I found a good deal of difference in Leslie since his marriage. He had lost his assertive1 self-confidence. He no longer pronounced emphatically and ultimately on every subject, nor did he seek to dominate, as he had always done, the company in which he found himself. I was surprised to see him so courteous2 and attentive3 to George. He moved unobtrusively about the room while Lettie was chattering4, and in his demeanour there was a new reserve, a gentleness and grace. It was charming to see him offering the cigarettes to George, or, with beautiful tact5, asking with his eyes only whether he should refill the glass of his guest, and afterward6 replacing it softly close to the other's hand.
To Lettie he was unfailingly attentive, courteous, and undemonstrative.
Towards the end of my holiday he had to go to London on business, and we agreed to take the journey together. We must leave Woodside soon after eight o'clock in the morning. Lettie and he had separate rooms. I thought she would not have risen to take breakfast with us, but at a quarter-past seven, just as Rebecca was bringing in the coffee, she came downstairs. She wore a blue morning gown, and her hair was as beautifully dressed as usual.
"Why, my darling, you shouldn't have troubled to come down so early," said Leslie, as he kissed her.
"Of course, I should come down," she replied, lifting back the heavy curtains and looking out on the snow where the darkness was wilting8 into daylight. "I should not let you go away into the cold without having seen you take a good breakfast. I think it is thawing9. The snow on the rhododendrons looks sodden10 and drooping11. Ah, well, we can keep out the dismal12 of the morning for another hour." She glanced at the clock—"just an hour!" she added. He turned to her with a swift tenderness. She smiled to him, and sat down at the coffee-maker. We took our places at table.
"I think I shall come back to-night," he said quietly, almost appealingly.
She watched the flow of the coffee before she answered. Then the brass13 urn7 swung back, and she lifted her face to hand him the cup.
"You will not do anything so foolish, Leslie," she said calmly.
"I can easily catch the 7:15 from St. Pancras," he replied, without looking up.
"Have I sweetened to your liking16 Cyril?" she asked, and then, as she stirred her coffee she added, "It is ridiculous Leslie! You catch the 7.15 and very probably miss the connection at Nottingham. You can't have the motor-car there, because of the roads. Besides, it is absurd to come toiling17 home in the cold slushy night when you may just as well stay in London and be comfortable."
"At any rate I should get the 10.30 down to Lawton Hill," he urged.
"But there is no need," she replied, "there is not the faintest need for you to come home to-night. It is really absurd of you. Think of all the discomfort18! Indeed I should not want to come trailing dismally19 home at midnight, I should not indeed. You would be simply wretched. Stay and have a jolly evening with Cyril."
He kept his head bent over his plate and did not reply. His persistence21 irritated her slightly.
"That is what you can do!" she said. "Go to the pantomime. Or wait—go to Maeterlinck's 'Blue Bird.' I am sure that is on somewhere. I wonder if Rebecca has destroyed yesterday's paper. Do you mind touching22 the bell, Cyril?" Rebecca came, and the paper was discovered. Lettie carefully read the notices, and planned for us with zest23 a delightful24 programme for the evening. Leslie listened to it all in silence.
When the time had come for our departure Lettie came with us into the hall to see that we were well wrapped up. Leslie had spoken very few words. She was conscious that he was deeply offended, but her manner was quite calm, and she petted us both brightly.
"Good-bye dear!" she said to him, when he came mutely to kiss her. "You know it would have been miserable27 for you to sit all those hours in the train at night. You will have ever such a jolly time. I know you will. I shall look for you to-morrow. Good-bye, then, Good-bye!"
He went down the steps and into the car without looking at her. She waited in the doorway28 as we moved round. In the black-grey morning she seemed to harbour the glittering blue sky and the sunshine of March in her dress and her luxuriant hair. He did not look at her till we were curving to the great, snow-cumbered rhododendrons, when, at the last moment he stood up in a sudden panic to wave to her. Almost as he saw her the bushes came between them and he dropped dejectedly into his seat.
"Good-bye!" we heard her call cheerfully and tenderly like a blackbird.
"Good-bye!" I answered, and: "Good-bye Darling, Good-bye!" he cried, suddenly starting up in a passion of forgiveness and tenderness.
