'I think I'll take a cab, if you don't mind,' Lucy answered quietly. 'Perhaps you'll take Dick.'
She did not bid them good-bye, but walked slowly away.
'How exasperating6 you people are!' cried Mrs. Crowley. 'I wanted to throw myself in her arms and have a good cry on the platform. You have no heart.'
Dick walked along by her side, and they got into Mrs. Crowley's carriage. She soliloquised.
'I thank God that I have emotions, and I don't mind if I do show them. I was the only person who cried. I knew I should cry, and I brought three handkerchiefs on purpose. Look at them.' She pulled them out of her bag and thrust them into Dick's hand. 'They're soaking.'
'You say it with triumph,' he smiled.
'I think you're all perfectly7 heartless. Those two boys were going away for heaven knows how long on a dangerous journey, and they may never come back, and you and Lucy said good-bye to them just as if they were going off for a day's golf. I was the only one who said I was sorry, and that we should miss them dreadfully. I hate this English coldness. When I go to America, it's ten to one nobody comes to see me off, and if anyone does he just nods and says "Good-bye, I hope you'll have a jolly time."'
'Next time you go I will come and hurl8 myself on the ground, and gnash my teeth and shriek9 at the top of my voice.'
'Oh, yes, do. And then I'll cry all the way to Liverpool, and I shall have a racking headache and feel quite miserable10 and happy.'
'You see, we have an instinctive12 horror of exhibiting our emotion. I don't know why it is, I suppose training or the inheritance of our sturdy fathers, but we're ashamed to let people see what we feel. But I don't know whether on that account our feelings are any the less keen. Don't you think there's a certain beauty in a grief that forbids itself all expression? You know, I admire Lucy tremendously, and as she came towards us on the platform I thought there was something very fine in her calmness.'
'Fiddlesticks!' said Mrs. Crowley, sharply. 'I should have liked her much better if she had clung to her brother and sobbed and had to be torn away.'
'Did you notice that she left us without even shaking hands? It was a very small omission13, but it meant that she was quite absorbed in her grief.'
They reached Mrs. Crowley's tiny house in Norfolk Street, and she asked Dick to come in.
'Sit down and read the paper,' she said, 'while I go and powder my nose.'
Dick made himself comfortable. He blessed the charming woman when a butler of imposing14 dimensions brought in all that was necessary to make a cocktail15. Mrs. Crowley cultivated England like a museum specimen16. She had furnished her drawing-room with Chippendale furniture of an exquisite17 pattern. No chintzes were so smartly calendered as hers, and on the walls were mezzotints of the ladies whom Sir Joshua had painted. The chimney-piece was adorned18 with Lowestoft china, and on the silver table was a collection of old English spoons. She had chosen her butler because he went so well with the house. His respectability was portentous19, his gravity was never disturbed by the shadow of a smile; and Mrs. Crowley treated him as though he were a piece of decoration, with an impertinence that fascinated him. He looked upon her as an outlandish freak, but his heavy British heart was surrendered to her entirely20, and he watched over her with a solicitude21 that amused and touched her.
Dick thought that the little drawing-room was very comfortable, and when Mrs. Crowley returned, after an unconscionable time at the toilet-table, he was in the happiest mood. She gave a rapid glance at the glasses.
'You're a perfect hero,' she said. 'You've waited till I came down to have your cocktail.'
'Richard Lomas, madam, is the soul of courtesy,' he replied, with a flourish. 'Besides, base is the soul that drinks in the morning by himself. At night, in your slippers22 and without a collar, with a pipe in your mouth and a good book in your hand, a solitary23 glass of whisky and soda24 is eminently25 desirable; but the anteprandial cocktail needs the sparkle of conversation.'
'You seem to be in excellent health,' said Mrs. Crowley.
'I am. Why?'
'I saw in yesterday's paper that your doctor had ordered you to go abroad for the rest of the winter.'
'My doctor received the two guineas, and I wrote the prescription,' returned Dick. 'Do you remember that I explained to you the other day at length my intention of retiring into private life?'
'I do. I strongly disapprove26 of it.'
'Well, I was convinced that if I relinquished27 my duties without any excuse people would say I was mad and shut me up in a lunatic asylum28. I invented a breakdown29 in my health, and everything is plain sailing. I've got a pair for the rest of the session, and at the general election the excellent Robert Boulger will step into my unworthy shoes.'
