“Dear, dear, what has Lionel Hezekiah been doing now?” she murmured anxiously.
Involuntarily she reached out for her crutch4; but it was a little beyond her reach, having fallen on the floor, and without it Salome could not move a step.
“Well, anyway, Judith is bringing him in as fast as she can,” she reflected. “He must have been up to something terrible this time; for she looks very cross, and she never walks like that unless she is angry clear through. Dear me, I am sometimes tempted5 to think that Judith and I made a mistake in adopting the child. I suppose two old maids don’t know much about bringing up a boy properly. But he is NOT a bad child, and it really seems to me that there must be some way of making him behave better if we only knew what it was.”
Salome’s monologue7 was cut short by the entrance of her sister Judith, holding Lionel Hezekiah by his chubby8 wrist with a determined9 grip.
Judith Marsh10 was ten years older than Salome, and the two women were as different in appearance as night and day. Salome, in spite of her thirty-five years, looked almost girlish. She was small and pink and flower-like, with little rings of pale golden hair clustering all over her head in a most unspinster-like fashion, and her eyes were big and blue, and mild as a dove’s. Her face was perhaps a weak one, but it was very sweet and appealing.
Judith Marsh was tall and dark, with a plain, tragic11 face and iron-gray hair. Her eyes were black and sombre, and every feature bespoke12 unyielding will and determination. Just now she looked, as Salome had said, “angry clear through,” and the baleful glances she cast on the small mortal she held would have withered13 a more hardened criminal than six happy-go-lucky years had made of Lionel Hezekiah.
Lionel Hezekiah, whatever his shortcomings, did not look bad. Indeed, he was as engaging an urchin14 as ever beamed out on a jolly good world through a pair of big, velvet15-brown eyes. He was chubby and firm-limbed, with a mop of beautiful golden curls, which were the despair of his heart and the pride and joy of Salome’s; and his round face was usually a lurking-place for dimples and smiles and sunshine.
But just now Lionel Hezekiah was under a blight16; he had been caught red-handed in guilt17, and was feeling much ashamed of himself. He hung his head and squirmed his toes under the mournful reproach in Salome’s eyes. When Salome looked at him like that, Lionel Hezekiah always felt that he was paying more for his fun than it was worth.
“What do you suppose I caught him doing this time?” demanded Judith.
“Firing—at—a—mark—on—the—henhouse—door—with—new-laid—eggs,” said Judith with measured distinctness. “He has broken every egg that was laid to-day except three. And as for the state of that henhouse door—”
Judith paused, with an indignant gesture meant to convey that the state of the henhouse door must be left to Salome’s imagination, since the English language was not capable of depicting19 it.
“I—didn’t know it was wrong,” said Lionel Hezekiah, bursting into prompt tears. “I—I thought it would be bully21 fun. Seems’s if everything what’s fun ‘s wrong.”
Salome’s heart was not proof against tears, as Lionel Hezekiah very well knew. She put her arm about the sobbing23 culprit, and drew him to her side.
“He’s got to be taught, then,” was Judith’s retort. “No, you needn’t try to beg him off, Salome. He shall go right to bed without supper, and stay there till to-morrow morning.”
“Oh! not without his supper,” entreated25 Salome. “You—you won’t improve the child’s morals by injuring his stomach, Judith.”
“Without his supper, I say,” repeated Judith inexorably. “Lionel Hezekiah, go up-stairs to the south room, and go to bed at once.”
Lionel Hezekiah went up-stairs, and went to bed at once. He was never sulky or disobedient. Salome listened to him as he stumped26 patiently up-stairs with a sob22 at every step, and her own eyes filled with tears.
“Now don’t for pity’s sake go crying, Salome,” said Judith irritably27. “I think I’ve let him off very easily. He is enough to try the patience of a saint, and I never was that,” she added with entire truth.
“But he isn’t bad,” pleaded Salome. “You know he never does anything the second time after he has been told it was wrong, never.”
