Elinor had never talked much about her visit, except to describe the scenery and the life, which in that day was rough indeed. Not even to me, who had grown up next door to her and who had always seemed more a sister than a friend, did she speak of other than the merest commonplaces. But when Tom Blair made a flying trip back home, some ten years later, there were one or two of us to whom he related the story of Jerome Carey,—a story revealing only too well the reason for Elinor's sad eyes and utter indifference2 to masculine attentions. I can recall almost his exact words and the inflections of his voice, and I remember, too, that it seemed to me a far cry from the tranquil3, pleasant scene before us, on that lovely summer day, to the elemental life of the Flats.
The Flats was a forlorn little trading station fifteen miles up the river from Prince Albert, with a scanty4 population of half-breeds and three white men. When Jerome Carey was sent to take charge of the telegraph office there, he cursed his fate in the picturesque5 language permissible6 in the far Northwest.
Not that Carey was a profane7 man, even as men go in the West. He was an English gentleman, and he kept both his life and his vocabulary pretty clean. But—the Flats!
Outside of the ragged8 cluster of log shacks9, which comprised the settlement, there was always a shifting fringe of teepees where the Indians, who drifted down from the Reservation, camped with their dogs and squaws and papooses. There are standpoints from which Indians are interesting, but they cannot be said to offer congenial social attractions. For three weeks after Carey went to the Flats he was lonelier than he had ever imagined it possible to be, even in the Great Lone11 Land. If it had not been for teaching Paul Dumont the telegraphic code, Carey believed he would have been driven to suicide in self-defense.
The telegraphic importance of the Flats consisted in the fact that it was the starting point of three telegraph lines to remote trading posts up North. Not many messages came therefrom, but the few that did come generally amounted to something worth while. Days and even weeks would pass without a single one being clicked to the Flats. Carey was debarred from talking over the wires to the Prince Albert man for the reason that they were on officially bad terms. He blamed the latter for his transfer to the Flats.
Carey slept in a loft12 over the office, and got his meals at Joe Esquint's, across the "street." Joe Esquint's wife was a good cook, as cooks go among the breeds, and Carey soon became a great pet of hers. Carey had a habit of becoming a pet with women. He had the "way" that has to be born in a man and can never be acquired. Besides, he was as handsome as clean-cut features, deep-set, dark-blue eyes, fair curls and six feet of muscle could make him. Mrs. Joe Esquint thought that his mustache was the most wonderfully beautiful thing, in its line, that she had ever seen.
Fortunately, Mrs. Joe was so old and fat and ugly that even the malicious13 and inveterate14 gossip of skulking15 breeds and Indians, squatting16 over teepee fires, could not hint at anything questionable17 in the relations between her and Carey. But it was a different matter with Tannis Dumont.
Tannis came home from the academy at Prince Albert early in July, when Carey had been at the Flats a month and had exhausted18 all the few novelties of his position. Paul Dumont had already become so expert at the code that his mistakes no longer afforded Carey any fun, and the latter was getting desperate. He had serious intentions of throwing up the business altogether, and betaking himself to an Alberta ranch19, where at least one would have the excitement of roping horses. When he saw Tannis Dumont he thought he would hang on awhile longer, anyway.
Tannis was the daughter of old Auguste Dumont, who kept the one small store at the Flats, lived in the one frame house that the place boasted, and was reputed to be worth an amount of money which, in half-breed eyes, was a colossal20 fortune. Old Auguste was black and ugly and notoriously bad-tempered21. But Tannis was a beauty.
Tannis' great-grandmother had been a Cree squaw who married a French trapper. The son of this union became in due time the father of Auguste Dumont. Auguste married a woman whose mother was a French half-breed and whose father was a pure-bred Highland22 Scotchman. The result of this atrocious mixture was its justification—Tannis of the Flats—who looked as if all the blood of all the Howards might be running in her veins24.