'And supposing you regret the step you've taken?'
'In my youth I imagined, with the romantic fervour of my age, that in life everything was irreparable. That is a delusion30. One of the greatest advantages of life is that hardly anything is. One can make ever so many fresh starts. The average man lives long enough for a good many experiments, and it's they that give life its savour.'
'I don't approve of this flippant way you talk of life,' said Mrs. Crowley severely31. 'It seems to me something infinitely32 serious and complicated.'
'That is an illusion of moralists. As a matter of fact, it's merely what you make it. Mine is quite light and simple.'
Mrs. Crowley looked at Dick reflectively.
'I wonder why you never married,' she said.
'I can tell you easily. Because I have a considerable gift for repartee33. I discovered in my early youth that men propose not because they want to marry, but because on certain occasions they are entirely at a loss for topics of conversation.'
'No sooner had I made it than I began to cultivate my powers of small talk. I felt that my only chance was to be ready with appropriate subjects at the smallest notice, and I spent a considerable part of my last year at Oxford35 in studying the best masters.'
'I never noticed that you were particularly brilliant,' murmured Mrs. Crowley, raising her eyebrows36.
'I never played for brilliancy, I played for safety. I flatter myself that when prattle37 was needed, I have never been found wanting. I have met the ingenuousness38 of sweet seventeen with a few observations on Free Trade, while the haggard efforts of thirty have struggled in vain against a brief exposition of the higher philosophy.'
'When people talk higher philosophy to me I make it a definite rule to blush,' said Mrs. Crowley.
'The skittish39 widow of uncertain age has retired40 in disorder41 before a complete acquaintance with the Restoration dramatists, and I have frequently routed the serious spinster with religious leanings by my remarkable42 knowledge of the results of missionary43 endeavour in Central Africa. Once a dowager sought to ask me my intentions, but I flung at her astonished head an article from the Encyclopedia44 Brittanica. An American divorcée swooned when I poured into her shell-like ear a few facts about the McKinley Tariff45. These are only my serious efforts. I need not tell you how often I have evaded46 a flash of the eyes by an epigram, or ignored a sigh by an apt quotation48 from the poets.'
'I don't believe a word you say,' retorted Mrs. Crowley. 'I believe you never married for the simple reason that nobody would have you.'
'Do me the justice to acknowledge that I'm the only man who's known you for ten days without being tempted49 by those coal-mines of yours in Pennsylvania to offer you his hand and heart.'
'I don't believe the coal has anything to do with it,' answered Mrs. Crowley. 'I put it down entirely to my very considerable personal attractions.'
Dick looked at the time and found that the cocktail had given him an appetite. He asked Mrs. Crowley if she would lunch with him, and gaily50 they set out for a fashionable restaurant. Neither of them gave a thought to Alec and George speeding towards the unknown, nor to Lucy shut up in her room, given over to utter misery51.
For Lucy it was the first of many dreary52 days. Dick went to Naples, and enjoying his new-won idleness, did not even write to her. Mrs. Crowley, after deciding on a trip to Egypt, was called to America by the illness of a sister; and Lady Kelsey, unable to stand the rigour of a Northern winter, set out for Nice. Lucy refused to accompany her. Though she knew it would be impossible to see her father, she could not bear to leave England; she could not face the gay people who thronged53 the Riviera, while he was bound to degrading tasks. The luxury of her own life horrified54 her when she compared it with his hard fare; and she could not look upon the comfortable rooms she lived in, with their delicate refinements55, without thinking of the bare cell to which he was confined. Lucy was glad to be alone.
She went nowhere, but passed her days in solitude56, striving to acquire peace of mind; she took long walks in the parks with her dogs, and spent much time in the picture galleries. Without realising the effect they had upon her, she felt vaguely57 the calming influence of beautiful things; often she would sit in the National Gallery before some royal picture, and the joy of it would fill her soul with quiet relief. Sometimes she would go to those majestic58 statues that decorated the pediment of the Parthenon, and the tears welled up in her clear eyes as she thanked the gods for the graciousness of their peace. She did not often listen to music, for then she could remain no longer mistress of her emotions; the tumultuous sounds of a symphony, the final anguish59 of Tristan, made vain all her efforts at self-control; and when she got home, she could only throw herself on her bed and weep passionately60.
