighbors listened old wounds opened like complicated flowers in the night. Sometimes Mom said that Mr. would murder Mrs., sometimes she said that the little girl would murder them both, as they lay asleep. It was true there was something cold?blooded about Carolyn; when she reached school age, she never left the house without a smile on her smart little face, swinging herself along like she owned the world, though the Angstroms had just heard her mother throw hysterics at her all through breakfast, the kitchen windows not six feet apart. How does that poor man endure? If Carolyn and her mother don't settle their differences they're going to wake up some fair morning without a protector. But Mom was never proved right in any of her predictions. When the Zims left, it was together, Mr. and Mrs. and Carolyn, vanishing in a station wagon176 while half their furniture still stood on the sidewalk beside the mover's truck. He had a new job in Cleveland, Ohio. Poor souls, they won't be missed. But they were. They had sold their half?house to an old couple, strict Methodists, and the old man refused to cut the strip of grass between his house and the Angstroms'. Mr. Zim, who worked outdoors rain or shine on weekends, as if it's his only pleasure in life and I don't wonder, had always cut it. The old Methodist cut exactly his half, one swath of a lawnmower, and then pushed his lawnmower back inverted178 on his own walk, when it would have been just as easy to push it back along the other half of the strip and not leave such a ridiculous job. When I hear that old fool's wheels rattle179 along his walk so self righteously, my blood pressure goes up so I hear my ears pop. Mother refused to let him or his father mow177 their half for one whole summer, and the grass grew knee?high in that little sunless space and stalks of like wheat came up and one or two goldenrod until a man from the town came around in August and said they must cut it on account of an ordinance180; he was sorry. Harry had gone to the door and was saying, Sure, O.K., when Mother came up behind him saying, What did he mean? That was her flowerbed. She had no intention of letting it be destroyed. As her son, Rabbit felt terribly embarrassed. The man just looked at her and got a little thumbed book out of his hip pocket and showed her the ordinance. She still said it was her flowerbed. The man read to her what the fine was and went off the porch. That Saturday when she was in Brewer shopping, Pop got the sickle181 out of the garage and chopped all the weeds down and Harry pushed the lawnmower back and forth182 across the stubble until it looked as trim as the Methodist's half, though browner. He felt guilty doing it, and was frightened of the fight his parents would have when Mother came back. He dreaded184 their quarrels: when their faces went angry and flat and words flew, it was as if a pane185 of glass were put in front of him, cutting off air; his strength drained away and he had to go to a far corner of the house. This time there was no fight. His father shocked him by simply lying, and doubled the shock by winking186 as he did it. He told her the Methodist had at last broken down and cut the strip of grass himself. Mother believed it but wasn't pleased; she talked all the rest of the day and off and on all week about suing the old holy?roller. In a way she had come to think it was her flowerbed. From cement to cement the strip is not much more than eighteen inches across. Walking along it feels slightly precarious187 to Harry, like treading the top of a wall.
He walks back as far as the lit kitchen window and steps onto the cement without the sole of his shoe scraping and on tiptoe looks in one bright corner. He sees himself sitting in a high chair, and a quick odd jealousy188 comes and passes. It is his son. The boy's little neck gleams like one more clean object in the kitchen among the cups and plates and chromium knobs and aluminum189 cakemaking receptacles on shelves scalloped with glossy oilcloth. His mother's glasses glitter as she leans in from her place at the table with a spoon of smoking beans at the end of her fat curved arm. Her face shows none of the worry she must be feeling about why nobody comes for the boy and instead is focused, her nose a faceted190 beak191, into one wish: that the boy eat. Her mouth is tensed into white crinkles. They smooth in a smile; Nelson's lips, hidden from Rabbit's angle, must have taken the beans. The others around the table express praise, blurred syllables26 from his father, piercing from his sister, something thin about both voices. Rabbit, with the intervening glass and the rustle192 of blood in his head, can't hear what they say. His father, fresh from work, is in an ink?smeared193 blue shirt and, when his face lapses194 from applauding his grandson, looks old: tired and grizzled. His throat a loose bundle of cords. The new teeth he got a year ago have changed his face, collapsed195 it a fraction of an inch. Miriam, dolled up in gold and jet for Friday night, picks at her food indifferently and offers a spoonful to the kid; the reach of her slender white braceleted arm across the steaming table rings a barbaric chord into the scene. She makes up too much; at nineteen she would be good enough without green eyelids196. Because she has slightly buck155 teeth she tries not to smile. Nelson's big whorly head dips on its bright neck and his foreshortened hand, dots of pink, dabbles197 toward the spoon, wants to take it from her. Pop's face lurches into laughter above his plate, and Mim's lips leap in a grin that cracks her cautious wised?up squint13 and breaks through to the little girl Rabbit used to ride on his handlebars, her streaming hair tickling198 his eyes as they coasted down the steep Mt. Judge streets. She lets Nelson take her spoon and he drops it. The kid cries "Peel! Peel!": this Rabbit can hear, and understand. It means "spill." Pop and Mim smile and make remarks but Mom, mouth set, comes in grimly with her spoon. Harry's boy is being fed, this home is happier than his, he glides a pace backward over the cement and rewalks the silent strip of grass.
His acts take on decisive haste. In darkness he goes down another block of Jackson. He cuts up Joseph Street, runs a block, strides another, and comes within sight of his car, its grid199 grinning at him, parked the wrong way on this side of the street. He taps his pocket and fear hits him. He doesn't have the key. Everything depends, the whole pure idea, on which way Janice was sloppy200. Either she forgot to give him the key when he went out or she never bothered to take it out of the ignition. He tries to imagine which is more likely and can't. He doesn't know her that well. He never knows what the hell she'll do. She doesn't know herself. Dumb.
The back but not the front of the big Springer house is lit up. He moves cautiously in the sweet?smelling shadows under the trees in case the old lady is waiting inside the darkened living room to tell him what she thinks. He crosses around in front of the car, the 'S5 Ford201 that old man Springer with his little sandy Hitler mustache sold him for an even thousand in 1957 because the scared bastard was ashamed, cars being his business he was ashamed of his daughter marrying somebody who had nothing but a '39 Nash he bought for $125 in the Army in Texas in 1953. Made him cough up a thousand he didn't have when the Nash had just had eighty dollars' worth of work. That was the kind of thing. The Springers like to push you around. He opens the car from the passenger side, wincing202 at the pung of the brittle door spring and quickly ducking his head into the car. Praise be. Beneath the knobs for lights and wipers the octagon of the ignition key tells in silhouette. Bless that dope. Rabbit slithers in, closing the side door until metal touches metal but not slamming it. The front of the stucco Springer house is still unlit. It reminds him for some reason of an abandoned ice?cream stand. He turns the key through On into Stan and the motor churns and catches. In his anxiety to be secret he is delicate on the accelerator and the motor, idle for hours in the air of winter's last day, is cold, sticks, and stalls. Rabbit's heart rises and a taste of straw comes into his throat. But of course what the hell if old lady Springer does come out? The only thing suspicious is that he doesn't have the kid and he can say he's on his way to pick him up. That would have been the logical way to do it anyway. Nevertheless he doesn't want to be put to the inconvenience of lying, however plausibly203. He pulls the hand choke out a fraction, just enough to pinch his fingertips, and starts the motor again. He pumps once, and glances aside to see the Springers' living?room light flash on, and lets the clutch out, and the Ford bucks away from the curb.
He drives too fast down Joseph Street, and turns left, ignoring the sign saying STOP. He heads down Jackson to where it runs obliquely204 into Central, which is also 422 to Philadelphia. STOP. He doesn't want to go to Philadelphia but the road broadens on the edge of town beyond the electric?power station and the only other choice is to go back through Mt. Judge around the mountain into the thick of Brewer and the supper?time traffic. He doesn't intend ever to see Brewer again, that flowerpot city. The highway turns from three?lane to four?lane and there is no danger of hitting another car; they all run along together like sticks on a stream. Rabbit turns on the radio. After a hum a beautiful Negress sings, "Without a song, the dahay would nehever end, without a song." Rabbit wishes for a cigarette to go with his cleaned?out feeling inside and remembers he gave up smoking and feels cleaner still. He slumps205 down and puts one arm up on the back of the seat and glides on down the twilight pike lefthanded. "A field of corn" the Negress's voice bending dark and warm like the inside of a cello206 "the grasses grow" the countryside dipping around the road like a continuous dark bird "it makes no mind no how" his scalp contracts ecstatically "wihithout a." The smell of parched207 rubber says the heater has come on and he turns the little lever to MOD.