But, after all, the dominant25 current in those same veins was from the race of plain and prairie. The practiced eye detected it in the slender stateliness of carriage, in the graceful26, yet voluptuous27, curves of the lithe28 body, in the smallness and delicacy29 of hand and foot, in the purple sheen on straight-falling masses of blue-black hair, and, more than all else, in the long, dark eye, full and soft, yet alight with a slumbering30 fire. France, too, was responsible for somewhat in Tannis. It gave her a light step in place of the stealthy half-breed shuffle31, it arched her red upper lip into a more tremulous bow, it lent a note of laughter to her voice and a sprightlier32 wit to her tongue. As for her red-headed Scotch23 grandfather, he had bequeathed her a somewhat whiter skin and ruddier bloom than is usually found in the breeds.
Old Auguste was mightily33 proud of Tannis. He sent her to school for four years in Prince Albert, bound that his girl should have the best. A High School course and considerable mingling34 in the social life of the town—for old Auguste was a man to be conciliated by astute35 politicians, since he controlled some two or three hundred half-breed votes—sent Tannis home to the Flats with a very thin, but very deceptive36, veneer37 of culture and civilization overlying the primitive38 passions and ideas of her nature.
Carey saw only the beauty and the veneer. He made the mistake of thinking that Tannis was what she seemed to be—a fairly well-educated, up-to-date young woman with whom a friendly flirtation39 was just what it was with white womankind—the pleasant amusement of an hour or season. It was a mistake—a very big mistake. Tannis understood something of piano playing, something less of grammar and Latin, and something less still of social prevarications. But she understood absolutely nothing of flirtation. You can never get an Indian to see the sense of Platonics.
Carey found the Flats quite tolerable after the homecoming of Tannis. He soon fell into the habit of dropping into the Dumont house to spend the evening, talking with Tannis in the parlor—which apartment was amazingly well done for a place like the Flats—Tannis had not studied Prince Albert parlors40 four years for nothing—or playing violin and piano duets with her. When music and conversation palled41, they went for long gallops42 over the prairies together. Tannis rode to perfection, and managed her bad-tempered brute43 of a pony44 with a skill and grace that made Carey applaud her. She was glorious on horseback.
Sometimes he grew tired of the prairies and then he and Tannis paddled themselves over the river in Nitchie Joe's dug-out, and landed on the old trail that struck straight into the wooded belt of the Saskatchewan valley, leading north to trading posts on the frontier of civilization. There they rambled45 under huge pines, hoary47 with the age of centuries, and Carey talked to Tannis about England and quoted poetry to her. Tannis liked poetry; she had studied it at school, and understood it fairly well. But once she told Carey that she thought it a long, round-about way of saying what you could say just as well in about a dozen plain words. Carey laughed. He liked to evoke48 those little speeches of hers. They sounded very clever, dropping from such arched, ripely-tinted lips.
If you had told Carey that he was playing with fire he would have laughed at you. In the first place he was not in the slightest degree in love with Tannis—he merely admired and liked her. In the second place, it never occurred to him that Tannis might be in love with him. Why, he had never attempted any love-making with her! And, above all, he was obsessed49 with that aforesaid fatal idea that Tannis was like the women he had associated with all his life, in reality as well as in appearance. He did not know enough of the racial characteristics to understand.
But, if Carey thought his relationship with Tannis was that of friendship merely, he was the only one at the Flats who did think so. All the half-breeds and quarter-breeds and any-fractional breeds there believed that he meant to marry Tannis. There would have been nothing surprising to them in that. They did not know that Carey's second cousin was a baronet, and they would not have understood that it need make any difference, if they had. They thought that rich old Auguste's heiress, who had been to school for four years in Prince Albert, was a catch for anybody.
Old Auguste himself shrugged50 his shoulders over it and was well-pleased enough. An Englishman was a prize by way of a husband for a half-breed girl, even if he were only a telegraph operator. Young Paul Dumont worshipped Carey, and the half-Scotch mother, who might have understood, was dead. In all the Flats there were but two people who disapproved51 of the match they thought an assured thing. One of these was the little priest, Father Gabriel. He liked Tannis, and he liked Carey; but he shook his head dubiously52 when he heard the gossip of the shacks and teepees. Religions might mingle53, but the different bloods—ah, it was not the right thing! Tannis was a good girl, and a beautiful one; but she was no fit mate for the fair, thorough-bred Englishman. Father Gabriel wished fervently54 that Jerome Carey might soon be transferred elsewhere. He even went to Prince Albert and did a little wire-pulling on his own account, but nothing came of it. He was on the wrong side of politics.