In reading she found her greatest solace61. Many things that Alec had said returned dimly to her memory; and she began to read the Greek writers who had so profoundly affected62 him. She found a translation of Euripides which gave her some impression of the original, and her constant mood was answered by those old, exquisite tragedies. The complexity63 of that great poet, his doubt, despair, and his love of beauty, spoke64 to her heart as no modern writer could; and in the study of those sad deeds, in which men seemed always playthings of the fates, she found a relief to her own keen sorrow. She did not reason it out with herself, but almost unconsciously the thought came to her that the slings65 and arrows of the gods could be transformed into beauty by resignation and courage. Nothing was irreparable but a man's own weakness, and even in shame, disaster, and poverty, it was possible to lead a life that was not without grandeur66. The man who was beaten to the ground by an outrageous67 fortune might be a finer thing than the unseeing, cruel powers that conquered him.
It was in this wise that Lucy battled with the intolerable shame that oppressed her. In that quiet corner of Hampshire in which her early years had been spent, among the memories of her dead kindred, the pride of her race had grown to unreasonable68 proportions; and now in the reaction she was terrified lest its decadence69 was in her, too, and in George. She could do nothing but suffer whatever pain it pleased the gods to send; but George was a man. In him were placed all her hopes. But now and again wild panic seized her. Then the agony was too great to bear, and she pressed her hands to her eyes in order to drive away the hateful thought: what if George failed her? She knew well enough that he had his father's engaging ways and his father's handsome face; but his father had had a smile as frank and a charm as great. What if with the son, too, they betokened70 only insincerity and weakness? A malicious71 devil whispered in her ear that now and again she had averted72 her eyes in order not to see George do things she hated. But it was youth that drove him. She had taken care to keep from him knowledge of the sordid73 struggles that occupied her, and how could she wonder if he was reckless and uncaring? She would not doubt him, she could not doubt him, for if anything went wrong with him there was no hope left. She could only cease to believe in herself.
When Lucy was allowed to write to her father, she set herself to cheer him. The thought that over five years must elapse before she would have him by her side once more, paralysed her pen; but she would not allow herself to be discouraged. And she sought to give courage to him. She wanted him to see that her love was undiminished, and that he could count on it. Presently she received a letter from him. After a few weeks, the unaccustomed food, the change of life, had told upon him; and a general breakdown in his health had driven him into the infirmary. Lucy was thankful for the respite74 which his illness afforded. It must be a little less dreary in a prison hospital than in a prison cell.
A letter came from George, and another from Alec. Alec's was brief, telling of their journey down the Red Sea and their arrival at Mombassa; it was abrupt75 and awkward, making no reference to his love, or to the engagement which she had almost promised to make when he returned. He began and ended quite formally. George, apparently76 in the best of spirits, wrote as he always did, in a boyish, inconsequent fashion. His letter was filled with slang and gave no news. There was little to show that it was written from Mombassa, on the verge77 of a dangerous expedition into the interior, rather than from Oxford on the eve of a football match. But she read them over and over again. They were very matter of fact, and she smiled as she thought of Julia Crowley's indignation if she had seen them.
From her recollection of Alec's words, Lucy tried to make out the scene that first met her brother's eyes. She seemed to stand by his side, leaning over the rail, as the ship approached the harbour. The sea was blue with a blue she had never seen, and the sky was like an inverted78 bowl of copper79. The low shore, covered with bush, stretched away in the distance; a line of waves was breaking on the reef. They came in sight of the island of Mombassa, with the overgrown ruins of a battery that had once commanded the entrance; and there were white-roofed houses, with deep verandas80, which stood in little clearings with coral cliffs below them. On the opposite shore thick groves81 of palm-trees rose with their singular, melancholy82 beauty. Then as the channel narrowed, they passed an old Portuguese83 fort which carried the mind back to the bold adventurers who had first sailed those distant seas, and directly afterwards a mass of white buildings that reached to the edge of the lapping waves. They saw the huts of the native town, wattled and thatched, nestling close together; and below them was a fleet of native craft. On the jetty was the African crowd, shouting and jostling, some half-naked, and some strangely clad, Arabs from across the sea, Swahilis, and here and there a native from the interior.