I suffered acutely the sickness of exile in Norwood. For weeks I wandered the streets of the suburb, haunted by the spirit of some part of Nethermere. As I went along the quiet roads where the lamps in yellow loneliness stood among the leafless trees of the night I would feel the feeling of the dark, wet bit of path between the wood meadow and the brooks30. The spirit of that wild little slope to the Mill would come upon me, and there in the suburb of London I would walk wrapt in the sense of a small wet place in the valley of Nethermere. A strange voice within me rose and called for the hill path; again I could feel the wood waiting for me, calling and calling, and I crying for the wood, yet the space of many miles was between us. Since I left the valley of home I have not much feared any other loss. The hills of Nethermere had been my walls, and the sky of Nethermere my roof overhead. It seemed almost as if, at home, I might lift my hand to the ceiling of the valley, and touch my own beloved sky, whose familiar clouds came again and again to visit me, whose stars were constant to me, born when I was born, whose sun had been all my father to me. But now the skies were strange over my head, and Orion walked past me unnoticing, he who night after night had stood over the woods to spend with me a wonderful hour. When does day now lift up the confines of my dwelling32 place, when does the night throw open her vastness for me, and send me the stars for company? There is no night in a city. How can I lose myself in the magnificent forest of darkness when night is only a thin scattering33 of the trees of shadow with barrenness of lights between!
I could never lift my eyes save to the Crystal Palace, crouching34, cowering35 wretchedly among the yellow-grey clouds, pricking36 up its two round towers like pillars of anxious misery37. No landmark38 could have been more foreign to me, more depressing, than the great dilapidated palace which lay forever prostrate39 above us, fretting40 because of its own degradation41 and ruin.
I watched the buds coming on the brown almond trees; I heard the blackbirds, and I saw the restless starlings; in the streets were many heaps of violets, and men held forward to me snowdrops whose white mute lips were pushed upwards42 in a bunch: but these things had no meaning for me, and little interest.
Most eagerly I waited for my letters. Emily wrote to me very constantly:
"Don't you find it quite exhilarating, almost intoxicating43, to be so free? I think it is quite wonderful. At home you cannot live your own life. You have to struggle to keep even a little apart for yourself. It is so hard to stand aloof44 from our mothers, and yet they are only hurt and insulted if you tell them what is in your heart. It is such a relief not to have to be anything to anybody, but just to please yourself. I am sure mother and I have suffered a great deal from trying to keep up our old relations. Yet she would not let me go. When I come home in the evening and think that I needn't say anything to anybody, nor do anything for anybody, but just have the evening for myself, I am overjoyed.
"I have begun to write a story——"
Again, a little later, she wrote:
"As I go to school by Old Brayford village in the morning the birds are thrilling wonderfully and everything seems stirring. Very likely there will be a set-back, and after that spring will come in truth.
"When shall you come and see me? I cannot think of a spring without you. The railways are the only fine exciting things here—one is only a few yards away from school. All day long I am watching the great Midland trains go south. They are very lucky to be able to rush southward through the sunshine.
"The crows are very interesting. They flap past all the time we're out in the yard. The railways and the crows make the charm of my life in Brayford. The other day I saw no end of pairs of crows. Do you remember what they say at home?—'One for sorrow.' Very often one solitary45 creature sits on the telegraph wires. I almost hate him when I look at him. I think my badge for life ought to be—one crow——."
Again, a little later:
"I have been home for the week-end. Isn't it nice to be made much of, to be an important cherished person for a little time? It is quite a new experience for me.
"The snowdrops are full out among the grass in the front garden—and such a lot. I imagined you must come in the sunshine of the Sunday afternoon to see them. It did not seem possible you should not. The winter aconites are out along the hedge. I knelt and kissed them. I have been so glad to go away, to breathe the free air of life, but I felt as if I could not come away from the aconites. I have sent you some—are they much withered46?
"Now I am in my lodgings47, I have the quite unusual feeling of being contented48 to stay here a little while—not long—not above a year, I am sure. But even to be contented for a little while is enough for me——."
In the beginning of March I had a letter from the father:
"You'll not see us again in the old place. We shall be gone in a fortnight. The things are most of them gone already. George has got Bob and Flower. I have sold three of the cows, Stafford, and Julia and Hannah. The place looks very empty. I don't like going past the cowsheds, and we miss hearing the horses stamp at night. But I shall not be sorry when we have really gone. I begin to feel as if we'd stagnated49 here. I begin to feel as if I was settling and getting narrow and dull. It will be a new lease of life to get away.
"But I'm wondering how we shall be over there. Mrs. Saxton feels very nervous about going. But at the worst we can but come back. I feel as if I must go somewhere, it's stagnation50 and starvation for us here. I wish George would come with me. I never thought he would have taken to public-house keeping, but he seems to like it all right. He was down with Meg on Sunday. Mrs. Saxton says he's getting a public-house tone. He is certainly much livelier, more full of talk than he was. Meg and he seem very comfortable, I'm glad to say. He's got a good milk-round, and I've no doubt but what he'll do well. He is very cautious at the bottom; he'll never lose much if he never makes much.