The other malcontent55 was Lazarre Mérimée, a lazy, besotted French half-breed, who was, after his fashion, in love with Tannis. He could never have got her, and he knew it—old Auguste and young Paul would have incontinently riddled56 him with bullets had he ventured near the house as a suitor,—but he hated Carey none the less, and watched for a chance to do him an ill-turn. There is no worse enemy in all the world than a half-breed. Your true Indian is bad enough, but his diluted57 descendant is ten times worse.
As for Tannis, she loved Carey with all her heart, and that was all there was about it.
If Elinor Blair had never gone to Prince Albert there is no knowing what might have happened, after all. Carey, so powerful in propinquity, might even have ended by learning to love Tannis and marrying her, to his own worldly undoing58. But Elinor did go to Prince Albert, and her going ended all things for Tannis of the Flats.
Carey met her one evening in September, when he had ridden into town to attend a dance, leaving Paul Dumont in charge of the telegraph office. Elinor had just arrived in Prince Albert on a visit to Tom, to which she had been looking forward during the five years since he had married and moved out West from Avonlea. As I have already said, she was very beautiful at that time, and Carey fell in love with her at the first moment of their meeting.
During the next three weeks he went to town nine times and called at the Dumonts' only once. There were no more rides and walks with Tannis. This was not intentional59 neglect on his part. He had simply forgotten all about her. The breeds surmised60 a lover's quarrel, but Tannis understood. There was another woman back there in town.
It would be quite impossible to put on paper any adequate idea of her emotions at this stage. One night, she followed Carey when he went to Prince Albert, riding out of earshot, behind him on her plains pony, but keeping him in sight. Lazarre, in a fit of jealousy61, had followed Tannis, spying on her until she started back to the Flats. After that he watched both Carey and Tannis incessantly62, and months later had told Tom all he had learned through his low sneaking63.
Tannis trailed Carey to the Blair house, on the bluffs64 above the town, and saw him tie his horse at the gate and enter. She, too, tied her pony to a poplar, lower down, and then crept stealthily through the willows66 at the side of the house until she was close to the windows. Through one of them she could see Carey and Elinor. The half-breed girl crouched67 down in the shadow and glared at her rival. She saw the pretty, fair-tinted face, the fluffy68 coronal of golden hair, the blue, laughing eyes of the woman whom Jerome Carey loved, and she realized very plainly that there was nothing left to hope for. She, Tannis of the Flats, could never compete with that other. It was well to know so much, at least.
After a time, she crept softly away, loosed her pony, and lashed69 him mercilessly with her whip through the streets of the town and out the long, dusty river trail. A man turned and looked after her as she tore past a brightly lighted store on Water Street.
"That was Tannis of the Flats," he said to a companion. "She was in town last winter, going to school—a beauty and a bit of the devil, like all those breed girls. What in thunder is she riding like that for?"
One day, a fortnight later, Carey went over the river alone for a ramble46 up the northern trail, and an undisturbed dream of Elinor. When he came back Tannis was standing70 at the canoe landing, under a pine tree, in a rain of finely sifted71 sunlight. She was waiting for him and she said, without any preface:
"Mr. Carey, why do you never come to see me, now?"
Carey flushed like any girl. Her tone and look made him feel very uncomfortable. He remembered, self-reproachfully, that he must have seemed very neglectful, and he stammered72 something about having been busy.
"Not very busy," said Tannis, with her terrible directness. "It is not that. It is because you are going to Prince Albert to see a white woman!"
Even in his embarrassment73 Carey noted74 that this was the first time he had ever heard Tannis use the expression, "a white woman," or any other that would indicate her sense of a difference between herself and the dominant race. He understood, at the same moment, that this girl was not to be trifled with—that she would have the truth out of him, first or last. But he felt indescribably foolish.
"And what about me?" asked Tannis.