In course of time other letters came from George, but Alec wrote no more. The days passed slowly. Lady Kelsey returned from the Riviera. Dick came back from Naples to enjoy the pleasures of the London season. He appeared thoroughly84 to enjoy his idleness, signally falsifying the predictions of those who had told him that it was impossible to be happy without regular work. Mrs. Crowley settled down once more in her house in Norfolk Street. During her absence she had written reams by every post to Lucy, and Lucy had looked forward very much to seeing her again. The little American was almost the only one of her friends with whom she did not feel shy. The apartness which her nationality gave her, made Mrs. Crowley more easy to talk to. She was too fond of Lucy to pity her. The general election came before it was expected, and Robert Boulger succeeded to the seat which Dick Lomas was only too glad to vacate. Bobbie was very charming. He surrounded Lucy with a protecting care, and she could not fail to be touched by his entire devotion. When he thought she had recovered somewhat from the first blow of her father's sentence, he sent her a letter in which once more he besought85 her to marry him. She was grateful to him for having chosen that method of expressing himself, for it seemed possible in writing to tell him with greater tenderness that if she could not accept his love she deeply valued his affection.
It seemed to Lucy that the life she led in London, or at Lady Kelsey's house on the river, was no more than a dream. She was but a figure in the procession of shadow pictures cast on a sheet in a fair, and nothing that she did signified. Her spirit was away in the heart of Africa, and by a vehement86 effort of her fancy she sought to see what each day her friend and her brother were doing.
Now they had long left the railway and such civilisation87 as was to be found in the lands where white men had already made their mark. She knew the exultation88 which Alec felt, and the thrill of independence, when he left behind him all traces of it. He held himself more proudly because he knew that thenceforward he must rely on his own resources, and success or failure depended only on himself.
Often as she lay awake and saw the ghostly dawn steal across the sky, she seemed borne to the African camp, where the break of day, like a gust89 of wind in a field of ripe corn, brought a sudden stir among the sleepers90. Alec had described to her so minutely the changing scene that she was able to bring it vividly91 before her eyes. She saw him come out of his tent, in heavy boots, buckling92 on his belt. He wore knee-breeches and a pith helmet, and he was more bronzed than when she had bidden him farewell. He gave the order to the headman of the caravan93 to take up the loads. At the word there was a rush from all parts of the camp; each porter seized his load, carrying it off to lash47 on his mat and his cooking-pot, and then, sitting upon it, ate a few grains of roasted maize94 or the remains95 of last night's game. And as the sun appeared above the horizon, Alec, as was his custom, led the way, followed by a few askari. A band of natives struck up a strange and musical chant, and the camp, but now a scene of busy life, was deserted96. The smouldering fires died out with the rising sun, and the silent life of the forest replaced the chatter97 and the hum of human kind. Giant beetles98 came from every quarter and carried away pieces of offal; small shy beasts stole out to gnaw99 the white bones upon which savage100 teeth had left but little; a gaunt hyena101, with suspicious looks, snatched at a bone and dashed back into the jungle. Vultures settled down heavily, and with deliberate air sought out the foulest102 refuse.
Then Lucy followed Alec upon his march, with his fighting men and his long string of porters. They went along a narrow track, pushing their way through bushes and thorns, or tall rank grass, sometimes with difficulty forcing through elephant reeds which closed over their heads and showered the cold dew down on their faces. Sometimes they passed through villages, with rich soil and extensive population; sometimes they plunged103 into heavy forests of gigantic trees, festooned with creepers, where the silence was unbroken even by the footfall of the traveller on the bottomless carpet of leaves; sometimes they traversed vast swamps, hurrying to avoid the deadly fever, and sometimes scrub jungles, in which as far as the eye could reach was a forest of cactus104 and thorn bush. Sometimes they made their way through grassy105 uplands with trees as splendid as those of an English park, and sometimes they toiled106 painfully along a game-track that ran by the bank of a swift-rushing river.
At midday a halt was called. The caravan had opened out by then; men who were sick or had stopped to adjust a load, others who were weak or lazy, had lagged behind; but at last they were all there; and the rear guard, perhaps with George in charge of it, whose orders were on no account to allow a single man to remain behind them, reported that no one was missing. During the heat of noon they made fires and cooked food. Presently they set off once more and marched till sundown.
