One possibility, however, kept him hopeful and yet helpless. It was just possible that this escapade signified something other than even a slight suspicion of him. Perhaps it was some regular form or sign. Perhaps the foolish scamper9 was some sort of friendly signal that he ought to have understood. Perhaps it was a ritual. Perhaps the new Thursday was always chased along Cheapside, as the new Lord Mayor is always escorted along it. He was just selecting a tentative inquiry10, when the old Professor opposite suddenly and simply cut him short. Before Syme could ask the first diplomatic question, the old anarchist11 had asked suddenly, without any sort of preparation—
“Are you a policeman?”
Whatever else Syme had expected, he had never expected anything so brutal12 and actual as this. Even his great presence of mind could only manage a reply with an air of rather blundering jocularity.
“A policeman?” he said, laughing vaguely13. “Whatever made you think of a policeman in connection with me?”
“The process was simple enough,” answered the Professor patiently. “I thought you looked like a policeman. I think so now.”
“Did I take a policeman’s hat by mistake out of the restaurant?” asked Syme, smiling wildly. “Have I by any chance got a number stuck on to me somewhere? Have my boots got that watchful14 look? Why must I be a policeman? Do, do let me be a postman.”
The old Professor shook his head with a gravity that gave no hope, but Syme ran on with a feverish15 irony16.
“But perhaps I misunderstood the delicacies17 of your German philosophy. Perhaps policeman is a relative term. In an evolutionary18 sense, sir, the ape fades so gradually into the policeman, that I myself can never detect the shade. The monkey is only the policeman that may be. Perhaps a maiden19 lady on Clapham Common is only the policeman that might have been. I don’t mind being the policeman that might have been. I don’t mind being anything in German thought.”
“Are you in the police service?” said the old man, ignoring all Syme’s improvised20 and desperate raillery. “Are you a detective?”
Syme’s heart turned to stone, but his face never changed.
“Your suggestion is ridiculous,” he began. “Why on earth—”
The old man struck his palsied hand passionately21 on the rickety table, nearly breaking it.
“Did you hear me ask a plain question, you pattering spy?” he shrieked22 in a high, crazy voice. “Are you, or are you not, a police detective?”
“You swear it,” said the old man, leaning across to him, his dead face becoming as it were loathsomely25 alive. “You swear it! You swear it! If you swear falsely, will you be damned? Will you be sure that the devil dances at your funeral? Will you see that the nightmare sits on your grave? Will there really be no mistake? You are an anarchist, you are a dynamiter26! Above all, you are not in any sense a detective? You are not in the British police?”
He leant his angular elbow far across the table, and put up his large loose hand like a flap to his ear.
“I am not in the British police,” said Syme with insane calm.
“That’s a pity,” he said, “because I am.”
Syme sprang up straight, sending back the bench behind him with a crash.
“Because you are what?” he said thickly. “You are what?”
“I am a policeman,” said the Professor with his first broad smile, and beaming through his spectacles. “But as you think policeman only a relative term, of course I have nothing to do with you. I am in the British police force; but as you tell me you are not in the British police force, I can only say that I met you in a dynamiters’ club. I suppose I ought to arrest you.” And with these words he laid on the table before Syme an exact facsimile of the blue card which Syme had in his own waistcoat pocket, the symbol of his power from the police.
Syme had for a flash the sensation that the cosmos29 had turned exactly upside down, that all trees were growing downwards30 and that all stars were under his feet. Then came slowly the opposite conviction. For the last twenty-four hours the cosmos had really been upside down, but now the capsized universe had come right side up again. This devil from whom he had been fleeing all day was only an elder brother of his own house, who on the other side of the table lay back and laughed at him. He did not for the moment ask any questions of detail; he only knew the happy and silly fact that this shadow, which had pursued him with an intolerable oppression of peril31, was only the shadow of a friend trying to catch him up. He knew simultaneously32 that he was a fool and a free man. For with any recovery from morbidity33 there must go a certain healthy humiliation34. There comes a certain point in such conditions when only three things are possible: first a perpetuation35 of Satanic pride, secondly36 tears, and third laughter. Syme’s egotism held hard to the first course for a few seconds, and then suddenly adopted the third. Taking his own blue police ticket from his own waist coat pocket, he tossed it on to the table; then he flung his head back until his spike37 of yellow beard almost pointed38 at the ceiling, and shouted with a barbaric laughter.