“What good does that do when he is certain to do something new and twice as bad? I never saw anything like him for originating ideas of mischief28. Just look at what he has done in the past fortnight—in one fortnight, Salome. He brought in a live snake, and nearly frightened you into fits; he drank up a bottle of liniment, and almost poisoned himself; he took three toads29 to bed with him; he climbed into the henhouse loft30, and fell through on a hen and killed her; he painted his face all over with your water-colours; and now comes THIS exploit. And eggs at twenty-eight cents a dozen! I tell you, Salome, Lionel Hezekiah is an expensive luxury.”
“But we couldn’t do without him,” protested Salome.
“I could. But as you can’t, or think you can’t, we’ll have to keep him, I suppose. But the only way to secure any peace of mind for ourselves, as far as I can see, is to tether him in the yard, and hire somebody to watch him.”
“There must be some way of managing him,” said Salome desperately31. She thought Judith was in earnest about the tethering. Judith was generally so terribly in earnest in all she said. “Perhaps it is because he has no other employment that he invents so many unheard-of things. If he had anything to occupy himself with—perhaps if we sent him to school—”
“He’s too young to go to school. Father always said that no child should go to school until it was seven, and I don’t mean Lionel Hezekiah shall. Well, I’m going to take a pail of hot water and a brush, and see what I can do to that henhouse door. I’ve got my afternoon’s work cut out for me.”
Judith stood Salome’s crutch up beside her, and departed to purify the henhouse door. As soon as she was safely out of the way, Salome took her crutch, and limped slowly and painfully to the foot of the stairs. She could not go up and comfort Lionel Hezekiah as she yearned32 to do, which was the reason Judith had sent him up-stairs. Salome had not been up-stairs for fifteen years. Neither did she dare to call him out on the landing, lest Judith return. Besides, of course he must be punished; he had been very naughty.
“But I wish I could smuggle33 a bit of supper up to him,” she mused34, sitting down on the lowest step and listening. “I don’t hear a sound. I suppose he has cried himself to sleep, poor, dear baby. He certainly is dreadfully mischievous35; but it seems to me that it shows an investigating turn of mind, and if it could only be directed into the proper channels—I wish Judith would let me have a talk with Mr. Leonard about Lionel Hezekiah. I wish Judith didn’t hate ministers so. I don’t mind so much her not letting me go to church, because I’m so lame36 that it would be painful anyhow; but I’d like to talk with Mr. Leonard now and then about some things. I can never believe that Judith and father were right; I am sure they were not. There is a God, and I’m afraid it’s terribly wicked not to go to church. But there, nothing short of a miracle would convince Judith; so there is no use in thinking about it. Yes, Lionel Hezekiah must have gone to sleep.”
Salome pictured him so, with his long, curling lashes37 brushing his rosy38, tear-stained cheek and his chubby fists clasped tightly over his breast as was his habit; her heart grew warm and thrilling with the maternity39 the picture provoked.
A year previously40 Lionel Hezekiah’s parents, Abner and Martha Smith, had died, leaving a houseful of children and very little else. The children were adopted into various Carmody families, and Salome Marsh had amazed Judith by asking to be allowed to take the five-year-old “baby.” At first Judith had laughed at the idea; but, when she found that Salome was in earnest, she yielded. Judith always gave Salome her own way except on one point.
“If you want the child, I suppose you must have him,” she said finally. “I wish he had a civilized41 name, though. Hezekiah is bad, and Lionel is worse; but the two in combination, and tacked42 on to Smith at that, is something that only Martha Smith could have invented. Her judgment43 was the same clear through, from selecting husbands to names.”
So Lionel Hezekiah came into Judith’s home and Salome’s heart. The latter was permitted to love him all she pleased, but Judith overlooked his training with a critical eye. Possibly it was just as well, for Salome might otherwise have ruined him with indulgence. Salome, who always adopted Judith’s opinions, no matter how ill they fitted her, deferred44 to the former’s decrees meekly45, and suffered far more than Lionel Hezekiah when he was punished.
She sat on the stairs until she fell asleep herself, her head pillowed on her arm. Judith found her there when she came in, severe and triumphant46, from her bout6 with the henhouse door. Her face softened47 into marvelous tenderness as she looked at Salome.
“She’s nothing but a child herself in spite of her age,” she thought pityingly. “A child that’s had her whole life thwarted48 and spoiled through no fault of her own. And yet folks say there is a God who is kind and good! If there is a God, he is a cruel, jealous tyrant49, and I hate Him!”