"Sam and David are very great friends. I'm glad I've got the boy. We often talk of you. It would be very lonely if it wasn't for the excitement of selling things and so on. Mrs. Saxton hopes you will stick by George. She worries a bit about him, thinking he may go wrong. I don't think he will ever go far. But I should be glad to know you were keeping friends. Mrs. Saxton says she will write to you about it——."
George was a very poor correspondent. I soon ceased to expect a letter from him. I received one directly after the father's.
"My Dear Cyril,
"Forgive me for not having written you before, but you see, I cannot sit down and write to you any time. If I cannot do it just when I am in the mood, I cannot do it at all. And it so often happens that the mood comes upon me when I am in the fields at work, when it is impossible to write. Last night I sat by myself in the kitchen on purpose to write to you, and then I could not. All day, at Greymede, when I was drilling in the fallow at the back of the church, I had been thinking of you, and I could have written there if I had had materials, but I had not, and at night I could not.
"I am sorry to say that in my last letter I did not thank you for the books. I have not read them both, but I have nearly finished Evelyn Innes. I get a bit tired of it towards the end. I do not do much reading now. There seems to be hardly any chance for me, either somebody is crying for me in the smoke room, or there is some business, or else Meg won't let me. She doesn't like me to read at night, she says I ought to talk to her, so I have to.
"It is half-past seven, and I am sitting ready dressed to go and talk to Harry51 Jackson about a young horse he wants to sell to me. He is in pretty low water, and it will make a pretty good horse. But I don't care much whether I have it or not. The mood seized me to write to you. Somehow at the bottom I feel miserable and heavy, yet there is no need. I am making pretty good money, and I've got all I want. But when I've been ploughing and getting the oats in those fields on the hillside at the back of Greymede church, I've felt as if I didn't care whether I got on or not. It's very funny. Last week I made over five pounds clear, one way and another, and yet now I'm as restless, and discontented as I can be, and I seem eager for something, but I don't know what it is. Sometimes I wonder where I am going. Yesterday I watched broken white masses of cloud sailing across the sky in a fresh strong wind. They all seemed to be going somewhere. I wondered where the wind was blowing them. I don't seem to have hold on anything, do I? Can you tell me what I want at the bottom of my heart? I wish you were here, then I think I should not feel like this. But generally I don't, generally I am quite jolly, and busy.
"By jove, here's Harry Jackson come for me. I will finish this letter when I get back.
"——I have got back, we have turned out, but I cannot finish. I cannot tell you all about it. I've had a little row with Meg. Oh, I've had a rotten time. But I cannot tell you about it to-night, it is late, and I am tired, and have a headache. Some other time perhaps——
GEORGE SAXTON."
The spring came bravely, even in south London, and the town was filled with magic. I never knew the sumptuous52 purple of evening till I saw the round arc-lamps fill with light, and roll like golden bubbles along the purple dusk of the high road. Everywhere at night the city is filled with the magic of lamps: over the river they pour in golden patches their floating luminous53 oil on the restless darkness; the bright lamps float in and out of the cavern54 of London Bridge Station like round shining bees in and out of a black hive; in the suburbs the street lamps glimmer55 with the brightness of lemons among the trees. I began to love the town.
In the mornings I loved to move in the aimless street's procession, watching the faces come near to me, with the sudden glance of dark eyes, watching the mouths of the women blossom with talk as they passed, watching the subtle movements of the shoulders of men beneath their coats, and the naked warmth of their necks that went glowing along the street. I loved the city intensely for its movement of men and women, the soft, fascinating flow of the limbs of men and women, and the sudden flash of eyes and lips as they pass. Among all the faces of the street my attention roved like a bee which clambers drunkenly among blue flowers. I became intoxicated56 with the strange nectar which I sipped57 out of the eyes of the passers-by.
I did not know how time was hastening by on still bright wings, till I saw the scarlet58 hawthorn59 flaunting60 over the road, and the lime-buds lit up like wine drops in the sun, and the pink scarves of the lime-buds pretty as louse-wort a-blossom in the gutters61, and a silver-pink tangle62 of almond boughs63 against the blue sky. The lilacs came out, and in the pensive64 stillness of the suburb, at night, came the delicious tarry scent65 of lilac flowers, wakening a silent laughter of romance.