"Secret Love," "Autumn Leaves, and something whose title he missed. Supper music. Music to cook by. His mind nervously208 shifts away from the involuntary vision of Janice's meal sizzling in the pan, chops probably, the grease?tinted209 water bubbling disconsolately210, the unfrozen peas steaming away their vitamins. He tries to think of something pleasant. He imagines himself about to shoot a long one?hander; but he feels he's on a cliff, there is an abyss he will fall into when the ball leaves his hands. He tries to repicture his mother and sister feeding his son, but the boy is crying in backward vision, his forehead red and his mouth stretched wide and his helpless breath hot. There must be something: the water from the ice plant running in the gutter, yellowish, the way it curled on pebbles and ran in diagonal wrinkles, waving the fragile threads of slime attached to its edges. Suddenly Janice shivers in memory on the other girl's bed in declining daylight. He tries to blot211 out the sensation with Miriam, Mim on his handlebars, Mim on a sled in dark snowfall being pulled up Jackson Street by him, the little kid laughing in her hood212, himself the big brother, the red lights in snowfall marking the trestles the town crew have used to block off the street for sledding, down, down, the runners whistling on the dark packed slick, Hold me Harry, the sparks as the runners hit the cinders213 spread at the bottom for safety, the scraping stop like the thump43 of a great heart in the dark. Once more Harry, then we'll go home, 1 promise Harry, please, oh I love you, little Mim only seven or so, in her dark hood, the street waxy with snow still falling. Poor Janice would probably have the wind up now, on the phone to her mother or his mother, somebody, wondering why her supper was getting cold. So dumb. Forgive me.
He accelerates. The growing complexity214 of lights threatens him. He is being drawn215 into Philadelphia. He hates Philadelphia. Dirtiest city in the world, they live on poisoned water, you can taste the chemicals. He wants to go south, down, down the map into orange groves216 and smoking rivers and barefoot women. It seems simple enough, drive all night through the dawn through the morning through the noon park on a beach take off your shoes and fall asleep by the Gulf217 of Mexico. Wake up with the stars above perfectly218 spaced in perfect health. But he is going east, the worst direction, into unhealth, soot219, and stink220, a smothering221 hole where you can't move without killing222 somebody. Yet the highway sucks him on, and a sign says POTTSTOWN 2. He almost brakes. But then he thinks.
If he is heading east, south is on his right. And then, as if the world were just standing around waiting to serve his thoughts, a broad road to the right is advertised, ROUTE 100 WEST CHESTER WILMINGTON. Route 100 has a fine ultimate sound. He doesn't want to go to Wilmington but it's the right direction. He's never been to Wilmington. The du Ponts own it. He wonders what it's like to make it to a du Pont.
He doesn't drive five miles before this road begins to feel like a part of the same trap. The first road offered him he turns right on. A keystone marker in the headlights says 23. A good number. The first varsity game he played in he made 23 points. A sophomore223 and a virgin224. Trees overshadow this narrower road.
A barefoot du Pont. Brown legs probably, bitty birdy breasts. Beside a swimming pool in France. Something like money in a naked woman, deep, millions. You think of millions as being white. Sink all the way in softly still lots left. Rich girls frigid225? Nymphomaniacs? Must vary. Just women after all, descended227 from some old Indian?cheater luckier than the rest, inherit the same stuff if they lived in a slum. Glow all the whiter there, on drab mattresses228. That wonderful way they have of coming forward around you when they want it. Otherwise just fat weight. Funny how the passionate229 ones are often tight and dry and the slow ones wet. They want you up and hard on their little ledge230. The thing is play them until just a touch. You can tell: their skin under the fur gets all loose like a puppy's neck.
Route 23 works west through little tame country towns, Coventryville, Elverson, Morgantown. Rabbit likes these. Square high farmhouses231 nuzzle the road. Soft chalk sides. In one town a tavern232 blazes and he stops at a hardware store opposite with two gasoline pumps outside. He knows from the radio it's about seventhirty, but the hardware store is still open, shovels233 and seeders and post?hole diggers and axes blue and orange and yellow in the window, along with some fishing rods and a string of fielder's gloves. A middle?aged man comes out in boots, baggy234 suntans, and two flannel235 shirts. "Yes sir," he says, coming down on the second word with forced weight, like a lame236 man stepping.
"Couldya fill it up with regular?"
The man starts to pump it in and Rabbit gets out of the car and goes around to the back and asks, "How far am I from Brewer?"
The farmer looks up with a look of curt237 distrust from listening to the gas gurgle. He lifts a finger. "Back up and take that road and it's sixteen miles to the bridge."
Sixteen. He has driven forty miles to get sixteen miles away.
But it was far enough, this was another world. It smells differently, smells older, of nooks and pockets in the ground that nobody's poked239 into yet. "Suppose I go straight?"
"That'll take you to Churchtown."
"What's after Churchtown?"
"New Holland. Lancaster."
"Do you have any maps?"
"Son, where do you want to go?"
"Huh? I don't know exactly."
"Where are you headed?" The man is patient. His face at the same time seems fatherly and crafty240 and stupid.
For the first time, Harry realizes he is a criminal. He hears the gasoline rise in the neck of the tank and notices with what care the farmer squeezes every drop he can into the tank without letting it slosh over the lip insolently241 the way a city garageman would. Out here a drop of gas isn't supposed to escape and he's in the middle of it at night. Laws aren't ghosts in this country, they walk around with the smell of earth on them. Senseless fear cakes over Rabbit's body.
"Check the oil?" the man asks after hanging up the hose on the side of the rusty pump, one of the old style, with the painted bubble head.
"No. Wait. Yeah. You better had. Thanks." Simmer down. All he'd done was ask for a map. Damn dirtdigger ? what was so suspicious about that? Somebody was always going somewhere. He better get the oil checked because he wasn't going to stop again until he was halfway to Georgia. "Hey, how far is Lancaster south of here?"
"Due south? Don't know. It's about twenty?five miles on the road. Your oil's all right. You think you're going to Lancaster now?"
"Yeah, I might."
"Check your water?"
"No. It's O.K."
"Battery?"
"It's great. Let's go."
The man lets the hood slam down and smiles over at Harry. "That's three?ninety on the gas, young fella": the words are pronounced in that same heavy cautious crippled way.
Rabbit puts four ones in his hand, which is stiff and crusted and has fingernails that remind you of those old shovels you see worn into weird242 shapes. The farmer disappears into the hardware store; maybe he's phoning the state cops. He acts like he knows something, but how could he? Rabbit itches243 to duck into the car and drive off. To steady himself he counts the money left in his wallet. Seventy?three; today was payday. Fingering so much lettuce244 strengthens his nerves. Switching off the lights in the hardware store as he comes, the farmer comes back with the dime and no map. Harry cups his hand for the dime and the man pushes it in with his broad thumb and says, "Looked around inside and the only road map is New York State. You don't want to go that way, do you now?"
"No," Rabbit answers, and walks to his car door. He feels through the hairs on the back of his neck the man following him. He gets into the car and slams the door and the farmer is right there, the meat of his face hung in the open door window. He bends down and nearly sticks his face in. His cracked thin lips with a scar tilting245 toward his nose move thoughtfully. He's wearing glasses, a scholar. "The only way to get somewhere, you know; is to figure out where you're going before you go there."
Rabbit catches a whiff of whisky. He says in a level way, "I don't think so." The lips and spectacles and black hairs poking246 out of the man's tear?shaped nostrils248 show no surprise. Rabbit pulls out, going straight. Everybody who tells you how to act has whisky on their breath.
He drives to Lancaster and all the way his good airy feeling inside is spoiled. That that guy didn't know a thing but was just half?crocked makes the whole region seem sinister. Outside of Churchtown he passes an Amish buggy in the dark and catches a glimpse of a bearded man and a woman in black in this horsedrawn shadow glaring like devils. The beard inside the buggy like hairs in a nostril247. He tries to think of the good life these people lead, of the way they keep clear of all this phony business, this twentiethcentury vitamin racket, but in his head they stay devils, risking getting killed trotting249 along with one dim pink reflector behind, hating Rabbit and his kind, with their big furry250 tail lights. Who they think they were? He can't shake them, mentally. They never appeared in his rear?view mirror. He passed them and there was nothing. It was just that one sideways glance; the woman's face a hatchet251 of smoke in the square shadow. Tall coffin252 lined with hair clopping along to the tune253 of a dying horse. Amish overworked their animals, he knew. Fanatics254. Hump their women standing up, out in the fields, wearing clothes, just hoist255 black skirts and there it was, nothing underneath. No underpants. Fanatics. Worship manure256.
The rich earth seems to cast its darkness upward into the air. The farm country is somber257 at night. He is grateful when the lights of Lancaster merge with his dim beams. He stops at a diner whose clock says 8:04. He hadn't intended to eat until he got out of the state. He takes a map from the rack by the door and while eating two hamburgers at the counter studies his position. He is in Lancaster, surrounded by funny names, Bird in Hand, Paradise, Intercourse258, Mt. Airy, Mascot259. They probably didn't seem funny if you lived in them. Like Mt. Judge. You get used. A town has to be called something.
Bird in Hand, Paradise: his eyes keep going back to this dainty lettering on the map. He has an impulse, amid the oilfilmed shimmer260 of this synthetic261 and desultory262 diner, to drive there. Little plump women, toy dogs in the street, candy houses in lemon sunshine.
' But no, his goal is the white sun of the south like a great big pillow in the sky. And from the map he's been travelling more west than south; if the dirtdigger back there had had a map he could have gone due south on 10. Now the only thing to do is go into the heart of Lancaster and take 222 out and take it all the way down into Maryland and then catch 1. He remembers reading in the Saturday Evening Post how 1 goes from Florida to Maine through the most beautiful scenery in the world. He asks for a glass of milk and to go with it a piece of apple pie; the crust is crisp and bubbled and they've had the sense to use cinnamon. His mother's pies always had cinnamon. He pays by cracking a ten and goes out into the parking lot feeling pleased. The hamburgers had been fatter and warmer than the ones you get in Brewer, and the buns had seemed steamed. Things are better already.
