I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about Mrs. Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remained with him at cards until it was very late. At breakfast, however, I informed him about my discovery and asked him whether he would care to accompany me to Coombe Tracey. At first he was very eager to come, but on second thoughts it seemed to both of us that if I went alone the results might be better. The more formal we made the visit the less information we might obtain. I left Sir Henry behind, therefore, not without some prickings of conscience, and drove off upon my new quest.
When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the horses, and I made inquiries5 for the lady whom I had come to interrogate6. I had no difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central and well appointed. A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as I entered the sitting-room7 a lady, who was sitting before a Remington typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome. Her face fell, however, when she saw that I was a stranger, and she sat down again and asked me the object of my visit.
The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme beauty. Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and her cheeks, though considerably9 freckled10, were flushed with the exquisite11 bloom of the brunette, the dainty pink which lurks12 at the heart of the sulphur rose. Admiration13 was, I repeat, the first impression. But the second was criticism. There was something subtly wrong with the face, some coarseness of expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some looseness of lip which marred14 its perfect beauty. But these, of course, are afterthoughts. At the moment I was simply conscious that I was in the presence of a very handsome woman, and that she was asking me the reasons for my visit. I had not quite understood until that instant how delicate my mission was.
“I have the pleasure,” said I, “of knowing your father.”
It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it. “There is nothing in common between my father and me,” she said. “I owe him nothing, and his friends are not mine. If it were not for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts I might have starved for all that my father cared.”
“It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have come here to see you.”
“What can I tell you about him?” she asked, and her fingers played nervously16 over the stops of her typewriter.
“You knew him, did you not?”
“I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If I am able to support myself it is largely due to the interest which he took in my unhappy situation.”
“Did you correspond with him?”
The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazel eyes.
“What is the object of these questions?” she asked sharply.
“The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that I should ask them here than that the matter should pass outside our control.”
She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last she looked up with something reckless and defiant17 in her manner.
“Well, I’ll answer,” she said. “What are your questions?”
“Did you correspond with Sir Charles?”
“Have you the dates of those letters?”
“No.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He was a very retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth.”
“But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did he know enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you say that he has done?”
She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.
“There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and united to help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate friend of Sir Charles’s. He was exceedingly kind, and it was through him that Sir Charles learned about my affairs.”
I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapleton his almoner upon several occasions, so the lady’s statement bore the impress of truth upon it.
“Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?” I continued.
Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again. “Really, sir, this is a very extraordinary question.”
“I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it.”
“Then I answer, certainly not.”
“Not on the very day of Sir Charles’s death?”
The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was before me. Her dry lips could not speak the “No” which I saw rather than heard.
“Surely your memory deceives you,” said I. “I could even quote a passage of your letter. It ran ‘Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o’clock.’”
“You do Sir Charles an injustice22. He did burn the letter. But sometimes a letter may be legible even when burned. You acknowledge now that you wrote it?”
“Yes, I did write it,” she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrent23 of words. “I did write it. Why should I deny it? I have no reason to be ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. I believed that if I had an interview I could gain his help, so I asked him to meet me.”
“But why at such an hour?”
“Because I had only just learned that he was going to London next day and might be away for months. There were reasons why I could not get there earlier.”
“But why a rendezvous24 in the garden instead of a visit to the house?”
“Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelor’s house?”
“Well, what happened when you did get there?”
“I never went.”
“Mrs. Lyons!”
“No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I never went. Something intervened to prevent my going.”
“What was that?”
“That is a private matter. I cannot tell it.”
“You acknowledge then that you made an appointment with Sir Charles at the very hour and place at which he met his death, but you deny that you kept the appointment.”
“That is the truth.”
Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never get past that point.
“Mrs. Lyons,” said I as I rose from this long and inconclusive interview, “you are taking a very great responsibility and putting yourself in a very false position by not making an absolutely clean breast of all that you know. If I have to call in the aid of the police you will find how seriously you are compromised. If your position is innocent, why did you in the first instance deny having written to Sir Charles upon that date?”
“Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn25 from it and that I might find myself involved in a scandal.”
“And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy your letter?”
“If you have read the letter you will know.”
“I did not say that I had read all the letter.”
“You quoted some of it.”