"Cyril dear, prepare yourself. Meg has got twins—yesterday. I went up to see how she was this afternoon, not knowing anything, and there I found a pair of bubs in the nest, and old ma Stainwright bossing the show. I nearly fainted. Sybil dear, I hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry when I saw those two rummy little round heads, like two larch67 cones68 cheek by cheek on a twig69. One is a darkie, with lots of black hair, and the other is red, would you believe it, just lit up with thin red hair like a flicker70 of firelight. I gasped71. I believe I did shed a few tears, though what for, I don't know.
"The old grandma is a perfect old wretch20 over it. She lies chuckling72 and passing audible remarks in the next room, as pleased as punch really, but so mad because ma Stainwright wouldn't have them taken in to her. You should have heard her when we took them in at last. They are both boys. She did make a fuss, poor old woman. I think she's going a bit funny in the head. She seemed sometimes to think they were hers, and you should have heard her, the way she talked to them, it made me feel quite funny. She wanted them lying against her on the pillow, so that she could feel them with her face. I shed a few more tears, Sybil. I think I must be going dotty also. But she came round when we took them away, and began to chuckle73 to herself, and talk about the things she'd say to George when he came—awful shocking things, Sybil, made me blush dreadfully.
"Georgie didn't know about it then. He was down at Bingham, buying some horses, I believe. He seems to have got a craze for buying horses. He got in with Harry Jackson and Mayhew's sons—you know, they were horse dealers—at least their father was. You remember he died bankrupt about three years ago. There are Fred and Duncan left, and they pretend to keep on the old business. They are always up at the Ram25, and Georgie is always driving about with them. I don't like it—they are a loose lot, rather common, and poor enough now.
"Well, I thought I'd wait and see Georgie. He came about half-past five. Meg had been fidgeting about him, wondering where he was, and how he was, and so on. Bless me if I'd worry and whittle75 about a man. The old grandma heard the cart, and before he could get down she shouted—you know her room is in the front—'Hi, George, ma lad, sharpen thy shins an' com' an' a'e a look at 'em—thee'r's two on 'em, two on 'em!' and she laughed something awful.
"''Ello Granma, what art ter shoutin' about?' he said, and at the sound of his voice Meg turned to me so pitiful, and said:
"' He's been wi' them Mayhews."
"'Tha's gotten twins, a couple at a go ma lad!' shouted the old woman, and you know how she gives squeal76 before she laughs! She made the horse shy, and he swore at it something awful. Then Bill took it, and Georgie came upstairs. I saw Meg seem to shrink when she heard him kick at the stairs as he came up, and she went white. When he got to the top he came in. He fairly reeked77 of whisky and horses. Bah, a man is hateful when he reeks78 of drink! He stood by the side of the bed grinning like a fool, and saying, quite thick:
"'Oh, I'm a' right,' said Meg.
"'Is it twins, straight?' he said, 'wheer is 'em?'
"Meg looked over at the cradle, and he went round the bed to it, holding to the bed-rail. He had never kissed her, nor anything. When he saw the twins, asleep with their fists shut tight as wax, he gave a laugh as if he was amused, and said:
"' Two right enough—an' one on 'em red! Which is the girl, Meg, the black un?'
"'They're both boys,' said Meg, quite timidly.
"He turned round, and his eyes went little.
"'Blast 'em then!' he said. He stood there looking like a devil. Sybil dear, I did not know our George could look like that. I thought he could only look like a faithful dog or a wounded stag. But he looked fiendish. He stood watching the poor little twins, scowling79 at them, till at last the little red one began to whine80 a bit. Ma Stainwright came pushing her fat carcass in front of him and bent over the baby, saying:
"'Why, my pretty, what are they doin' to thee, what are they?—what are they doin' to thee?'
"Georgie scowled81 blacker than ever, and went out, lurching against the wash-stand and making the pots rattle82 till my heart jumped in my throat.
"'Well, if you don't call that scandylos——!' said old Ma Stainwright, and Meg began to cry. You don't know, Cyril! She sobbed83 fit to break her heart. I felt as if I could have killed him.
"That old gran'ma began talking to him, and he laughed at her. I do hate to hear a man laugh when he's half drunk. It makes my blood boil all of a sudden. That old grandmother backs him up in everything, she's a regular nuisance. Meg has cried to me before over the pair of them. The wicked, vulgar old thing that she is——"
I went home to Woodside early in September. Emily was staying at the Ram. It was strange that everything was so different. Nethermere even had changed. Nethermere was no longer a complete, wonderful little world that held us charmed inhabitants. It was a small, insignificant84 valley lost in the spaces of the earth. The tree that had drooped85 over the brook31 with such delightful, romantic grace was a ridiculous thing when I came home after a year of absence in the south. The old symbols were trite86 and foolish.