It takes him a half?hour to pick his way through Lancaster. On 222 he drives south through Refton, Hessdale, New Providence263, and Quarryville, through Mechanics Grove and Unicorn264 and then a long stretch so dull and unmarked he doesn't know he's entered Maryland until he hits Oakwood. On the radio he hears "No Other Arms, No Other Lips," "Stagger Lee," a commercial for Rayco Clear Plastic Seat Covers, "If I Didn't Care" by Connie Francis, a commercial for Radio?Controlled Garage Door Operators, "I Ran All the Way Home just to Say I'm Sorry," "That Old Feeling" by Mel Tonne, a commercial for Big Screen Westinghouse TV Set with One?finger Automatic Tuning265, "needle?sharp pictures a nose away from the screen," "The Italian Cowboy Song," "Yep" by Duane Eddy266, a commercial for Papermate Pens, "Almost Grown," a commercial for Tame Cream Rinse267, "Let's Stroll," news (President Eisenhower and Prime Minister Harold Macmillan begin a series of talks in Gettysburg, Tibetans battle Chinese Communists in Lhasa, the whereabouts of the Dalai Lama, spiritual ruler of this remote and backward land, are unknown, a $250,000 trust fund has been left to a Park Avenue maid, Spring scheduled to arrive tomorrow), sports news (Yanks over Braves in Miami, somebody tied with somebody in St. Petersburg Open, scores in a local basketball tournament), weather (fair and seasonably warm), "The Happy Organ," "Turn Me Loose," a commercial for Schuylkill Life Insurance, "Rocksville, P?A" (Rabbit loves it), "A Picture No Artist Could Paint," a commercial for New Formula Barbasol Presto268?Lather, whose daily cleansing269 action tends to prevent skin blemishes270 and emulsifies271 something, "Pink Shoe Laces" by Dody Stevens, a word about a little boy called Billy Tessman who was hit by a car and would appreciate cards or letters, "Petit Fleur," "Fungo" (great), a commercial for Wool?Tex All?Wool Suits, "Fall Out" by Henry Mancini, "Everybody Like to Cha Cha Cha," a commercial for Lord's Grace Table Napkins and the gorgeous Last Supper Tablecloth272, "The Beat of My Heart," a commercial for Speed?Shine Wax and Lanolin Clay, "Venus," and then the same news again. Where is the Dalai Lama?
Shortly after Oakwood he comes to Route 1, which with its hot?dog stands and Calso signs and roadside taverns273 aping log cabins is unexpectedly discouraging. The farther he drives the more he feels some great confused system, Baltimore now instead of Philadelphia, reaching for him. He stops at a gas station for two dollars' worth of regular. What he really wants is another map. He unfolds it standing by a Coke machine and reads it in the light coming through a window stained green by stacked cans of liquid wax.
His problem is to get west and free of Baltimore?Washington, which like a two?headed dog guards the coastal274 route to the south. He doesn't want to go down along the water anyway; his image is of himself going right down the middle, right into the broad soft belly of the land, surprising the dawn cottonfields with his northern plates.
Now he is somewhere here. Further on, then, a road numbered 23 will go off to his left ? no, his right. That goes up and over and back into Pennsylvania but at this place, Shawsville, he can take a little narrow blue road without a number. Then go down a little and over again on 137. There is a ragged275 curve then that this road makes with 482 and then 31. Rabbit can feel himself swinging up and through that curve into the red line numbered 26 and down that into another numbered 340. Red, too; he is really gliding and suddenly sees where he wants to go. Over on the left three red roads stream parallel northeast to southwest; Rabbit can just feel them sliding down through the valleys of the Appalachians. Get on one of them it would be a chute dumping you into sweet low cottonland in the morning. Yes. Once he gets on that he can shake all thoughts of the mess behind him.
He gives two dollars for gas to the attendant, a young but tall colored boy whose limber lazy body slumping276 inside his baggy Amoco coveralls Rabbit has a weird impulse to hug. This far south the air already feels warmed. Warmth vibrates in brown and purple arcs between the lights of the service station and the moon. The clock in the window above the green cans of liquid wax says 9:10. The thin red second hand sweeps the numbers calmly and makes Rabbit's way seem smooth. He ducks into the Ford and in that fusty hot interior starts to murmur277, "Ev, reebody loves the, cha cha cha."
He drives bravely at first. Over blacktop and whitetop, through towns and fields, past false intersections278 with siren voices, keeping the map on the seat beside him, keeping the numbers straight and resisting the impulse to turn blindly south. Something animal in him knows he is going west.
The land grows wilder. The road evades great lakes and tunnels through pines. In the top of the windshield the telephone wires continually whip the stars. The music on the radio slowly freezes; the rock and roll for kids cools into old standards and show tunes279 and comforting songs from the Forties. Rabbit pictures married couples driving home to babysitters after a meal out and a movie. Then these melodies turn to ice as real night music takes over, pianos and vibes erecting280 clusters in the high brittle octaves and a clarinet wandering across like a crack on a pond. Saxes doing the same figure eight over and over again. He drives through Westminster. It takes forever to reach Frederick. He picks up 340 and crosses the Potomac.
Growing sleepy, Rabbit stops before midnight at a roadside café for coffee. Somehow, though he can't put his finger on the difference, he is unlike the other customers. They sense it too, and look at him with hard eyes, eyes like little metal studs pinned into the white faces of young men sitting in zippered281 jackets in booths three to a girl, the girls with orange hair hanging like wiggly seaweed or loosely bound with gold barrettes like pirate treasure. At the counter middle?aged couples in overcoats bunch their faces forward into the straws of gray ice?cream sodas. In the hush11 his entrance creates, the excessive courtesy the weary woman behind the counter shows him amplifies282 his strangeness. He orders coffee quietly and studies the rim of the cup to steady the sliding in his stomach. He had thought, he had read, that from shore to shore all America was the same. He wonders, Is it just these people I'm outside or is it all America?
Outside in the sharp air, he flinches283 when footsteps pound behind him. But it is just two lovers, holding hands and in a hurry to reach their car, their locked hands a starfish leaping through the dark. Their license284 plate says West Virginia. All the plates do except his. On the other side of the road the wooded land dips down so he can look over the tops of trees at the side of a mountain like a cutout of stiff paper mounted on a slightly faded blue sheet. He climbs into his Ford distastefully, but its stale air is his only haven285.
He drives through a thickening night. The road unravels286 with infuriating slowness, its black wall wearilessly rising in front of his headlights no matter how they twist. The tar10 sucks his tires. He realizes that the heat on his cheeks is anger; he has been angry ever since he left that diner full of mermaids287. So angry his cheeks feel parched inside his mouth and his nostrils water. He grinds his foot down as if to squash this snake of a road, and nearly loses the car on a curve, as the two right wheels fall captive to the dirt shoulder. He brings them back but keeps the speedometer needle leaning to the right of the legal limit.
He turns off the radio; its music no longer seems a river he is riding down but instead speaks with the voice of the cities and brushes his head with slippery hands. Yet into the silence that results he refuses to let thoughts come. He doesn't want to think, he wants to fall asleep and wake up pillowed by sand. How stupid, how frigging, fucking stupid he was, not to be farther than this. At midnight, the night half gone.
The land refuses to change. The more he drives the more the region resembles the country around Mt. Judge. The same scruff on the embankments, the same weathered billboards288 for the same products you wondered anybody would ever want to buy. At the upper edge of his headlight beams the naked tree?twigs make the same net. Indeed the net seems thicker now.
The animal in him swells289 its protest that he is going west. His mind stubbornly resists. His plan calls for him to bear left twentyeight miles after Frederick and that twenty?eight miles is used up now and, though his instincts cry out against it, when a broad road leads off to the left, though it's unmarked, he takes it. It is unlikely that the road would be marked, from its thickness on the map. But it is a short cut, he knows. He remembers that when Marty Tothero began to coach him he didn't want to shoot fouls290 underhand but that it turned out in the end to be the way. There is this quality, in things, of the right way seeming wrong at first.
The road is broad and confident for miles, but there is a sudden patched stretch, and after that it climbs and narrows. Narrows not so much by plan as naturally, the edges crumbling291 in and the woods on either side crowding down. The road twists more and more wildly in its struggle to gain height and then without warning sheds its skin of asphalt and worms on in dirt. By now Rabbit knows this is not the road but he is afraid to stop the car to turn it around. He has left the last light of a house miles behind. When he strays from straddling the mane of weeds, brambles rake his painted sides. Tree trunks and low limbs are all his headlights pick up; the scrabbling shadows spider backward through the web of wilderness292 into a black core where he fears his probe of light will stir some beast or ghost. He prays that the road not stop, remembering how on Mt. Judge even the shaggiest most forgotten logging lane eventually sloped to the valley. His ears itch; his height presses on them.