Judith’s eyes were bitter and vindictive50. She thought she had many grievances51 against the great Power that rules the universe, but the most intense was Salome’s helplessness—Salome, who fifteen years before had been the brightest, happiest of maidens52, light of heart and foot, bubbling over with harmless, sparkling mirth and life. If Salome could only walk like other women, Judith told herself that she would not hate the great tyrannical Power.
Lionel Hezekiah was subdued53 and angelic for four days after that affair of the henhouse door. Then he broke out in a new place. One afternoon he came in sobbing, with his golden curls full of burrs. Judith was not in, but Salome dropped her crochet-work and gazed at him in dismay.
“Oh, Lionel Hezekiah, what have you gone and done now?”
“I—I just stuck the burrs in ‘cause I was playing I was a heathen chief,” sobbed54 Lionel Hezekiah. “It was great fun while it lasted; but, when I tried to take them out, it hurt awful.”
Neither Salome nor Lionel Hezekiah ever forgot the harrowing hour that followed. With the aid of comb and scissors, Salome eventually got the burrs out of Lionel Hezekiah’s crop of curls. It would be impossible to decide which of them suffered more in the process. Salome cried as hard as Lionel Hezekiah did, and every snip55 of the scissors or tug56 at the silken floss cut into her heart. She was almost exhausted57 when the performance was over; but she took the tired Lionel Hezekiah on her knee, and laid her wet cheek against his shining head.
“Oh, Lionel Hezekiah, what does make you get into mischief so constantly?” she sighed.
Lionel Hezekiah frowned reflectively.
“I don’t know,” he finally announced, “unless it’s because you don’t send me to Sunday school.”
“Well, all the other boys go,” said Lionel Hezekiah defiantly; “and they’re all better’n me; so I guess that must be the reason. Teddy Markham says that all little boys should go to Sunday school, and that if they don’t they’re sure to go to the bad place. I don’t see how you can ‘spect me to behave well when you won’t send me to Sunday school.
“Would you like to go?” asked Salome, almost in a whisper.
“Oh, don’t use such dreadful words,” sighed Salome helplessly. “I’ll see what can be done. Perhaps you can go. I’ll ask your Aunt Judith.”
“Oh, Aunt Judith won’t let me go,” said Lionel Hezekiah despondingly. “Aunt Judith doesn’t believe there is any God or any bad place. Teddy Markham says she doesn’t. He says she’s an awful wicked woman ‘cause she never goes to church. So you must be wicked too, Aunt Salome, ‘cause you never go. Why don’t you?”
“Your—your Aunt Judith won’t let me go,” faltered Salome, more perplexed62 than she had ever been before in her life.
“Well, it doesn’t seem to me that you have much fun on Sundays,” remarked Lionel Hezekiah ponderingly. “I’d have more if I was you. But I s’pose you can’t ‘cause you’re ladies. I’m glad I’m a man. Look at Abel Blair, what splendid times he has on Sundays. He never goes to church, but he goes fishing, and has cock-fights, and gets drunk. When I grow up, I’m going to do that on Sundays too, since I won’t be going to church. I don’t want to go to church, but I’d like to go to Sunday school.”
Salome listened in agony. Every word of Lionel Hezekiah’s stung her conscience unbearably63. So this was the result of her weak yielding to Judith; this innocent child looked upon her as a wicked woman, and, worse still, regarded old, depraved Abel Blair as a model to be imitated. Oh! was it too late to undo65 the evil? When Judith returned, Salome blurted66 out the whole story. “Lionel Hezekiah must go to Sunday school,” she concluded appealingly.
Judith’s face hardened until it was as if cut in stone.
“No, he shall not,” she said stubbornly. “No one living in my household shall ever go to church or Sunday school. I gave in to you when you wanted to teach him to say his prayers, though I knew it was only foolish superstition67, but I sha’n’t yield another inch. You know exactly how I feel on this subject, Salome; I believe just as father did. You know he hated churches and churchgoing. And was there ever a better, kinder, more lovable man?”
“Mother believed in God; mother always went to church,” pleaded Salome.