Emily and I went down one morning to Strelley Mill. The house was occupied by a labourer and his wife, strangers from the north. He was tall, very thin, and silent, strangely suggesting kinship with the rats of the place. She was small and very active, like some ragged87 domestic fowl88 run wild. Already Emily had visited her, so she invited us into the kitchen of the mill, and set forward the chairs for us. The large room had the barren air of a cell. There was a small table stranded89 towards the fireplace, and a few chairs by the walls; for the rest, desert spaces of flagged floor retreating into shadow. On the walls by the windows were five cages of canaries, and the small sharp movements of the birds made the room more strange in its desolation. When we began to talk the birds began to sing, till we were quite bewildered, for the little woman spoke26 Glasgow Scotch90, and she had a hare lip. She rose and ran toward the cages, crying herself like some wild fowl, and flapping a duster at the warbling canaries.
"Stop it, stop it!" she cried, shaking her thin weird91 body at them. "Silly little devils, fools, fools, fools!!" and she flapped the duster till the birds were subdued92. Then she brought us delicious scones93 and apple jelly, urging us, almost nudging us with her thin elbows to make us eat.
"Don't you like 'em, don't you? Well eat 'em, eat 'em then. Go on Emily, go on, eat some more. Only don't tell Tom—don't tell Tom when 'e comes in,"—she shook her head and laughed her shrilling94, weird laughter.
As we were going she came out with us, and went running on in front. We could not help noting how ragged and unkempt was her short black skirt. But she hastened around us, hither and thither95 like an excited fowl, talking in her high-pitched, unintelligible96 manner. I could not believe the brooding mill was in her charge. I could not think this was the Strelley Mill of a year ago. She fluttered up the steep orchard97 bank in front of us. Happening to turn round and see Emily and me smiling at each other she began to laugh her strident, weird laughter saying, with a leer:
"Emily, he's your sweetheart, your sweetheart Emily! You never told me!" and she laughed aloud.
"You've been here o' nights, haven't you Emily—haven't you?" and she laughed again. Then she sat down suddenly, and pointing above our heads, shrieked99:
"Ah, look there"—we looked and saw the mistletoe. "Look at her, look at her! How many kisses a night, Emily?—Ha! Ha! kisses all the year! Kisses o' nights in a lonely place."
She went on wildly for a short time, then she dropped her voice and talked in low, pathetic tones. She pressed on us scones and jelly and oat-cakes, and we left her.
When we were out on the road by the brook Emily looked at me with shamefaced, laughing eyes. I noticed a small movement of her lips, and in an instant I found myself kissing her, laughing with some of the little woman's wildness.
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1
assertive
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| adj.果断的，自信的，有冲劲的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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wilting
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| 萎蔫 | |
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thawing
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| n.熔化，融化v.（气候）解冻( thaw的现在分词 )；（态度、感情等）缓和；（冰、雪及冷冻食物）溶化；软化 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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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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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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dismally
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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touching
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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delightful
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ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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doorway
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soddened
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| v.（液体）沸腾( seethe的过去分词 )( sodden的过去分词 )；激动，大怒；强压怒火；生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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brooks
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31
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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32
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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33
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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34
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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35
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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36
pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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37
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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38
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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39
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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40
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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41
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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42
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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43
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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44
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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46
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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47
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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48
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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49
stagnated
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| v.停滞，不流动，不发展( stagnate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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51
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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52
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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57
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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59
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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61
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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62
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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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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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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larch
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| n.落叶松 | |
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cones
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| n.（人眼）圆锥细胞；圆锥体( cone的名词复数 )；球果；圆锥形东西；（盛冰淇淋的）锥形蛋卷筒 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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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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chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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74
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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75
whittle
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| v.削（木头），削减；n.屠刀 | |
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76
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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reeks
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| n.恶臭( reek的名词复数 )v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的第三人称单数 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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79
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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80
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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81
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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83
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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84
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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85
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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87
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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88
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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89
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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90
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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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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scones
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| n.烤饼，烤小圆面包( scone的名词复数 ) | |
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94
shrilling
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的现在分词 )； 凄厉 | |
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95
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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96
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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97
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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98
sluice
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| n.水闸 | |
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99
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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