Even in that close den3, perpetually filled with the din24 of knives, plates, cans, clamorous39 voices, sudden struggles and stampedes, there was something Homeric in Syme’s mirth which made many half-drunken men look round.
“What yer laughing at, guv’nor?” asked one wondering labourer from the docks.
“At myself,” answered Syme, and went off again into the agony of his ecstatic reaction.
“Pull yourself together,” said the Professor, “or you’ll get hysterical40. Have some more beer. I’ll join you.”
“You haven’t drunk your milk,” said Syme.
“My milk!” said the other, in tones of withering41 and unfathomable contempt, “my milk! Do you think I’d look at the beastly stuff when I’m out of sight of the bloody42 anarchists43? We’re all Christians44 in this room, though perhaps,” he added, glancing around at the reeling crowd, “not strict ones. Finish my milk? Great blazes! yes, I’ll finish it right enough!” and he knocked the tumbler off the table, making a crash of glass and a splash of silver fluid.
Syme was staring at him with a happy curiosity.
“I understand now,” he cried; “of course, you’re not an old man at all.”
“I can’t take my face off here,” replied Professor de Worms. “It’s rather an elaborate make-up. As to whether I’m an old man, that’s not for me to say. I was thirty-eight last birthday.”
“Yes, but I mean,” said Syme impatiently, “there’s nothing the matter with you.”
“Yes,” answered the other dispassionately. “I am subject to colds.”
Syme’s laughter at all this had about it a wild weakness of relief. He laughed at the idea of the paralytic Professor being really a young actor dressed up as if for the foot-lights. But he felt that he would have laughed as loudly if a pepperpot had fallen over.
The false Professor drank and wiped his false beard.
“Did you know,” he asked, “that that man Gogol was one of us?”
“I? No, I didn’t know it,” answered Syme in some surprise. “But didn’t you?”
“I knew no more than the dead,” replied the man who called himself de Worms. “I thought the President was talking about me, and I rattled45 in my boots.”
“And I thought he was talking about me,” said Syme, with his rather reckless laughter. “I had my hand on my revolver all the time.”
“So had I,” said the Professor grimly; “so had Gogol evidently.”
Syme struck the table with an exclamation46.
“Why, there were three of us there!” he cried. “Three out of seven is a fighting number. If we had only known that we were three!”
The face of Professor de Worms darkened, and he did not look up.
“We were three,” he said. “If we had been three hundred we could still have done nothing.”
“No,” said the Professor with sobriety, “not if we were three hundred against Sunday.”
And the mere49 name struck Syme cold and serious; his laughter had died in his heart before it could die on his lips. The face of the unforgettable President sprang into his mind as startling as a coloured photograph, and he remarked this difference between Sunday and all his satellites, that their faces, however fierce or sinister50, became gradually blurred51 by memory like other human faces, whereas Sunday’s seemed almost to grow more actual during absence, as if a man’s painted portrait should slowly come alive.
They were both silent for a measure of moments, and then Syme’s speech came with a rush, like the sudden foaming52 of champagne53.
“Professor,” he cried, “it is intolerable. Are you afraid of this man?”
The Professor lifted his heavy lids, and gazed at Syme with large, wide-open, blue eyes of an almost ethereal honesty.
“Yes, I am,” he said mildly. “So are you.”
Syme was dumb for an instant. Then he rose to his feet erect54, like an insulted man, and thrust the chair away from him.
“Yes,” he said in a voice indescribable, “you are right. I am afraid of him. Therefore I swear by God that I will seek out this man whom I fear until I find him, and strike him on the mouth. If heaven were his throne and the earth his footstool, I swear that I would pull him down.”
“How?” asked the staring Professor. “Why?”
“Because I am afraid of him,” said Syme; “and no man should leave in the universe anything of which he is afraid.”