“Mother was weak and superstitious68, just as you are,” retorted Judith inflexibly69. “I tell you, Salome, I don’t believe there is a God. But, if there is, He is cruel and unjust, and I hate Him.”
“Judith!” gasped70 Salome, aghast at the impiety71. She half expected to see her sister struck dead at her feet.
“Don’t ‘Judith’ me!” said Judith passionately73, in the strange anger that any discussion of the subject always roused in her. “I mean every word I say. Before you got lame I didn’t feel much about it one way or another; I’d just as soon have gone with mother as with father. But, when you were struck down like that, I knew father was right.”
For a moment Salome quailed74. She felt that she could not, dare not, stand out against Judith. For her own sake she could not have done so, but the thought of Lionel Hezekiah nerved her to desperation. She struck her thin, bleached75 little hands wildly together.
“Judith, I’m going to church to-morrow,” she cried. “I tell you I am, I won’t set Lionel Hezekiah a bad example one day longer. I’ll not take him; I won’t go against you in that, for it is your bounty76 feeds and clothes him; but I’m going myself.”
“If you do, Salome Marsh, I’ll never forgive you,” said Judith, her harsh face dark with anger; and then, not trusting herself to discuss the subject any longer, she went out.
Salome dissolved into her ready tears, and cried most of the night. But her resolution did not fail. Go to church she would, for that dear baby’s sake.
Judith would not speak to her at breakfast, and this almost broke Salome’s heart; but she dared not yield. After breakfast, she limped painfully into her room, and still more painfully dressed herself. When she was ready, she took a little old worn Bible out of her box. It had been her mother’s, and Salome read a chapter in it every night, although she never dared to let Judith see her doing it.
When she limped out into the kitchen, Judith looked up with a hard face. A flame of sullen77 anger glowed in her dark eyes, and she went into the sitting-room78 and shut the door, as if by that act she were shutting her sister for evermore out of her heart and life. Salome, strung up to the last pitch of nervous tension, felt intuitively the significance of that closed door. For a moment she wavered—oh, she could not go against Judith! She was all but turning back to her room when Lionel Hezekiah came running in, and paused to look at her admiringly.
“You look just bully, Aunt Salome,” he said. “Where are you going?”
“Don’t use that word, Lionel Hezekiah,” pleaded Salome. “I’m going to church.”
“I can’t, dear. Your Aunt Judith wouldn’t like it. Perhaps she will let you go after a while. Now do be a good boy while I am away, won’t you? Don’t do any naughty things.” “I won’t do them if I know they’re naughty,” conceded Lionel Hezekiah. “But that’s just the trouble; I don’t know what’s naughty and what ain’t. Prob’ly if I went to Sunday school I’d find out.”
Salome limped out of the yard and down the lane bordered by its asters and goldenrod. Fortunately the church was just outside the lane, across the main road; but Salome found it hard to cover even that short distance. She felt almost exhausted when she reached the church and toiled80 painfully up the aisle81 to her mother’s old pew. She laid her crutch on the seat, and sank into the corner by the window with a sigh of relief.
She had elected to come early so that she might get there before the rest of the people. The church was as yet empty, save for a class of Sunday school children and their teacher in a remote corner, who paused midway in their lesson to stare with amazement82 at the astonishing sight of Salome Marsh limping into church.
The big building, shadowy from the great elms around it, was very still. A faint murmur3 came from the closed room behind the pulpit where the rest of the Sunday school was assembled. In front of the pulpit was a stand bearing tall white geraniums in luxuriant blossom. The light fell through the stained-glass window in a soft tangle83 of hues84 upon the floor. Salome felt a sense of peace and happiness fill her heart. Even Judith’s anger lost its importance. She leaned her head against the window-sill, and gave herself up to the flood of tender old recollections that swept over her.
Memory went back to the years of her childhood when she had sat in this pew every Sunday with her mother. Judith had come then, too, always seeming grown up to Salome by reason of her ten years’ seniority. Her tall, dark, reserved father never came. Salome knew that the Carmody people called him an infidel, and looked upon him as a very wicked man. But he had not been wicked; he had been good and kind in his own odd way.