“I quoted the postscript26. The letter had, as I said, been burned and it was not all legible. I ask you once again why it was that you were so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letter which he received on the day of his death.”
“The matter is a very private one.”
“The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation27.”
“I will tell you, then. If you have heard anything of my unhappy history you will know that I made a rash marriage and had reason to regret it.”
“I have heard so much.”
“My life has been one incessant28 persecution29 from a husband whom I abhor30. The law is upon his side, and every day I am faced by the possibility that he may force me to live with him. At the time that I wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learned that there was a prospect31 of my regaining32 my freedom if certain expenses could be met. It meant everything to me—peace of mind, happiness, self-respect—everything. I knew Sir Charles’s generosity, and I thought that if he heard the story from my own lips he would help me.”
“Then how is it that you did not go?”
“Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?”
“So I should have done had I not seen his death in the paper next morning.”
The woman’s story hung coherently together, and all my questions were unable to shake it. I could only check it by finding if she had, indeed, instituted divorce proceedings34 against her husband at or about the time of the tragedy.
It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not been to Baskerville Hall if she really had been, for a trap would be necessary to take her there, and could not have returned to Coombe Tracey until the early hours of the morning. Such an excursion could not be kept secret. The probability was, therefore, that she was telling the truth, or, at least, a part of the truth. I came away baffled and disheartened. Once again I had reached that dead wall which seemed to be built across every path by which I tried to get at the object of my mission. And yet the more I thought of the lady’s face and of her manner the more I felt that something was being held back from me. Why should she turn so pale? Why should she fight against every admission until it was forced from her? Why should she have been so reticent35 at the time of the tragedy? Surely the explanation of all this could not be as innocent as she would have me believe. For the moment I could proceed no farther in that direction, but must turn back to that other clue which was to be sought for among the stone huts upon the moor.
And that was a most vague direction. I realised it as I drove back and noted36 how hill after hill showed traces of the ancient people. Barrymore’s only indication had been that the stranger lived in one of these abandoned huts, and many hundreds of them are scattered37 throughout the length and breadth of the moor. But I had my own experience for a guide since it had shown me the man himself standing38 upon the summit of the Black Tor. That, then, should be the centre of my search. From there I should explore every hut upon the moor until I lighted upon the right one. If this man were inside it I should find out from his own lips, at the point of my revolver if necessary, who he was and why he had dogged us so long. He might slip away from us in the crowd of Regent Street, but it would puzzle him to do so upon the lonely moor. On the other hand, if I should find the hut and its tenant39 should not be within it I must remain there, however long the vigil, until he returned. Holmes had missed him in London. It would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run him to earth where my master had failed.
Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry40, but now at last it came to my aid. And the messenger of good fortune was none other than Mr. Frankland, who was standing, grey-whiskered and red-faced, outside the gate of his garden, which opened on to the highroad along which I travelled.
“Good-day, Dr. Watson,” cried he with unwonted good humour, “you must really give your horses a rest and come in to have a glass of wine and to congratulate me.”
My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly after what I had heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I was anxious to send Perkins and the wagonette home, and the opportunity was a good one. I alighted and sent a message to Sir Henry that I should walk over in time for dinner. Then I followed Frankland into his dining-room.
“It is a great day for me, sir—one of the red-letter days of my life,” he cried with many chuckles41. “I have brought off a double event. I mean to teach them in these parts that law is law, and that there is a man here who does not fear to invoke42 it. I have established a right of way through the centre of old Middleton’s park, slap across it, sir, within a hundred yards of his own front door. What do you think of that? We’ll teach these magnates that they cannot ride roughshod over the rights of the commoners, confound them! And I’ve closed the wood where the Fernworthy folk used to picnic. These infernal people seem to think that there are no rights of property, and that they can swarm43 where they like with their papers and their bottles. Both cases decided44, Dr. Watson, and both in my favour. I haven’t had such a day since I had Sir John Morland for trespass45 because he shot in his own warren.”
“How on earth did you do that?”
“Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay reading—Frankland v. Morland, Court of Queen’s Bench. It cost me £200, but I got my verdict.”
“Did it do you any good?”