De Worms blinked at him with a sort of blind wonder. He made an effort to speak, but Syme went on in a low voice, but with an undercurrent of inhuman55 exaltation—
“Who would condescend56 to strike down the mere things that he does not fear? Who would debase himself to be merely brave, like any common prizefighter? Who would stoop to be fearless—like a tree? Fight the thing that you fear. You remember the old tale of the English clergyman who gave the last rites57 to the brigand58 of Sicily, and how on his death-bed the great robber said, ‘I can give you no money, but I can give you advice for a lifetime: your thumb on the blade, and strike upwards59.’ So I say to you, strike upwards, if you strike at the stars.”
The other looked at the ceiling, one of the tricks of his pose.
“Sunday is a fixed star,” he said.
“You shall see him a falling star,” said Syme, and put on his hat.
The decision of his gesture drew the Professor vaguely to his feet.
“Have you any idea,” he asked, with a sort of benevolent60 bewilderment, “exactly where you are going?”
“Yes,” replied Syme shortly, “I am going to prevent this bomb being thrown in Paris.”
“Have you any conception how?” inquired the other.
“No,” said Syme with equal decision.
“You remember, of course,” resumed the soi-disant de Worms, pulling his beard and looking out of the window, “that when we broke up rather hurriedly the whole arrangements for the atrocity61 were left in the private hands of the Marquis and Dr. Bull. The Marquis is by this time probably crossing the Channel. But where he will go and what he will do it is doubtful whether even the President knows; certainly we don’t know. The only man who does know is Dr. Bull.”
“Confound it!” cried Syme. “And we don’t know where he is.”
“Yes,” said the other in his curious, absent-minded way, “I know where he is myself.”
“Will you tell me?” asked Syme with eager eyes.
“What do you mean?” he asked sharply. “Will you join me? Will you take the risk?”
“Young man,” said the Professor pleasantly, “I am amused to observe that you think I am a coward. As to that I will say only one word, and that shall be entirely64 in the manner of your own philosophical65 rhetoric66. You think that it is possible to pull down the President. I know that it is impossible, and I am going to try it,” and opening the tavern67 door, which let in a blast of bitter air, they went out together into the dark streets by the docks.
Most of the snow was melted or trampled68 to mud, but here and there a clot69 of it still showed grey rather than white in the gloom. The small streets were sloppy70 and full of pools, which reflected the flaming lamps irregularly, and by accident, like fragments of some other and fallen world. Syme felt almost dazed as he stepped through this growing confusion of lights and shadows; but his companion walked on with a certain briskness71, towards where, at the end of the street, an inch or two of the lamplit river looked like a bar of flame.
“Where are you going?” Syme inquired.
“Just now,” answered the Professor, “I am going just round the corner to see whether Dr. Bull has gone to bed. He is hygienic, and retires early.”
“Dr. Bull!” exclaimed Syme. “Does he live round the corner?”
“No,” answered his friend. “As a matter of fact he lives some way off, on the other side of the river, but we can tell from here whether he has gone to bed.”
Turning the corner as he spoke73, and facing the dim river, flecked with flame, he pointed with his stick to the other bank. On the Surrey side at this point there ran out into the Thames, seeming almost to overhang it, a bulk and cluster of those tall tenements74, dotted with lighted windows, and rising like factory chimneys to an almost insane height. Their special poise75 and position made one block of buildings especially look like a Tower of Babel with a hundred eyes. Syme had never seen any of the sky-scraping buildings in America, so he could only think of the buildings in a dream.
Even as he stared, the highest light in this innumerably lighted turret76 abruptly78 went out, as if this black Argus had winked79 at him with one of his innumerable eyes.
Professor de Worms swung round on his heel, and struck his stick against his boot.
“We are too late,” he said, “the hygienic Doctor has gone to bed.”
“What do you mean?” asked Syme. “Does he live over there, then?”
“Yes,” said de Worms, “behind that particular window which you can’t see. Come along and get some dinner. We must call on him tomorrow morning.”
Without further parley80, he led the way through several by-ways until they came out into the flare81 and clamour of the East India Dock Road. The Professor, who seemed to know his way about the neighbourhood, proceeded to a place where the line of lighted shops fell back into a sort of abrupt77 twilight82 and quiet, in which an old white inn, all out of repair, stood back some twenty feet from the road.