The prayer's answer is blinding. The trees at a far bend leap like flame and a car comes around and flies at him with its beams tilted293 high. Rabbit slithers over close to the ditch and, faceless as death, the bright car rips by at a speed twice his own. For more than a minute Rabbit drives through this bastard's insulting dust. Yet the good news makes him meek294, the news that this road goes two ways. And shortly he seems to be in a park. His lights pick up green little barrels stenciled295 PLEASE and the trees are thinned on both sides and in among them picnic tables and pavilions and outhouses show their straight edges. The curves of cars show too, and a few are parked close to the road, their passengers down out of sight. So this road of dread183 is a lovers' lane. In a hundred yards it ends.
It meets at right angles a smooth broad highway overhung by the dark cloud of a mountain ridge238. One car zips north. Another zips south. There are no signs. Rabbit puts the shift in neutral and pulls out the emergency brake and turns on the roof light and studies his map. His hands and shins are trembling. His brain flutters with fatigue296 behind sandy eyelids; the time must be 12:30 or later. The highway in front of him is empty. He has forgotten the numbers of the routes he has taken and the names of the towns he has passed through. He remembers Frederick but can't find it and in time realizes he is searching in a section due west of Washington where he has never been. There are so many red lines and blue lines, long names, little towns, squares and circles and stars. He moves his eyes north but the only line he recognizes is the straight dotted line of the Pennsylvania?Maryland border. The MasonDixon Line. The schoolroom in which he learned this recurs297 to him, the rooted desk rows, the scarred varnish298, the milky black of the blackboard, the pieces of tight girlish ass49 packed all up and down the aisles299 in alphabetical300 order. His eyes blankly founder301. Rabbit hears a clock in his head beat, monstrously302 slow, the soft ticks as far apart as the sound of waves on the shore he had wanted to reach. He burns his attention through the film fogging his eyes down into the map again. At once "Frederick" pops into sight, but in trying to steady its position he loses it, and fury makes the bridge of his nose ache. The names melt away and he sees the map whole, a net, all those red lines and blue lines and stars, a net he is somewhere caught in. He claws at it and tears it; with a gasp of exasperation303 he rips away a great triangular304 piece and tears the large remnant in half and, more calmly, lays these three pieces on top of each other and tears them in half, and then those six pieces and so on until he has a wad he can squeeze in his hand like a ball. He rolls down the window and throws the ball out; it explodes, and the bent scraps305 like disembodied wings flicker306 back over the top of the car. He cranks up the window. He blames everything on that farmer with glasses and two shirts. Funny how the man sticks in his throat. He can't think past him, his smugness, his solidity, somehow. He stumbled over him back there and is stumbling still, can't get him away from his feet, like shoelaces too long or a stick between his feet. The man mocked, whether out of his mouth or in the paced motions of his work?worn hands or through his hairy ears, somewhere out of his body he mocked the furtive307 wordless hopes that at moments give Harry a sensation of arrival. Figure out where you're going before you go there: it misses the whole point and yet there is always the chance that, little as it says, it says it. At any rate if he'd trusted to instinct he'd be in South Carolina now. He wishes he had a cigarette, to help him decide what his instinct is. He decides to go to sleep in the car for a few hours.
But a car starts up in the petting grove behind him and the headlights wheel around and press on Rabbit's neck. He stopped his car right in the middle of the road to look at the map. Now he must move. He feels unreasoning fear of being overtaken; the other headlights swell58 in the rear?view mirror and fill it like a burning cup. He stamps the clutch, puts the shift in first, and releases the handbrake. Hopping onto the highway, he turns instinctively308 right, north.
The trip home is easier. Though he has no map and hardly any gas, an all?night Mobilgas appears near Hagerstown as if a wizard waved a wand and green signs begin to point to the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The music on the radio is soothing309 now, lyrical and unadvertised, and, coming first from Harrisburg and then from Philadelphia, makes a beam he infallibly flies in on. He has broken through the barrier of fatigue and come into a calm flat world where nothing matters much. The last quarter of a basketball game used to carry him into this world; you ran not as the crowd thought for the sake of the score but for yourself, in a kind of idleness. There was you and sometimes the ball and then the hole, the high perfect hole with its pretty skirt of net. It was you, just you and that fringed ring, and sometimes it came down right to your lips it seemed and sometimes it stayed away, hard and remote and small. It seemed silly for the crowd to applaud or groan over what you had already felt in your fingers or even in your arms as you braced310 to shoot or for that matter in your eyes: when he was hot he could see the separate threads wound into the strings311 looping the hoop. Yet at the start of the game when you came out for warm?up and could see all the town clunkers sitting in the back of the bleachers elbowing each other and the cheerleaders wisecracking with the racier male teachers, the crowd then seemed right inside you, your liver and lungs and stomach. There was one fat guy used to come who'd get on the floor of Rabbit's stomach and really make it shake. Hey, Gunner! Hey, Showboat, shoot! Shoot! Rabbit remembers him fondly now; to that guy he had been a hero of sorts.
Throughout the early morning, those little hours that are so black, the music keeps coming and the signs keep pointing. His brain feels like a frail312 but alert invalid313 with messengers bringing down long corridors all this music and geographical314 news. At the same time he feels abnormally sensitive on the surface, as if his skin is thinking. The steering316 wheel is thin as a whip in his hands. As he turns it lightly he can feel the shaft317 stiffly pivot, and the differential gears part, and the bearings rotate in their sealed tunnels of grease. The phosphorescent winkers at the side of the road beguile318 him into thinking of young du Pont women: strings of them winding319 through huge glassy parties, potentially naked in their sequinned sheath gowns. Are rich girls frigid? He'll never know.
He wonders why there are so many signs coming back and so few going down. Of course he didn't know what he was going toward going down. He takes the Brewer turnoff off the Pike and the road takes him through the town where he first bought gas. As he takes the road marked BREWER 16 he can see cattycornered across the main street the dirtdigger's pumps and his dark window full of glinting shovels and fishing rods. The window looks pleased. There is just a lavender touch of light in the air. The radio's long floe320 of music is breaking up in warm?weather reports and farm prices.
He comes into Brewer from the south, seeing it in the smoky shadow before dawn as a gradual multiplication321 of houses among the trees beside the road and then as a treeless waste of industry, shoe factories and bottling plants and company parking lots and knitting mills converted to electronics parts and elephantine gas tanks lifting above trash?filled swampland yet lower than the blue edge of the mountain from whose crest322 Brewer was a warm carpet woven around a single shade of brick. Above the mountain, stars fade.
He crosses the Running Horse Bridge and is among streets he knows. He takes Warren Avenue through the south side of town and comes out on 422 near City Park. He drives around the mountain in company with a few hissing323 trailer trucks. Sunrise, an orange strip crushed against a far hill, flares324 between their wheels. As he turns left from Central into Jackson he nearly sideswipes a milk truck idling yards out from the curb. He continues up Jackson, past his parents' house, and turns into Kegerise Alley. Suddenly cool pink pallor tinges325 the buildings. He glides past the old chicken house, past the silent body shop, and parks the car in front of the Sunshine Athletic Association, a few steps from the boxed?in entrance, where anyone coming out would have to notice. Rabbit glances up hopefully at the third?story windows but no light shows. Tothero, if he is in there, is still asleep.
Rabbit settles himself to sleep. He takes off his suit coat and lays it over his chest like a blanket. But the daylight is growing, and the front seat is far too short, and the steering wheel crowds his shoulders. He doesn't move to the back seat because that would make him vulnerable; he wants to be able to drive away in a second if he must. Further, he doesn't want to sleep so heavily he will miss Tothero when he comes out.
So there he lies, his long legs doubled and no place for his feet, gazing up with crusty vision across the steering wheel and through the windshield into the sky's renewed flat fresh blue. Today is Saturday, and the sky has that broad bright blunt Saturday quality Rabbit remembers from boyhood, when the sky of a Saturday morning was the blank scoreboard of a long game about to begin. Roofball, box hockey, tether ball, darts326 . . .
His eyes have closed. A car purrs by, up the alley. The darkness behind his lids vibrates with the incessant327 automobile328 noises of the night past. He sees again the woods, the narrow road, the dark grove full of cars each containing a silent couple. He thinks again of his goal, lying down at dawn in sand by the Gulf of Mexico, and it seems in a way that the gritty seat of his car is that sand, and the rustling329 of the waking town the rustling of the sea.
He must not miss Tothero. He opens his eyes and tries to rise from his stiff shroud330. He wonders if he has missed any time. The sky is the same.
He becomes anxious about the car windows. He hoists331 his chest up on one elbow and checks them all. The window above his head is open a crack and he cranks it tight and pushes down all the lock buttons. This security relaxes him hopelessly. He turns his face into the crack between seat and back. This twisting pushes his knees into the tense upright cushion, an annoyance332 that for the moment makes him more wakeful. He wonders where his son slept, what Janice has done, where his parents and her parents hunted. Whether the police know. The thought of police for a second paints his mind blue. He feels the faded night he left behind in this place as a net of telephone calls and hasty trips, trails of tears and strings of words, white worried threads shuttled through the night and now faded but still existent, an invisible net overlaying the steep streets and in whose center he lies secure in his locked hollow hutch.