When you come to think of it, this was an embarrassing question, especially for Carey, who had believed that Tannis understood the game, and played it for its own sake, as he did.
"I don't understand you, Tannis," he said hurriedly.
"You have made me love you," said Tannis.
The words sound flat enough on paper. They did not sound flat to Tom, as repeated by Lazarre, and they sounded anything but flat to Carey, hurled76 at him as they were by a woman trembling with all the passions of her savage77 ancestry78. Tannis had justified79 her criticism of poetry. She had said her half-dozen words, instinct with all the despair and pain and wild appeal that all the poetry in the world had ever expressed.
They made Carey feel like a scoundrel. All at once he realized how impossible it would be to explain matters to Tannis, and that he would make a still bigger fool of himself, if he tried.
"I am very sorry," he stammered, like a whipped schoolboy.
"It is no matter," interrupted Tannis violently. "What difference does it make about me—a half-breed girl? We breed girls are only born to amuse the white men. That is so—is it not? Then, when they are tired of us, they push us aside and go back to their own kind. Oh, it is very well. But I will not forget—my father and brother will not forget. They will make you sorry to some purpose!"
She turned, and stalked away to her canoe. He waited under the pines until she crossed the river; then he, too, went miserably80 home. What a mess he had contrived81 to make of things! Poor Tannis! How handsome she had looked in her fury—and how much like a squaw! The racial marks always come out plainly under the stress of emotion, as Tom noted later.
Her threat did not disturb him. If young Paul and old Auguste made things unpleasant for him, he thought himself more than a match for them. It was the thought of the suffering he had brought upon Tannis that worried him. He had not, to be sure, been a villain82; but he had been a fool, and that is almost as bad, under some circumstances.
The Dumonts, however, did not trouble him. After all, Tannis' four years in Prince Albert had not been altogether wasted. She knew that white girls did not mix their male relatives up in a vendetta83 when a man ceased calling on them—and she had nothing else to complain of that could be put in words. After some reflection she concluded to hold her tongue. She even laughed when old Auguste asked her what was up between her and her fellow, and said she had grown tired of him. Old Auguste shrugged his shoulders resignedly. It was just as well, maybe. Those English sons-in-law sometimes gave themselves too many airs.
So Carey rode often to town and Tannis bided84 her time, and plotted futile85 schemes of revenge, and Lazarre Mérimée scowled86 and got drunk—and life went on at the Flats as usual, until the last week in October, when a big wind and rainstorm swept over the northland.
It was a bad night. The wires were down between the Flats and Prince Albert and all communication with the outside world was cut off. Over at Joe Esquint's the breeds were having a carouse87 in honor of Joe's birthday. Paul Dumont had gone over, and Carey was alone in the office, smoking lazily and dreaming of Elinor.
Suddenly, above the plash of rain and whistle of wind, he heard outcries in the street. Running to the door he was met by Mrs. Joe Esquint, who grasped him breathlessly.
"Meestair Carey—come quick! Lazarre, he kill Paul—they fight!"
Carey, with a smothered88 oath, rushed across the street. He had been afraid of something of the sort, and had advised Paul not to go, for those half-breed carouses89 almost always ended in a free fight. He burst into the kitchen at Joe Esquint's, to find a circle of mute spectators ranged around the room and Paul and Lazarre in a clinch90 in the center. Carey was relieved to find it was only an affair of fists. He promptly91 hurled himself at the combatants and dragged Paul away, while Mrs. Joe Esquint—Joe himself being dead-drunk in a corner—flung her fat arms about Lazarre and held him back.
"Stop this," said Carey sternly.
He could not writhe93 free from Carey's iron grip. Lazarre, with a snarl94 like a wolf, sent Mrs. Joe spinning, and rushed at Paul. Carey struck out as best he could, and Lazarre went reeling back against the table. It went over with a crash and the light went out!
Mrs. Joe's shrieks95 might have brought the roof down. In the confusion that ensued, two pistol shots rang out sharply. There was a cry, a groan96, a fall—then a rush for the door. When Mrs. Joe Esquint's sister-in-law, Marie, dashed in with another lamp, Mrs. Joe was still shrieking97, Paul Dumont was leaning sickly against the wall with a dangling98 arm, and Carey lay face downward on the floor, with blood trickling99 from under him.