“You can find good English inns left by accident everywhere, like fossils,” explained the Professor. “I once found a decent place in the West End.”
“I suppose,” said Syme, smiling, “that this is the corresponding decent place in the East End?”
“It is,” said the Professor reverently84, and went in.
In that place they dined and slept, both very thoroughly85. The beans and bacon, which these unaccountable people cooked well, the astonishing emergence86 of Burgundy from their cellars, crowned Syme’s sense of a new comradeship and comfort. Through all this ordeal87 his root horror had been isolation88, and there are no words to express the abyss between isolation and having one ally. It may be conceded to the mathematicians89 that four is twice two. But two is not twice one; two is two thousand times one. That is why, in spite of a hundred disadvantages, the world will always return to monogamy.
Syme was able to pour out for the first time the whole of his outrageous90 tale, from the time when Gregory had taken him to the little tavern by the river. He did it idly and amply, in a luxuriant monologue91, as a man speaks with very old friends. On his side, also, the man who had impersonated Professor de Worms was not less communicative. His own story was almost as silly as Syme’s.
“That’s a good get-up of yours,” said Syme, draining a glass of Macon; “a lot better than old Gogol’s. Even at the start I thought he was a bit too hairy.”
“A difference of artistic92 theory,” replied the Professor pensively93. “Gogol was an idealist. He made up as the abstract or platonic94 ideal of an anarchist. But I am a realist. I am a portrait painter. But, indeed, to say that I am a portrait painter is an inadequate95 expression. I am a portrait.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Syme.
“I am a portrait,” repeated the Professor. “I am a portrait of the celebrated96 Professor de Worms, who is, I believe, in Naples.”
“You mean you are made up like him,” said Syme. “But doesn’t he know that you are taking his nose in vain?”
“He knows it right enough,” replied his friend cheerfully.
“Then why doesn’t he denounce you?”
“I have denounced him,” answered the Professor.
“Do explain yourself,” said Syme.
“With pleasure, if you don’t mind hearing my story,” replied the eminent97 foreign philosopher. “I am by profession an actor, and my name is Wilks. When I was on the stage I mixed with all sorts of Bohemian and blackguard company. Sometimes I touched the edge of the turf, sometimes the riff-raff of the arts, and occasionally the political refugee. In some den of exiled dreamers I was introduced to the great German Nihilist philosopher, Professor de Worms. I did not gather much about him beyond his appearance, which was very disgusting, and which I studied carefully. I understood that he had proved that the destructive principle in the universe was God; hence he insisted on the need for a furious and incessant98 energy, rending99 all things in pieces. Energy, he said, was the All. He was lame72, shortsighted, and partially100 paralytic. When I met him I was in a frivolous101 mood, and I disliked him so much that I resolved to imitate him. If I had been a draughtsman I would have drawn102 a caricature. I was only an actor, I could only act a caricature. I made myself up into what was meant for a wild exaggeration of the old Professor’s dirty old self. When I went into the room full of his supporters I expected to be received with a roar of laughter, or (if they were too far gone) with a roar of indignation at the insult. I cannot describe the surprise I felt when my entrance was received with a respectful silence, followed (when I had first opened my lips) with a murmur103 of admiration104. The curse of the perfect artist had fallen upon me. I had been too subtle, I had been too true. They thought I really was the great Nihilist Professor. I was a healthy-minded young man at the time, and I confess that it was a blow. Before I could fully recover, however, two or three of these admirers ran up to me radiating indignation, and told me that a public insult had been put upon me in the next room. I inquired its nature. It seemed that an impertinent fellow had dressed himself up as a preposterous105 parody106 of myself. I had drunk more champagne than was good for me, and in a flash of folly107 I decided108 to see the situation through. Consequently it was to meet the glare of the company and my own lifted eyebrows and freezing eyes that the real Professor came into the room.