“None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I had no interest in the matter. I act entirely46 from a sense of public duty. I have no doubt, for example, that the Fernworthy people will burn me in effigy47 tonight. I told the police last time they did it that they should stop these disgraceful exhibitions. The County Constabulary is in a scandalous state, sir, and it has not afforded me the protection to which I am entitled. The case of Frankland v. Regina will bring the matter before the attention of the public. I told them that they would have occasion to regret their treatment of me, and already my words have come true.”
“How so?” I asked.
The old man put on a very knowing expression. “Because I could tell them what they are dying to know; but nothing would induce me to help the rascals48 in any way.”
I had been casting round for some excuse by which I could get away from his gossip, but now I began to wish to hear more of it. I had seen enough of the contrary nature of the old sinner to understand that any strong sign of interest would be the surest way to stop his confidences.
“Some poaching case, no doubt?” said I with an indifferent manner.
“Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important matter than that! What about the convict on the moor?”
I stared. “You don’t mean that you know where he is?” said I.
“I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure that I could help the police to lay their hands on him. Has it never struck you that the way to catch that man was to find out where he got his food and so trace it to him?”
He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfortably near the truth. “No doubt,” said I; “but how do you know that he is anywhere upon the moor?”
“I know it because I have seen with my own eyes the messenger who takes him his food.”
My heart sank for Barrymore. It was a serious thing to be in the power of this spiteful old busybody. But his next remark took a weight from my mind.
“You’ll be surprised to hear that his food is taken to him by a child. I see him every day through my telescope upon the roof. He passes along the same path at the same hour, and to whom should he be going except to the convict?”
Here was luck indeed! And yet I suppressed all appearance of interest. A child! Barrymore had said that our unknown was supplied by a boy. It was on his track, and not upon the convict’s, that Frankland had stumbled. If I could get his knowledge it might save me a long and weary hunt. But incredulity and indifference49 were evidently my strongest cards.
“I should say that it was much more likely that it was the son of one of the moorland shepherds taking out his father’s dinner.”
The least appearance of opposition50 struck fire out of the old autocrat51. His eyes looked malignantly52 at me, and his grey whiskers bristled54 like those of an angry cat.
“Indeed, sir!” said he, pointing out over the wide-stretching moor. “Do you see that Black Tor over yonder? Well, do you see the low hill beyond with the thornbush upon it? It is the stoniest55 part of the whole moor. Is that a place where a shepherd would be likely to take his station? Your suggestion, sir, is a most absurd one.”
I meekly56 answered that I had spoken without knowing all the facts. My submission57 pleased him and led him to further confidences.
“You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before I come to an opinion. I have seen the boy again and again with his bundle. Every day, and sometimes twice a day, I have been able—but wait a moment, Dr. Watson. Do my eyes deceive me, or is there at the present moment something moving upon that hillside?”
It was several miles off, but I could distinctly see a small dark dot against the dull green and grey.
“Come, sir, come!” cried Frankland, rushing upstairs. “You will see with your own eyes and judge for yourself.”
The telescope, a formidable instrument mounted upon a tripod, stood upon the flat leads of the house. Frankland clapped his eye to it and gave a cry of satisfaction.
“Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes over the hill!”
There he was, sure enough, a small urchin58 with a little bundle upon his shoulder, toiling59 slowly up the hill. When he reached the crest60 I saw the ragged61 uncouth62 figure outlined for an instant against the cold blue sky. He looked round him with a furtive63 and stealthy air, as one who dreads64 pursuit. Then he vanished over the hill.
“Well! Am I right?”
“Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have some secret errand.”
“And what the errand is even a county constable65 could guess. But not one word shall they have from me, and I bind66 you to secrecy67 also, Dr. Watson. Not a word! You understand!”
“Just as you wish.”
“They have treated me shamefully—shamefully. When the facts come out in Frankland v. Regina I venture to think that a thrill of indignation will run through the country. Nothing would induce me to help the police in any way. For all they cared it might have been me, instead of my effigy, which these rascals burned at the stake. Surely you are not going! You will help me to empty the decanter in honour of this great occasion!”
But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in dissuading68 him from his announced intention of walking home with me. I kept the road as long as his eye was on me, and then I struck off across the moor and made for the stony69 hill over which the boy had disappeared. Everything was working in my favour, and I swore that it should not be through lack of energy or perseverance70 that I should miss the chance which fortune had thrown in my way.