Marie Esquint was a woman of nerve. She told Mrs. Joe to shut up, and she turned Carey over. He was conscious, but seemed dazed and could not help himself. Marie put a coat under his head, told Paul to lie down on the bench, ordered Mrs. Joe to get a bed ready, and went for the doctor. It happened that there was a doctor at the Flats that night—a Prince Albert man who had been up at the Reservation, fixing up some sick Indians, and had been stormstaid at old Auguste's on his way back.
Marie soon returned with the doctor, old Auguste, and Tannis. Carey was carried in and laid on Mrs. Esquint's bed. The doctor made a brief examination, while Mrs. Joe sat on the floor and howled at the top of her lungs. Then he shook his head.
"How long?" asked Carey, understanding.
"Perhaps till morning," answered the doctor. Mrs. Joe gave a louder howl than ever at this, and Tannis came and stood by the bed. The doctor, knowing that he could do nothing for Carey, hurried into the kitchen to attend to Paul, who had a badly shattered arm, and Marie went with him.
Carey looked stupidly at Tannis.
"Send for her," he said.
Tannis smiled cruelly.
"There is no way. The wires are down, and there is no man at the Flats who will go to town to-night," she answered.
"My God, I MUST see her before I die," burst out Carey pleadingly. "Where is Father Gabriel? HE will go."
"The priest went to town last night and has not come back," said Tannis.
Carey groaned101 and shut his eyes. If Father Gabriel was away, there was indeed no one to go. Old Auguste and the doctor could not leave Paul and he knew well that no breed of them all at the Flats would turn out on such a night, even if they were not, one and all, mortally scared of being mixed up in the law and justice that would be sure to follow the affair. He must die without seeing Elinor.
Tannis looked inscrutably down on the pale face on Mrs. Joe Esquint's dirty pillows. Her immobile features gave no sign of the conflict raging within her. After a short space she turned and went out, shutting the door softly on the wounded man and Mrs. Joe, whose howls had now simmered down to whines102. In the next room, Paul was crying out with pain as the doctor worked on his arm, but Tannis did not go to him. Instead, she slipped out and hurried down the stormy street to old Auguste's stable. Five minutes later she was galloping103 down the black, wind-lashed river trail, on her way to town, to bring Elinor Blair to her lover's deathbed.
I hold that no woman ever did anything more unselfish than this deed of Tannis! For the sake of love she put under her feet the jealousy and hatred104 that had clamored at her heart. She held, not only revenge, but the dearer joy of watching by Carey to the last, in the hollow of her hand, and she cast both away that the man she loved might draw his dying breath somewhat easier. In a white woman the deed would have been merely commendable105. In Tannis of the Flats, with her ancestry and tradition, it was lofty self-sacrifice.
It was eight o'clock when Tannis left the Flats; it was ten when she drew bridle106 before the house on the bluff65. Elinor was regaling Tom and his wife with Avonlea gossip when the maid came to the door.
"Pleas'm, there's a breed girl out on the verandah and she's asking for Miss Blair."
Elinor went out wonderingly, followed by Tom. Tannis, whip in hand, stood by the open door, with the stormy night behind her, and the warm ruby107 light of the hall lamp showering over her white face and the long rope of drenched108 hair that fell from her bare head. She looked wild enough.
"Jerome Carey was shot in a quarrel at Joe Esquint's to-night," she said. "He is dying—he wants you—I have come for you."
Elinor gave a little cry, and steadied herself on Tom's shoulder. Tom said he knew he made some exclamation109 of horror. He had never approved of Carey's attentions to Elinor, but such news was enough to shock anybody. He was determined110, however, that Elinor should not go out in such a night and to such a scene, and told Tannis so in no uncertain terms.
"I came through the storm," said Tannis, contemptuously. "Cannot she do as much for him as I can?"
The good, old Island blood in Elinor's veins showed to some purpose. "Yes," she answered firmly. "No, Tom, don't object—I must go. Get my horse—and your own."