“I need hardly say there was a collision. The pessimists109 all round me looked anxiously from one Professor to the other Professor to see which was really the more feeble. But I won. An old man in poor health, like my rival, could not be expected to be so impressively feeble as a young actor in the prime of life. You see, he really had paralysis110, and working within this definite limitation, he couldn’t be so jolly paralytic as I was. Then he tried to blast my claims intellectually. I countered that by a very simple dodge111. Whenever he said something that nobody but he could understand, I replied with something which I could not even understand myself. ‘I don’t fancy,’ he said, ‘that you could have worked out the principle that evolution is only negation112, since there inheres in it the introduction of lacuna, which are an essential of differentiation113.’ I replied quite scornfully, ‘You read all that up in Pinckwerts; the notion that involution functioned eugenically was exposed long ago by Glumpe.’ It is unnecessary for me to say that there never were such people as Pinckwerts and Glumpe. But the people all round (rather to my surprise) seemed to remember them quite well, and the Professor, finding that the learned and mysterious method left him rather at the mercy of an enemy slightly deficient114 in scruples115, fell back upon a more popular form of wit. ‘I see,’ he sneered116, ‘you prevail like the false pig in Aesop.’ ‘And you fail,’ I answered, smiling, ‘like the hedgehog in Montaigne.’ Need I say that there is no hedgehog in Montaigne? ‘Your claptrap comes off,’ he said; ‘so would your beard.’ I had no intelligent answer to this, which was quite true and rather witty117. But I laughed heartily118, answered, ‘Like the Pantheist’s boots,’ at random119, and turned on my heel with all the honours of victory. The real Professor was thrown out, but not with violence, though one man tried very patiently to pull off his nose. He is now, I believe, received everywhere in Europe as a delightful120 impostor. His apparent earnestness and anger, you see, make him all the more entertaining.”
“Well,” said Syme, “I can understand your putting on his dirty old beard for a night’s practical joke, but I don’t understand your never taking it off again.”
“That is the rest of the story,” said the impersonator. “When I myself left the company, followed by reverent83 applause, I went limping down the dark street, hoping that I should soon be far enough away to be able to walk like a human being. To my astonishment121, as I was turning the corner, I felt a touch on the shoulder, and turning, found myself under the shadow of an enormous policeman. He told me I was wanted. I struck a sort of paralytic attitude, and cried in a high German accent, ‘Yes, I am wanted—by the oppressed of the world. You are arresting me on the charge of being the great anarchist, Professor de Worms.’ The policeman impassively consulted a paper in his hand, ‘No, sir,’ he said civilly, ‘at least, not exactly, sir. I am arresting you on the charge of not being the celebrated anarchist, Professor de Worms.’ This charge, if it was criminal at all, was certainly the lighter122 of the two, and I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy123, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because—”
Syme laid down his knife and fork.
“I know,” he said, “because you talked to him in a dark room.”
Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass.
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1
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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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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eyelids
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| 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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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evolutionary
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| adj.进化的；演化的，演变的；[生]进化论的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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loathsomely
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| adv.令人讨厌地，可厌地 | |
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dynamiter
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| n.炸药使用者（尤指革命者） | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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cosmos
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| n.宇宙；秩序，和谐 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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morbidity
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| n.病态；不健全；发病；发病率 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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perpetuation
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| n.永存，不朽 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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anarchists
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| 无政府主义者( anarchist的名词复数 ) | |
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44
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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45
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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46
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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47
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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48
boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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49
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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50
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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51
blurred
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| 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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52
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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53
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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54
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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55
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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56
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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57
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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58
brigand
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| n.土匪，强盗 | |
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59
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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60
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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61
atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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62
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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63
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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64
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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65
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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66
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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67
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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68
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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69
clot
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| n.凝块；v.使凝成块 | |
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70
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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72
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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73
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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74
tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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76
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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80
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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81
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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82
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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85
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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86
emergence
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| n.浮现，显现，出现，（植物）突出体 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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88
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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89
mathematicians
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| 数学家( mathematician的名词复数 ) | |
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90
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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91
monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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94
platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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98
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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99
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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100
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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101
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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102
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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103
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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104
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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105
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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106
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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107
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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108
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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109
pessimists
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| n.悲观主义者( pessimist的名词复数 ) | |
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110
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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111
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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112
negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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113
differentiation
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| n.区别，区分 | |
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114
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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115
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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116
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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118
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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119
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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120
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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121
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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122
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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123
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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