Cotton and gulls333 in half?light and the way she'd come on the other girl's bed, never as good on their own. But there were good things: Janice so shy about showing her body even in the first weeks of wedding yet one night coming into the bathroom expecting nothing he found the mirror clouded with steam and Janice just out of the shower standing there doped and pleased with a little blue towel lazily and unashamed her bottom bright pink with hot water the way a woman was of two halves bending over and turning and laughing at his expression whatever it was and putting her arms up to kiss him, a blush of steam on her body and the back of her soft neck slippery. Rabbit adjusts his position and returns his mind to its dark socket: the back of her neck slippery, the small of her back pliant334, both on their knees together, contortions335 that never were. His shin knocks the door handle, the pain becoming oddly mixed with the knocks of metal on metal down in the body shop. Work had begun. Eight o'clock? He recognizes elapsed time in the parched puffiness on his lips. He writhes336 and sits up, the covering coat falling to the car floor, and indeed through the splotched windshield there is Tothero, walking away down the alley, up beyond the very old farmhouse. Rabbit jumps from the car, puts on his coat, and runs after him. "Mr. Tothero! Hey Mr. Tothero!" His voice sounds flaked337 and rusty after hours of disuse.
The man turns, looking stranger than Rabbit had expected. He looks like a big tired dwarf338. He seems foreshortened: a balding big head and a massively checkered339 sports coat and then stubby legs in blue trousers that are too long, so the crease340 buckles341 and zigzags342 above the shoes. As he brakes his run, and walks the last strides, Rabbit fears he's made a mistake.
But Tothero says the perfect thing. "Harry," he says, "wonderful Harry Angstrom." He puts out his hand for Harry to seize and with the other squeezes the boy's arm in a clasp of rigor343. It comes back to Rabbit how he always had his hands on you. Tothero just stands there holding on and looking at him, smiling crookedly344, the nose bent, one eye wide open and the other heavylidded. His face has grown more lopsided with the years. He is not going bald evenly; brushed strands345 of gray and pale brown streak346 the top of his skull.
"I need your advice," Rabbit says, and corrects himself. "What I really need right now is a place to sleep."
Tothero is silent before replying. His great strength is in these silences; he has the disciplinarian's trick of waiting a long moment while his words gather weight. At last he asks, "What's happened to your home?"
"Well, it kind of went."
"How do you mean?"
"It was no good. I've run out. I really have."
Another pause. Rabbit narrows his eyes against the sunlight that rebounds347 off the asphalt. His left ear aches. His teeth on that side feel as if they might start hurting.
"That doesn't sound like very mature behavior," Tothero says.
"It was a mess as it was."
"What sort of mess?"
"I don't know. My wife's an alcoholic348."
"And have you tried to help her?"
"Sure. How?"
"Did you drink with her?"
"No sir, never. I can't stand the stuff, I just don't like the taste." He says this readily, proud to be able to report to his old coach that he has not abused his body.
"Perhaps you should have," Tothero offers after a moment. "Perhaps if you had shared this pleasure with her, she could have controlled it."
Rabbit, dazed by the sun, numb67 through weariness, can't follow this thought.
"It's Janice Springer, isn't it?" Tothero asks.
"Yeah. God she's dumb. She really is."
"Harry, that's a harsh thing to say. Of any human soul."
Rabbit nods because Tothero himself seems certain of this. He is beginning to feel weak under the weight of the man's pauses. These pauses seem longer than he remembered them, as if Tothero too feels their weight. Fear touches Rabbit again; he suspects his old coach is addled349, and begins all over. "I thought maybe I could sleep a couple hours somewhere in the Sunshine. Otherwise I might as well go home. I've had it."
To his relief Tothero becomes all bustling350 action, taking his elbow, steering him back along the alley, saying, "Yes of course, Harry, you look terrible, Harry. Terrible." His hand holds Rabbit's arm with metallic351 inflexibility352 and as he pushes him along Rabbit's bones jolt353, pinned at this point. Something frantic354 in so tight a grip diminishes the comfort of its firmness. Tothero's voice, too, having turned rapid and precise, cuts into Rabbit's woolly state too sharply. "You asked me for two things," he says. "Two things. A place to sleep, and advice. Now, Harry, I'll give you the place to sleep provided, provided, Harry, that when you wake up the two of us have a serious, a long and serious talk about this crisis in your marriage. I'll tell you this now, it's not so much you I'm worried about, I know you well enough to know you always land on your feet, Harry; it's not so much you as Janice. She doesn't have your coordination355. Do you promise?"
"Sure. Promise what?"
"Promise, Harry, we'll thrash out a way between us to help her."
"Yeah, but I don't think I can. I mean I'm not that interested in her. I was, but I'm not."
They reach the cement steps and the wooden storm shed at the entrance. Tothero opens the door with a key he has. The place is empty, the silent bar shadowy and the small round tables looking rickety and weak without men sitting at them. The electrical advertisements behind the bar, tubing and tinsel, are unplugged and dead. Tothero says, in a voice too loud, "I don't believe it. I don't believe that my greatest boy would grow so hardhearted."
Hard?hearted: the word seems to clatter356 after them as they climb the stairs to the second floor. Rabbit apologizes: "I'll try to think when I get some sleep."
"Good boy. That's all we want. Try is all we can ask." What does he mean, we? All these tables are empty. Sunlight strikes blond squares into the drawn tan shades above a low radiator dyed black with dust. Men's steps have worn paths in the narrow bare floorboards.
Tothero leads him to a door painted to blend with the wall; they go up a steep flight of attic357 stairs, a kind of nailed?down ladder between whose steps he sees sections of insulated wire and ragged gaps of carpentry. They climb into light. "Here's my mansion," Tothero says, and fidgets with his coat pocket flaps.
The tiny room faces east. A slash358 in a window shade throws a long knife of sun on a side wall, above an unmade Army cot. The other shade is up. Between the windows stands a bureau cleverly made of six beer cases wired together, three high and two wide. In the six boxes are arranged shirts in their laundry cellophane, folded undershirts and shorts, socks balled in pairs, handkerchiefs, shined shoes, and a leatherbacked brush with a comb stuck in the bristles359. From two thick nails some sport coats, jarringly gay in pattern, are hung on hangers360. Tothero's housekeeping stops at caring for his clothes. The floor is dotted with rolls of fluff. Newspapers and all kinds of magazines, from the National Geographic315 to teenage crime confessions361 and comic books, are stacked around. The space where Tothero lives merges362 easily with the rest of the attic, which is storage space, containing old pinochle tournament charts and pool tables and some lumber363 and metal barrels and broken chairs with cane364 bottoms and a roll of chicken wire and a rack of softball uniforms, hung on a pipe fixed365 between two slanting366 beams and blocking out the light from the window at the far end.
"Is there a men's?" Rabbit asks.
"Downstairs, Harry." Tothero's enthusiasm has died; he seems embarrassed. While Rabbit uses the toilet he can hear the old man fussing around upstairs, but when he returns he can see nothing changed. The bed is still unmade.
Tothero waits and Rabbit waits and then realizes Tothero wants to see him undress and undresses, sliding into the rumpled lukewarm bed in his T?shirt and jockey shorts. Though the idea is distasteful, getting into the old man's hollow, the sensations are good, being able to stretch out at last and feeling the solid cool wall close to him and hearing cars moving maybe hunting him far below. He twists his neck to say something to Tothero and is surprised by solitude367. The door at the foot of the attic steps closes and footsteps diminish down a second flight of stairs, and an outside door closes and a bird cries by the window and the clangor of the body shop comes up softly. The old man's standing there was disturbing but Rabbit is sure that's not his problem. Tothero was always known as a lech but never a queer. Why watch? Suddenly Rabbit knows. It takes Tothero back in time. Because of all the times he had stood in locker368 rooms watching his boys change clothes. Solving this problem relaxes Rabbit's muscles. He remembers the couple with linked hands running on the parking lot outside the diner in West Virginia and it seems a great loss that it hadn't been him about to nail her, her seaweed hair sprawling369. Red hair? There? He imagines West Virginia girls as coarse hardbodied laughers, like the young whores in Texas. Their sugar drawls always seemed to be poking fun but then he was only nineteen. Coming down the street with Hanley and Jarzylo and Shamberger the tight khaki making him feel nervous and the plains breaking away on all sides the horizon no higher than his knees it seemed and the houses showing families sitting on sofas inside like chickens at roost facing TV's. Jarzylo a maniac226, cackling. Rabbit couldn't believe this house was right. It had flowers in the window, actual living flowers innocent in the window and he was tempted to turn and run. Sure enough, the woman who came to the door could have been on television selling cake mix. But she said, "Come on in boys, don't be shaaeh, come on in and heyiv a good taam," said it so motherly, and there they were, the hooers, not as many as he had pictured, in the parlor370, on oldfashioned?looking furniture with scrolls371 and knobs. That they were pretty homely372 made him less timid: just ordinary factorylooking women, you wouldn't even call them girls, with a glaze373 on their faces like under fluorescent374 lights. They pelted375 the soldiers with remarks like pellets of dust and the men sneezed into laughter and huddled376 together surprised and numb. The one he took, but she took him, came up and touched him, hadn't buttoned her blouse more than one button from the last one and upstairs asked him in her gritty sugar voice if he wanted the light on or off and, when out of a choked throat he answered "Off," laughed, and then now and then smiled under him, working around to get him right, and even speaking kindly377: "You're all right, honey. You're gone along all right. Oh yeaas. You've had lessons." So that when it was over he was hurt to learn, from the creases378 of completion at the sides of her lips and the hard way she wouldn't keep lying beside him but got up and sat on the edge of the metal?frame bed looking out the dark window at the green night sky of Texas, that she had faked her half. Her mute back showing in yellow?white the bar of a swimming?suit bra angered him; he took the ball of her shoulder in his hand and turned her roughly. The weighted shadows of her front hung so careless and undefended he looked away. She said down into his ear, "Honey, you didn't pay to be no two?timer." Sweet woman, she was money. The clangor of the body shop comes up softly. Its noise comforts him, tells him he is hidden and safe. While he hides, men are busy nailing the world down, and toward the disembodied sounds his heart makes in darkness a motion of love.