Ten minutes later three riders galloped111 down the bluff road and took the river trail. Fortunately the wind was at their backs and the worst of the storm was over. Still, it was a wild, black ride enough. Tom rode, cursing softly under his breath. He did not like the whole thing—Carey done to death in some low half-breed shack10, this handsome, sullen112 girl coming as his messenger, this nightmare ride, through wind and rain. It all savored113 too much of melodrama114, even for the Northland, where people still did things in a primitive way. He heartily115 wished Elinor had never left Avonlea.
It was past twelve when they reached the Flats. Tannis was the only one who seemed to be able to think coherently. It was she who told Tom where to take the horses and then led Elinor to the room where Carey was dying. The doctor was sitting by the bedside and Mrs. Joe was curled up in a corner, sniffling to herself. Tannis took her by the shoulder and turned her, none too gently, out of the room. The doctor, understanding, left at once. As Tannis shut the door she saw Elinor sink on her knees by the bed, and Carey's trembling hand go out to her head.
Tannis sat down on the floor outside of the door and wrapped herself up in a shawl Marie Esquint had dropped. In that attitude she looked exactly like a squaw, and all comers and goers, even old Auguste, who was hunting for her, thought she was one, and left her undisturbed. She watched there until dawn came whitely up over the prairies and Jerome Carey died. She knew when it happened by Elinor's cry.
Tannis sprang up and rushed in. She was too late for even a parting look.
The girl took Carey's hand in hers, and turned to the weeping Elinor with a cold dignity.
"Now go," she said. "You had him in life to the very last. He is mine now."
"My father and brother will make all arrangements, as you call them," said Tannis steadily117. "He had no near relatives in the world—none at all in Canada—he told me so. You may send out a Protestant minister from town, if you like; but he will be buried here at the Flats and his grave will be mine—all mine! Go!"
And Elinor, reluctant, sorrowful, yet swayed by a will and an emotion stronger than her own, went slowly out, leaving Tannis of the Flats alone with her dead.
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blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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shacks
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| n.窝棚，简陋的小屋( shack的名词复数 ) | |
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shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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questionable
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exhausted
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ranch
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colossal
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bad-tempered
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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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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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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graceful
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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29
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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30
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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31
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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32
sprightlier
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活泼的( sprightly的比较级 ) | |
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33
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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34
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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35
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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36
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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37
veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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38
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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39
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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40
parlors
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| 客厅( parlor的名词复数 )； 起居室； （旅馆中的）休息室； （通常用来构成合成词）店 | |
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41
palled
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| v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
gallops
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| （马等）奔驰，骑马奔驰( gallop的名词复数 ) | |
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43
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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44
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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45
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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46
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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47
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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48
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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49
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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50
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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53
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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54
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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55
malcontent
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| n.不满者，不平者；adj.抱不平的，不满的 | |
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56
riddled
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| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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57
diluted
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| 无力的，冲淡的 | |
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58
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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59
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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60
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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61
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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62
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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63
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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64
bluffs
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| 恐吓( bluff的名词复数 )； 悬崖； 峭壁 | |
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65
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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66
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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67
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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69
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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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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71
sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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72
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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73
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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74
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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75
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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76
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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77
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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78
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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79
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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80
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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81
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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82
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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83
vendetta
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| n.世仇，宿怨 | |
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84
bided
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| v.等待，停留( bide的过去式 )；居住；等待；面临 | |
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85
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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86
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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87
carouse
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| v.狂欢；痛饮；n.狂饮的宴会 | |
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88
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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89
carouses
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| v.痛饮，闹饮欢宴( carouse的第三人称单数 ) | |
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90
clinch
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| v.敲弯，钉牢；确定；扭住对方 [参]clench | |
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91
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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92
foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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93
writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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94
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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95
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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96
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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97
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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98
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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99
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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100
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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101
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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102
whines
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| n.悲嗥声( whine的名词复数 )；哀鸣者v.哀号( whine的第三人称单数 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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103
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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104
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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105
commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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106
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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107
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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108
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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109
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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110
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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111
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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112
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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113
savored
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的过去式和过去分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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114
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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115
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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116
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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117
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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