The gentle little mother had died when Salome was ten years old, but so loving and tender was Judith’s care that the child did not miss anything out of her life. Judith Marsh loved her little sister with an intensity85 that was maternal86. She herself was a plain, repellent girl, liked by few, sought after by no man; but she was determined that Salome should have everything that she had missed—admiration, friendship, love. She would have a vicarious youth in Salome’s.
All went according to Judith’s planning until Salome was eighteen, and then trouble after trouble came. Their father, whom Judith had understood and passionately loved, died; Salome’s young lover was killed in a railroad accident; and finally Salome herself developed symptoms of the hip87-disease which, springing from a trifling88 injury, eventually left her a cripple. Everything possible was done for her. Judith, falling heir to a snug89 little fortune by the death of the old aunt for whom she was named, spared nothing to obtain the best medical skill, and in vain. One and all, the great doctors failed.
Judith had borne her father’s death bravely enough in spite of her agony of grief; she had watched her sister pining and fading with the pain of her broken heart without growing bitter; but when she knew at last that Salome would never walk again save as she hobbled painfully about on her crutch, the smouldering revolt in her soul broke its bounds, and overflowed90 her nature in a passionate72 rebellion against the Being who had sent, or had failed to prevent, these calamities91. She did not rave64 or denounce wildly; that was not Judith’s way; but she never went to church again, and it soon became an accepted fact in Carmody that Judith Marsh was as rank an infidel as her father had been before her; nay92, worse, since she would not even allow Salome to go to church, and shut the door in the minister’s face when he went to see her.
“I should have stood out against her for conscience’ sake,” reflected Salome in her pew self-reproachfully. “But, O dear, I’m afraid she’ll never forgive me, and how can I live if she doesn’t? But I must endure it for Lionel Hezekiah’s sake; my weakness has perhaps done him great harm already. They say that what a child learns in the first seven years never leaves him; so Lionel Hezekiah has only another year to get set right about these things. Oh, if I’ve left it till too late!”
When the people began to come in, Salome felt painfully the curious glances directed at her. Look where she would, she met them, unless she looked out of the window; so out of the window she did look unswervingly, her delicate little face burning crimson93 with self-consciousness. She could see her home and its back yard plainly, with Lionel Hezekiah making mud-pies joyfully94 in the corner. Presently she saw Judith come out of the house and stride away to the pine wood behind it. Judith always betook herself to the pines in time of mental stress and strain.
Salome could see the sunlight shining on Lionel Hezekiah’s bare head as he mixed his pies. In the pleasure of watching him she forgot where she was and the curious eyes turned on her.
Suddenly Lionel Hezekiah ceased concocting95 pies, and betook himself to the corner of the summer kitchen, where he proceeded to climb up to the top of the storm-fence and from there to mount the sloping kitchen roof. Salome clasped her hands in agony. What if the child should fall? Oh! why had Judith gone away and left him alone? What if—what if—and then, while her brain with lightning-like rapidity pictured forth96 a dozen possible catastrophes97, something really did happen. Lionel Hezekiah slipped, sprawled98 wildly, slid down, and fell off the roof, in a bewildering whirl of arms and legs, plump into the big rain-water hogshead under the spout99, which was generally full to the brim with rain-water, a hogshead big and deep enough to swallow up half a dozen small boys who went climbing kitchen roofs on a Sunday.
Then something took place that is talked of in Carmody to this day, and even fiercely wrangled100 over, so many and conflicting are the opinions on the subject. Salome Marsh, who had not walked a step without assistance for fifteen years, suddenly sprang to her feet with a shriek101, ran down the aisle, and out of the door!
Every man, woman, and child in the Carmody church followed her, even to the minister, who had just announced his text. When they got out, Salome was already half-way up her lane, running wildly. In her heart was room for but one agonized102 thought. Would Lionel Hezekiah be drowned before she reached him?
She opened the gate of the yard, and panted across it just as a tall, grim-faced woman came around the corner of the house and stood rooted to the ground in astonishment103 at the sight that met her eyes.
But Salome saw nobody. She flung herself against the hogshead and looked in, sick with terror at what she might see. What she did see was Lionel Hezekiah sitting on the bottom of the hogshead in water that came only to his waist. He was looking rather dazed and bewildered, but was apparently104 quite uninjured.