点击收听单词发音
1 alley | |
n.小巷,胡同;小径,小路 | |
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2 pebbles | |
[复数]鹅卵石; 沙砾; 卵石,小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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3 ace | |
n.A牌;发球得分;佼佼者;adj.杰出的 | |
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4 irises | |
n.虹( iris的名词复数 );虹膜;虹彩;鸢尾(花) | |
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5 partially | |
adv.部分地,从某些方面讲 | |
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6 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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7 hem | |
n.贴边,镶边;vt.缝贴边;(in)包围,限制 | |
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8 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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9 rim | |
n.(圆物的)边,轮缘;边界 | |
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10 tar | |
n.柏油,焦油;vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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11 hush | |
int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
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12 squinting | |
斜视( squint的现在分词 ); 眯着眼睛; 瞟; 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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13 squint | |
v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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14 silhouette | |
n.黑色半身侧面影,影子,轮廓;v.描绘成侧面影,照出影子来,仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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15 underneath | |
adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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16 cuticle | |
n.表皮 | |
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17 ails | |
v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 );感到不舒服;处境困难;境况不佳 | |
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18 hip | |
n.臀部,髋;屋脊 | |
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19 swapped | |
交换(工作)( swap的过去式和过去分词 ); 用…替换,把…换成,掉换(过来) | |
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20 flips | |
轻弹( flip的第三人称单数 ); 按(开关); 快速翻转; 急挥 | |
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21 knuckled | |
v.(指人)指关节( knuckle的过去式和过去分词 );(指动物)膝关节,踝 | |
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22 taut | |
adj.拉紧的,绷紧的,紧张的 | |
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23 tautness | |
拉紧,紧固度 | |
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24 hoop | |
n.(篮球)篮圈,篮 | |
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25 shuffle | |
n.拖著脚走,洗纸牌;v.拖曳,慢吞吞地走 | |
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26 syllables | |
n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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27 wan | |
(wide area network)广域网 | |
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28 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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29 gliding | |
v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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30 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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31 swirls | |
n.旋转( swirl的名词复数 );卷状物;漩涡;尘旋v.旋转,打旋( swirl的第三人称单数 ) | |
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32 pivot | |
v.在枢轴上转动;装枢轴,枢轴;adj.枢轴的 | |
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33 liberated | |
a.无拘束的,放纵的 | |
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34 groan | |
vi./n.呻吟,抱怨;(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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35 blurred | |
v.(使)变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 );(使)难以区分;模模糊糊;迷离 | |
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36 disinterested | |
adj.不关心的,不感兴趣的 | |
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37 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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38 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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39 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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40 skids | |
n.滑向一侧( skid的名词复数 );滑道;滚道;制轮器v.(通常指车辆) 侧滑( skid的第三人称单数 );打滑;滑行;(住在)贫民区 | |
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41 nibbles | |
vt.& vi.啃,一点一点地咬(nibble的第三人称单数形式) | |
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42 suede | |
n.表面粗糙的软皮革 | |
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43 thump | |
v.重击,砰然地响;n.重击,重击声 | |
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44 thumps | |
n.猪肺病;砰的重击声( thump的名词复数 )v.重击, (指心脏)急速跳动( thump的第三人称单数 ) | |
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45 gravel | |
n.砂跞;砂砾层;结石 | |
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46 brewer | |
n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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47 fortresses | |
堡垒,要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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48 doorways | |
n.门口,门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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49 ass | |
n.驴;傻瓜,蠢笨的人 | |
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50 shingling | |
压挤熟铁块,叠瓦作用 | |
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51 bruise | |
n.青肿,挫伤;伤痕;vt.打青;挫伤 | |
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52 bums | |
n. 游荡者,流浪汉,懒鬼,闹饮,屁股 adj. 没有价值的,不灵光的,不合理的 vt. 令人失望,乞讨 vi. 混日子,以乞讨为生 | |
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53 radiator | |
n.暖气片,散热器 | |
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54 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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55 exertion | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
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56 friction | |
n.摩擦,摩擦力 | |
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57 glossy | |
adj.平滑的;有光泽的 | |
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58 swell | |
vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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59 swelling | |
n.肿胀 | |
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60 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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61 hanger | |
n.吊架,吊轴承;挂钩 | |
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62 halfway | |
adj.中途的,不彻底的,部分的;adv.半路地,在中途,在半途 | |
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63 socket | |
n.窝,穴,孔,插座,插口 | |
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64 deftly | |
adv.灵巧地,熟练地,敏捷地 | |
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65 rankles | |
v.(使)痛苦不已,(使)怨恨不已( rankle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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66 wreck | |
n.失事,遇难;沉船;vt.(船等)失事,遇难 | |
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67 numb | |
adj.麻木的,失去感觉的;v.使麻木 | |
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68 smirky | |
adj.假笑的,傻笑的,得意地笑的 | |
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69 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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70 itch | |
n.痒,渴望,疥癣;vi.发痒,渴望 | |
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71 throbbing | |
a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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72 harry | |
vt.掠夺,蹂躏,使苦恼 | |
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73 attentively | |
adv.聚精会神地;周到地;谛;凝神 | |
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74 gadget | |
n.小巧的机械,精巧的装置,小玩意儿 | |
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75 dime | |
n.(指美国、加拿大的钱币)一角 | |
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76 unnaturally | |
adv.违反习俗地;不自然地;勉强地;不近人情地 | |
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77 Christians | |
n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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78 wink | |
n.眨眼,使眼色,瞬间;v.眨眼,使眼色,闪烁 | |
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79 winks | |
v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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80 modem | |
n.调制解调器 | |
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81 economizing | |
v.节省,减少开支( economize的现在分词 ) | |
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82 pregnancy | |
n.怀孕,怀孕期 | |
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83 maternity | |
n.母性,母道,妇产科病房;adj.孕妇的,母性的 | |
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84 belly | |
n.肚子,腹部;(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分,膛 | |
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85 aisle | |
n.(教堂、教室、戏院等里的)过道,通道 | |
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86 falters | |
(嗓音)颤抖( falter的第三人称单数 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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87 pokes | |
v.伸出( poke的第三人称单数 );戳出;拨弄;与(某人)性交 | |
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88 dwindle | |
v.逐渐变小(或减少) | |
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89 sockets | |
n.套接字,使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 );孔( socket的名词复数 );(电器上的)插口;托座;凹穴 | |
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90 brittle | |
adj.易碎的;脆弱的;冷淡的;(声音)尖利的 | |
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91 relatively | |
adv.比较...地,相对地 | |
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92 flattened | |
[医](水)平扁的,弄平的 | |
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93 labor | |
n.劳动,努力,工作,劳工;分娩;vi.劳动,努力,苦干;vt.详细分析;麻烦 | |
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94 bastard | |
n.坏蛋,混蛋;私生子 | |
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95 tinged | |
v.(使)发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96 blurts | |
v.突然说出,脱口而出( blurt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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97 brittleness | |
n.脆性,脆度,脆弱性 | |
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98 strap | |
n.皮带,带子;v.用带扣住,束牢;用绷带包扎 | |
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99 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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100 sodas | |
n.苏打( soda的名词复数 );碱;苏打水;汽水 | |
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101 ironical | |
adj.讽刺的,冷嘲的 | |
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102 repentance | |
n.懊悔 | |
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103 westward | |
n.西方,西部;adj.西方的,向西的;adv.向西 | |
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104 lugging | |
超载运转能力 | |
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105 maple | |
n.槭树,枫树,槭木 | |
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106 crates | |
n. 板条箱, 篓子, 旧汽车 vt. 装进纸条箱 | |
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107 filthy | |
adj.卑劣的;恶劣的,肮脏的 | |
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108 bins | |
n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 );宽口箱(如面包箱,垃圾箱等)v.扔掉,丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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109 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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110 mincing | |
adj.矫饰的;v.切碎;切碎 | |
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111 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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112 lava | |
n.熔岩,火山岩 | |
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113 lather | |
n.(肥皂水的)泡沫,激动 | |
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114 eavesdropping | |
n. 偷听 | |
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115 slipper | |
n.拖鞋 | |
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116 neatly | |
adv.整洁地,干净地,灵巧地,熟练地 | |
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117 clutter | |
n.零乱,杂乱;vt.弄乱,把…弄得杂乱 | |
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118 corrupt | |
v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
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119 ashtray | |
n.烟灰缸 | |
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120 rumpled | |
v.弄皱,使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121 floppy | |
adj.松软的,衰弱的 | |
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122 radiators | |
n.(暖气设备的)散热器( radiator的名词复数 );汽车引擎的冷却器,散热器 | |
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123 tightening | |
上紧,固定,紧密 | |
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124 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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125 curb | |
n.场外证券市场,场外交易;vt.制止,抑制 | |
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126 incompetent | |
adj.无能力的,不能胜任的 | |
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127 maples | |
槭树,枫树( maple的名词复数 ); 槭木 | |
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128 exhale | |
v.呼气,散出,吐出,蒸发 | |
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129 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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130 twigs | |