The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the hill, and the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on one side and grey shadow on the other. A haze8 lay low upon the farthest sky-line, out of which jutted71 the fantastic shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor. Over the wide expanse there was no sound and no movement. One great grey bird, a gull72 or curlew, soared aloft in the blue heaven. He and I seemed to be the only living things between the huge arch of the sky and the desert beneath it. The barren scene, the sense of loneliness, and the mystery and urgency of my task all struck a chill into my heart. The boy was nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me in a cleft73 of the hills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the middle of them there was one which retained sufficient roof to act as a screen against the weather. My heart leaped within me as I saw it. This must be the burrow74 where the stranger lurked75. At last my foot was on the threshold of his hiding place—his secret was within my grasp.
As I approached the hut, walking as warily76 as Stapleton would do when with poised77 net he drew near the settled butterfly, I satisfied myself that the place had indeed been used as a habitation. A vague pathway among the boulders79 led to the dilapidated opening which served as a door. All was silent within. The unknown might be lurking there, or he might be prowling on the moor. My nerves tingled80 with the sense of adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand upon the butt78 of my revolver and, walking swiftly up to the door, I looked in. The place was empty.
But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false scent81. This was certainly where the man lived. Some blankets rolled in a waterproof82 lay upon that very stone slab83 upon which Neolithic84 man had once slumbered85. The ashes of a fire were heaped in a rude grate. Beside it lay some cooking utensils86 and a bucket half-full of water. A litter of empty tins showed that the place had been occupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyes became accustomed to the checkered87 light, a pannikin and a half-full bottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middle of the hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon this stood a small cloth bundle—the same, no doubt, which I had seen through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy. It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of preserved peaches. As I set it down again, after having examined it, my heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay a sheet of paper with writing upon it. I raised it, and this was what I read, roughly scrawled88 in pencil: “Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey.”
For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinking out the meaning of this curt89 message. It was I, then, and not Sir Henry, who was being dogged by this secret man. He had not followed me himself, but he had set an agent—the boy, perhaps—upon my track, and this was his report. Possibly I had taken no step since I had been upon the moor which had not been observed and reported. Always there was this feeling of an unseen force, a fine net drawn round us with infinite skill and delicacy, holding us so lightly that it was only at some supreme moment that one realised that one was indeed entangled90 in its meshes91.
If there was one report there might be others, so I looked round the hut in search of them. There was no trace, however, of anything of the kind, nor could I discover any sign which might indicate the character or intentions of the man who lived in this singular place, save that he must be of Spartan92 habits and cared little for the comforts of life. When I thought of the heavy rains and looked at the gaping93 roof I understood how strong and immutable94 must be the purpose which had kept him in that inhospitable abode95. Was he our malignant53 enemy, or was he by chance our guardian96 angel? I swore that I would not leave the hut until I knew.
Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing with scarlet97 and gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patches by the distant pools which lay amid the great Grimpen Mire98. There were the two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there a distant blur99 of smoke which marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two, behind the hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was sweet and mellow100 and peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as I looked at them my soul shared none of the peace of Nature but quivered at the vagueness and the terror of that interview which every instant was bringing nearer. With tingling101 nerves but a fixed102 purpose, I sat in the dark recess103 of the hut and waited with sombre patience for the coming of its tenant.
And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp clink of a boot striking upon a stone. Then another and yet another, coming nearer and nearer. I shrank back into the darkest corner and cocked the pistol in my pocket, determined104 not to discover myself until I had an opportunity of seeing something of the stranger. There was a long pause which showed that he had stopped. Then once more the footsteps approached and a shadow fell across the opening of the hut.
“It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson,” said a well-known voice. “I really think that you will be more comfortable outside than in.”
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1
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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interrogate
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| vt.讯问，审问，盘问 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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41
chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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46
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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malignantly
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| 怀恶意地； 恶毒地； 有害地； 恶性地 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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stoniest
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| 多石头的( stony的最高级 )； 冷酷的，无情的 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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57
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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dissuading
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| 劝（某人）勿做某事，劝阻( dissuade的现在分词 ) | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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jutted
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| v.（使）突出( jut的过去式和过去分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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neolithic
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| adj.新石器时代的 | |
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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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checkered
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| adj.有方格图案的 | |
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88
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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90
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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94
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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95
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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100
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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101
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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102
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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103
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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104
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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