The yard was full of people, but nobody had as yet said a word; awe105 and wonder held everybody in spellbound silence. Judith was the first to speak. She pushed through the crowd to Salome. Her face was blanched106 to a deadly whiteness; and her eyes, as Mrs. William Blair afterwards declared, were enough to give a body the creeps.
Salome came to herself at the question. For the first time, she realized that she had walked, nay, run, all that distance from the church alone and unaided. She turned pale, swayed, and would have fallen if Judith had not caught her.
Old Dr. Blair came forward briskly.
“Carry her in,” he said, “and don’t all of you come crowding in, either. She wants quiet and rest for a spell.”
Most of the people obediently returned to the church, their sudden loosened tongues clattering109 in voluble excitement. A few women assisted Judith to carry Salome in and lay her on the kitchen lounge, followed by the doctor and the dripping Lionel Hezekiah, whom the minister had lifted out of the hogshead and to whom nobody now paid the slightest attention.
Salome faltered out her story, and her hearers listened with varying emotions.
Dr. Blair shrugged111 his shoulders. “There is no miracle about it,” he said bluntly. “It’s all perfectly112 natural. The disease in the hip has evidently been quite well for a long time; Nature does sometimes work cures like that when she is let alone. The trouble was that the muscles were paralyzed by long disuse. That paralysis113 was overcome by the force of a strong and instinctive114 effort. Salome, get up and walk across the kitchen.”
Salome obeyed. She walked across the kitchen and back, slowly, stiffly, falteringly115, now that the stimulus116 of frantic117 fear was spent; but still she walked. The doctor nodded his satisfaction.
“Keep that up every day. Walk as much as you can without tiring yourself, and you’ll soon be as spry as ever. No more need of crutches118 for you, but there’s no miracle in the case.”
Judith Marsh turned to him. She had not spoken a word since her question concerning Salome’s crutch. Now she said passionately:
“It WAS a miracle. God has worked it to prove His existence for me, and I accept the proof.”
The old doctor shrugged his shoulders again. Being a wise man, he knew when to hold his tongue.
“Well, put Salome to bed, and let her sleep the rest of the day. She’s worn out. And for pity’s sake let some one take that poor child and put some dry clothes on him before he catches his death of cold.”
That evening, as Salome Marsh lay in her bed in a glory of sunset light, her heart filled with unutterable gratitude119 and happiness, Judith came into the room. She wore her best hat and dress, and she held Lionel Hezekiah by the hand. Lionel Hezekiah’s beaming face was scrubbed clean, and his curls fell in beautiful sleekness120 over the lace collar of his velvet suit.
“How do you feel now, Salome?” asked Judith gently.
“Better. I’ve had a lovely sleep. But where are you going, Judith?”
“I am going to church,” said Judith firmly, “and I am going to take Lionel Hezekiah with me.”
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1
pucker
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| v.撅起，使起皱；n.（衣服上的）皱纹，褶子 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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21
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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22
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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23
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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24
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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25
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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27
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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28
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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29
toads
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
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30
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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31
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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32
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
smuggle
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| vt.私运；vi.走私 | |
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34
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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35
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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36
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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37
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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38
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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39
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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40
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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41
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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42
tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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43
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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44
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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45
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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46
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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47
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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48
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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49
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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50
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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51
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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52
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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53
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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54
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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55
snip
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| n.便宜货，廉价货，剪，剪断 | |
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56
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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57
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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58
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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59
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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61
succinctly
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| adv.简洁地；简洁地，简便地 | |
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62
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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63
unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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64
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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65
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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66
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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68
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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69
inflexibly
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| adv.不屈曲地，不屈地 | |
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70
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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71
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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72
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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73
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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74
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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76
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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77
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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78
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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79
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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80
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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81
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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82
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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83
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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84
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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85
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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86
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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87
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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88
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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89
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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90
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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91
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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92
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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93
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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94
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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95
concocting
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的现在分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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96
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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97
catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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98
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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99
spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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100
wrangled
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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102
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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103
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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104
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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105
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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106
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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107
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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108
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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109
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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110
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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112
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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113
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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114
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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115
falteringly
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| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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116
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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117
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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118
crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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119
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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120
sleekness
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| 油滑； 油光发亮； 时髦阔气； 线条明快 | |
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