细枝,嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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131 texture | |
n.(织物)质地;(材料)构造;结构;肌理 | |
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132 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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133 gouged | |
v.凿( gouge的过去式和过去分词 );乱要价;(在…中)抠出…;挖出… | |
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134 insulators | |
绝缘、隔热或隔音等的物质或装置( insulator的名词复数 ) | |
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135 grove | |
n.林子,小树林,园林 | |
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136 spikes | |
n.穗( spike的名词复数 );跑鞋;(防滑)鞋钉;尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 );偷偷地给某人的饮料加入(更多)酒精( 或药物);把尖状物钉入;打乱某人的计划 | |
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137 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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138 spine | |
n.脊柱,脊椎;(动植物的)刺;书脊 | |
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139 sob | |
n.空间轨道的轰炸机;呜咽,哭泣 | |
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140 gutter | |
n.沟,街沟,水槽,檐槽,贫民窟 | |
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141 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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142 wholesale | |
n.批发;adv.以批发方式;vt.批发,成批出售 | |
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143 outlet | |
n.出口/路;销路;批发商店;通风口;发泄 | |
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144 farmhouse | |
n.农场住宅(尤指主要住房) | |
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145 masonry | |
n.砖土建筑;砖石 | |
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146 eroded | |
adj. 被侵蚀的,有蚀痕的 动词erode的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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147 waxy | |
adj.苍白的;光滑的 | |
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148 milky | |
adj.牛奶的,多奶的;乳白色的 | |
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149 pollen | |
n.[植]花粉 | |
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150 athletic | |
adj.擅长运动的,强健的;活跃的,体格健壮的 | |
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151 tenement | |
n.公寓;房屋 | |
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152 leftovers | |
n.剩余物,残留物,剩菜 | |
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153 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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154 ERECTED | |
adj. 直立的,竖立的,笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立,建立 | |
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155 buck | |
n.雄鹿,雄兔;v.马离地跳跃 | |
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156 bucks | |
n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 );钱;(英国十九世纪初的)花花公子;(用于某些表达方式)责任v.(马等)猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 );抵制;猛然震荡;马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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157 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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158 ousted | |
驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 ); 革职; 罢黜; 剥夺 | |
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159 crouching | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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160 merge | |
v.(使)结合,(使)合并,(使)合为一体 | |
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161 cemeteries | |
n.(非教堂的)墓地,公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
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162 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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163 scenic | |
adj.自然景色的,景色优美的 | |
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164 plantation | |
n.种植园,大农场 | |
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165 glides | |
n.滑行( glide的名词复数 );滑音;音渡;过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 );掠过;(鸟或飞机 ) 滑翔 | |
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166 softened | |
(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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167 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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168 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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169 gasp | |
n.喘息,气喘;v.喘息;气吁吁他说 | |
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170 pinnacle | |
n.尖塔,尖顶,山峰;(喻)顶峰 | |
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171 ebbs | |
退潮( ebb的名词复数 ); 落潮; 衰退 | |
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172 pricked | |
刺,扎,戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 ); 刺伤; 刺痛; 使剧痛 | |
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173 hopping | |
n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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174 sneaks | |
abbr.sneakers (tennis shoes) 胶底运动鞋(网球鞋)v.潜行( sneak的第三人称单数 );偷偷溜走;(儿童向成人)打小报告;告状 | |
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175 precocious | |
adj.早熟的;较早显出的 | |
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176 wagon | |
n.四轮马车,手推车,面包车;无盖运货列车 | |
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177 mow | |
v.割(草、麦等),扫射,皱眉;n.草堆,谷物堆 | |
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178 inverted | |
adj.反向的,倒转的v.使倒置,使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179 rattle | |
v.飞奔,碰响;激怒;n.碰撞声;拨浪鼓 | |
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180 ordinance | |
n.法令;条令;条例 | |
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181 sickle | |
n.镰刀 | |
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182 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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183 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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184 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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185 pane | |
n.窗格玻璃,长方块 | |
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186 winking | |
n.瞬眼,目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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187 precarious | |
adj.不安定的,靠不住的;根据不足的 | |
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188 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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189 aluminum | |
n.(aluminium)铝 | |
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190 faceted | |
adj. 有小面的,分成块面的 | |
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191 beak | |
n.鸟嘴,茶壶嘴,钩形鼻 | |
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192 rustle | |
v.沙沙作响;偷盗(牛、马等);n.沙沙声声 | |
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193 smeared | |
弄脏; 玷污; 涂抹; 擦上 | |
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194 lapses | |
n.失误,过失( lapse的名词复数 );小毛病;行为失检;偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 );陷入;倒退;丧失 | |
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195 collapsed | |
adj.倒塌的 | |
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196 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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197 dabbles | |
v.涉猎( dabble的第三人称单数 );涉足;浅尝;少量投资 | |
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198 tickling | |
反馈,回授,自旋挠痒法 | |
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199 grid | |
n.高压输电线路网;地图坐标方格;格栅 | |
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200 sloppy | |
adj.邋遢的,不整洁的 | |
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201 Ford | |
n.浅滩,水浅可涉处;v.涉水,涉过 | |
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202 wincing | |
赶紧避开,畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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203 plausibly | |
似真地 | |
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204 obliquely | |
adv.斜; 倾斜; 间接; 不光明正大 | |
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205 slumps | |
萧条期( slump的名词复数 ); (个人、球队等的)低潮状态; (销售量、价格、价值等的)骤降; 猛跌 | |
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206 cello | |
n.大提琴 | |
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207 parched | |
adj.焦干的;极渴的;v.(使)焦干 | |
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208 nervously | |
adv.神情激动地,不安地 | |
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209 tinted | |
adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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210 disconsolately | |
adv.悲伤地,愁闷地;哭丧着脸 | |
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211 blot | |
vt.弄脏(用吸墨纸)吸干;n.污点,污渍 | |
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212 hood | |
n.头巾,兜帽,覆盖;v.罩上,以头巾覆盖 | |
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213 cinders | |
n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 );炭渣;煤渣路;煤渣跑道 | |
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214 complexity | |
n.复杂(性),复杂的事物 | |
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215 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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216 groves | |
树丛,小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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217 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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218 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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219 soot | |
n.煤烟,烟尘;vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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220 stink | |
vi.发出恶臭;糟透,招人厌恶;n.恶臭 | |
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221 smothering | |
(使)窒息, (使)透不过气( smother的现在分词 ); 覆盖; 忍住; 抑制 | |
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222 killing | |
n.巨额利润;突然赚大钱,发大财 | |
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223 sophomore | |
n.大学二年级生;adj.第二年的 | |
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224 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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225 frigid | |
adj.寒冷的,凛冽的;冷淡的;拘禁的 | |
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226 maniac | |
n.精神癫狂的人;疯子 | |
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227 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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228 mattresses | |
褥垫,床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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229 passionate | |
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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230 ledge | |
n.壁架,架状突出物;岩架,岩礁 | |
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231 farmhouses | |
n.农舍,农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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232 tavern | |
n.小旅馆,客栈;小酒店 | |
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233 shovels | |
n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 );锹;推土机、挖土机等的)铲;铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 );锹;推土机、挖土机等的)铲;铲形部份 | |
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234 baggy | |
adj.膨胀如袋的,宽松下垂的 | |
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235 flannel | |
n.法兰绒;法兰绒衣服 | |
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236 lame | |
adj.跛的,(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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237 curt | |
adj.简短的,草率的 | |
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238 ridge | |
n.山脊;鼻梁;分水岭 | |
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239 poked | |
v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 );戳出;拨弄;与(某人)性交 | |
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240 crafty | |
adj.狡猾的,诡诈的 | |
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241 insolently | |
adv.自豪地,自傲地 | |
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242 weird | |
adj.古怪的,离奇的;怪诞的,神秘而可怕的 | |
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243 itches | |
n.痒( itch的名词复数 );渴望,热望v.发痒( itch的第三人称单数 ) | |
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244 lettuce | |
n.莴苣;生菜 | |
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245 tilting | |
倾斜,倾卸 | |
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246 poking | |
n. 刺,戳,袋 vt. 拨开,刺,戳 vi. 戳,刺,捅,搜索,伸出,行动散慢 | |
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247 nostril | |
n.鼻孔 | |
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248 nostrils | |
鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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249 trotting | |
小跑,急走( trot的现在分词 ); 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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250 furry | |
adj.毛皮的;似毛皮的;毛皮制的 | |
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251 hatchet | |
n.短柄小斧;v.扼杀 | |
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252 coffin | |
n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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253 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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254 fanatics | |
狂热者,入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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255 hoist | |
n.升高,起重机,推动;v.升起,升高,举起 | |
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256 manure | |
n.粪,肥,肥粒;vt.施肥 | |
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257 somber | |
adj.昏暗的,阴天的,阴森的,忧郁的 | |
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258 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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259 mascot | |
n.福神,吉祥的东西 | |
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260 shimmer | |
v./n.发微光,发闪光;微光 | |
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261 synthetic | |
adj.合成的,人工的;综合的;n.人工制品 | |
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262 desultory | |
adj.散漫的,无方法的 | |
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263 providence | |
n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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264 unicorn | |
n.(传说中的)独角兽 | |
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265 tuning | |
n.调谐,调整,调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 );调整;(给收音机、电视等)调谐;使协调 | |
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266 eddy | |
n.漩涡,涡流 | |
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267 rinse | |
v.用清水漂洗,用清水冲洗 | |
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268 presto | |
adv.急速地;n.急板乐段;adj.急板的 | |
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269 cleansing | |
n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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270 blemishes | |
n.(身体的)瘢点( blemish的名词复数 );伤疤;瑕疵;污点 | |
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271 emulsifies | |
v.使乳化( emulsify的第三人称单数 ) | |
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272 tablecloth | |
n.桌布,台布 | |
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273 taverns | |
n.小旅馆,客栈,酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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274 coastal | |
adj.海岸的,沿海的,沿岸的 | |
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275 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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276 slumping | |
大幅度下降,暴跌( slump的现在分词 ); 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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277 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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278 intersections | |
n.横断( intersection的名词复数 );交叉;交叉点;交集 | |
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279 tunes | |
n.曲调,曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 );调整;(给收音机、电视等)调谐;使协调 | |
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280 erecting | |
v.使直立,竖起( erect的现在分词 );建立 | |
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281 zippered | |
v.拉上拉链( zipper的过去式和过去分词 );用拉链扣上 | |
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282 amplifies | |
放大,扩大( amplify的第三人称单数 ); 增强; 详述 | |
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283 flinches | |
v.(因危险和痛苦)退缩,畏惧( flinch的第三人称单数 ) | |
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284 license | |
n.执照,许可证,特许;v.许可,特许 | |
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285 haven | |
n.安全的地方,避难所,庇护所 | |
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286 unravels | |
解开,拆散,散开( unravel的第三人称单数 ); 阐明; 澄清; 弄清楚 | |
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287 mermaids | |
n.(传说中的)美人鱼( mermaid的名词复数 ) | |
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288 billboards | |
n.广告牌( billboard的名词复数 ) | |
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289 swells | |
增强( swell的第三人称单数 ); 肿胀; (使)凸出; 充满(激情) | |
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290 fouls | |
n.煤层尖灭;恶劣的( foul的名词复数 );邪恶的;难闻的;下流的v.使污秽( foul的第三人称单数 );弄脏;击球出界;(通常用废物)弄脏 | |
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291 crumbling | |
adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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292 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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293 tilted | |
v. 倾斜的 | |
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294 meek | |
adj.温顺的,逆来顺受的 | |
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295 stenciled | |
v.用模板印(文字或图案)( stencil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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296 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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297 recurs | |
再发生,复发( recur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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298 varnish | |
n.清漆;v.上清漆;粉饰 | |
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299 aisles | |
n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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300 alphabetical | |
adj.字母(表)的,依字母顺序的 | |
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301 Founder | |
n.创始者,缔造者 | |
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302 monstrously | |
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303 exasperation | |
n.愤慨 | |
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304 triangular | |
adj.三角(形)的,三者间的 | |
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305 scraps | |
油渣 | |
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306 flicker | |
vi./n.闪烁,摇曳,闪现 | |
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307 furtive | |
adj.鬼鬼崇崇的,偷偷摸摸的 | |
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308 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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309 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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310 braced | |
adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 );撑牢;使自己站稳;振作起来 | |
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311 strings | |
n.弦 | |
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312 frail | |
adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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313 invalid | |
n.病人,伤残人;adj.有病的,伤残的;无效的 | |
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314 geographical | |
adj.地理的;地区(性)的 | |
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315 geographic | |
adj.地理学的,地理的 | |
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316 steering | |
n.操舵装置 | |
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317 shaft | |
n.(工具的)柄,杆状物 | |
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318 beguile | |
vt.欺骗,消遣 | |
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319 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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320 floe | |
n.大片浮冰 | |
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321 multiplication | |
n.增加,增多,倍增;增殖,繁殖;乘法 | |
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322 crest | |
n.顶点;饰章;羽冠;vt.达到顶点;vi.形成浪尖 | |
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323 hissing | |
n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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324 flares | |
n.喇叭裤v.(使)闪耀( flare的第三人称单数 );(使)(船舷)外倾;(使)鼻孔张大;(使)(衣裙、酒杯等)呈喇叭形展开 | |
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325 tinges | |
n.细微的色彩,一丝痕迹( tinge的名词复数 ) | |
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326 darts | |
n.掷飞镖游戏;飞镖( dart的名词复数 );急驰,飞奔v.投掷,投射( dart的第三人称单数 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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327 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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328 automobile | |
n.汽车,机动车 | |
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329 rustling | |
n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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330 shroud | |
n.裹尸布,寿衣;罩,幕;vt.覆盖,隐藏 | |
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331 hoists | |
把…吊起,升起( hoist的第三人称单数 ) | |
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332 annoyance | |
n.恼怒,生气,烦恼 | |
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333 gulls | |
n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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334 pliant | |
adj.顺从的;可弯曲的 | |
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335 contortions | |
n.扭歪,弯曲;扭曲,弄歪,歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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336 writhes | |
(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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337 flaked | |
精疲力竭的,失去知觉的,睡去的 | |
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338 dwarf | |
n.矮子,侏儒,矮小的动植物;vt.使…矮小 | |
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339 checkered | |
adj.有方格图案的 | |
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340 crease | |
n.折缝,褶痕,皱褶;v.(使)起皱 | |
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341 buckles | |
搭扣,扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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342 zigzags | |
n.锯齿形的线条、小径等( zigzag的名词复数 )v.弯弯曲曲地走路,曲折地前进( zigzag的第三人称单数 ) | |
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343 rigor | |
n.严酷,严格,严厉 | |
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344 crookedly | |
adv. 弯曲地,不诚实地 | |
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345 strands | |
n.(线、绳、金属线、毛发等的)股( strand的名词复数 );缕;海洋、湖或河的)岸;(观点、计划、故事等的)部份v.使滞留,使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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346 streak | |
n.条理,斑纹,倾向,少许,痕迹;v.加条纹,变成条纹,奔驰,快速移动 | |
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347 rebounds | |
反弹球( rebound的名词复数 ); 回弹球; 抢断篮板球; 复兴 | |
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348 alcoholic | |
adj.(含)酒精的,由酒精引起的;n.酗酒者 | |
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349 addled | |
adj.(头脑)糊涂的,愚蠢的;(指蛋类)变坏v.使糊涂( addle的过去式和过去分词 );使混乱;使腐臭;使变质 | |
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350 bustling | |
adj.喧闹的 | |
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351 metallic | |
adj.金属的;金属制的;含金属的;产金属的;像金属的 | |
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352 inflexibility | |
n.不屈性,顽固,不变性;不可弯曲;非挠性;刚性 | |
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353 jolt | |
v.(使)摇动,(使)震动,(使)颠簸 | |
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354 frantic | |
adj.狂乱的,错乱的,激昂的 | |
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355 coordination | |
n.协调,协作 | |
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356 clatter | |
v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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357 attic | |
n.顶楼,屋顶室 | |
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358 slash | |
vi.大幅度削减;vt.猛砍,尖锐抨击,大幅减少;n.猛砍,斜线,长切口,衣衩 | |
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359 bristles | |
短而硬的毛发,刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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360 hangers | |
n.衣架( hanger的名词复数 );挂耳 | |
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361 confessions | |
n.承认( confession的名词复数 );自首;声明;(向神父的)忏悔 | |
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362 merges | |
(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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363 lumber | |
n.木材,木料;v.以破旧东西堆满;伐木;笨重移动 | |
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364 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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365 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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366 slanting | |
倾斜的,歪斜的 | |
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367 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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368 locker | |
n.更衣箱,储物柜,冷藏室,上锁的人 | |
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369 sprawling | |
adj.蔓生的,不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 );蔓延;杂乱无序地拓展;四肢伸展坐着(或躺着) | |
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370 parlor | |
n.店铺,营业室;会客室,客厅 | |
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371 scrolls | |
n.(常用于录写正式文件的)纸卷( scroll的名词复数 );卷轴;涡卷形(装饰);卷形花纹v.(电脑屏幕上)从上到下移动(资料等),卷页( scroll的第三人称单数 );(似卷轴般)卷起;(像展开卷轴般地)将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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372 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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373 glaze | |
v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞,毫无表情 | |
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374 fluorescent | |
adj.荧光的,发出荧光的 | |
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375 pelted | |
(连续地)投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 ); 连续抨击; 攻击; 剥去…的皮 | |
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376 huddled | |
挤在一起(huddle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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377 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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378 creases | |
(使…)起折痕,弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 ); (皮肤)皱起,使起皱纹 | |
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