When they reached the place which had been fixed107 on for camping, a couple of shots were fired as signals; and soon the natives, men and women, began to stream in with little baskets of grain or flour, with potatoes and chickens, and perhaps a pot or two of honey. Very quickly the tents were pitched, the bed gear arranged, the loads counted and stacked. The party whose duty it was to construct the zeriba cut down boughs108 and dragged them in to form a fence. Each little band of men selected the site for their bivouac; one went off to collect materials to build the huts, another to draw water, a third for firewood and stones, on which to place the cooking-pot. At sunset the headman blew his whistle and asked if all were present. A lusty chorus replied. He reported to his chief and received the orders for the next day's march.
Alec had told Lucy that from the cry that goes up in answer to the headman's whistle, you could always gauge109 the spirit of the men. If game had been shot, or from scarcity110 the caravan had come to a land of plenty, there was a perfect babel of voices. But if the march had been long and hard, or if food had been issued for a number of days, of which this was the last, isolated111 voices replied; and perhaps one, bolder than the rest, cried out: I am hungry.
Then Alec and George, and the others sat down to their evening meal, while the porters, in little parties, were grouped around their huge pots of porridge. A little chat, a smoke, an exchange of sporting anecdotes112, and the white men turned in. And Alec, gazing on the embers of his camp fire was alone with his thoughts: the silence of the night was upon him, and he looked up at the stars that shone in their countless113 myriads114 in the blue African sky. Lucy got up and stood at her open window. She, too, looked up at the sky, and she thought that she saw the same stars as he did. Now in that last half hour, free from the burden of the day, with everyone at rest, he could give himself over to his thoughts, and his thoughts surely were of her.
During the months that had passed since Alec left England, Lucy's love had grown. In her solitude there was nothing else to give brightness to her life, and little by little it filled her heart. Her nature was so strong that she could do nothing by half measures, and it was with a feeling of extreme relief that she surrendered herself to this overwhelming passion. It seemed to her that she was growing in a different direction. The yearning115 of her soul for someone on whom to lean was satisfied at last. Hitherto the only instincts that had been fostered in her were those that had been useful to her father and George; they had needed her courage and her self-reliance. It was very comfortable to depend entirely upon Alec's love. Here she could be weak, here she could find a greater strength which made her own seem puny116. Lucy's thoughts were absorbed in the man whom really she knew so little. She exulted117 in his unselfish striving and in his firmness of purpose, and when she compared herself with him she felt unworthy. She treasured every recollection she had of him. She went over in her mind all that she had heard him say, and reconstructed the conversations they had had together. She walked where they had walked, remembering how the sky had looked on those days and what flowers then bloomed in the parks; she visited the galleries they had seen in one another's company, and stood before the pictures which he had lingered at. And notwithstanding all there was to torment118 and humiliate119 her, she was happy. Something had come into her life which made all else tolerable. It was easy to bear the extremity120 of grief when he loved her.
After a long time Dick received a letter from Alec. MacKenzie was not a good letter-writer. He had no gift of self-expression, and when he had a pen in his hand seemed to be seized with an invincible121 shyness. The letter was dry and wooden. It was dated from the last trading-station before he set out into the wild country which was to be the scene of his operations. It said that hitherto everything had gone well with him, and the white men, but for fever occasionally, were bearing the climate well. One, named Macinnery, had made a nuisance of himself, and had been sent back to the coast. Alec gave no reasons for this step. He had been busy making the final arrangements. A company had been formed, the North East Africa Trading Company, to exploit the commercial possibilities of these unworked districts, and a charter had been given them; but the unsettled state of the land had so hampered122 them that the directors had gladly accepted Alec's offer to join their forces with his, and the traders at their stations had been instructed to take service under him. This increased the white men under his command to sixteen. He had drilled the Swahilis whom he had brought from the coast, and given them guns, so that he had now an armed force of four hundred men. He was collecting levies123 from the native tribes, and he gave the outlandish names of the chiefs, armed with spears, who were to accompany him. The power of Mohammed the Lame124 was on the wane125; for, during the three months which Alec had spent in England, an illness had seized him, which the natives asserted was a magic spell cast on him by one of his wives; and a son of his, taking advantage of this, had revolted and fortified126 himself in a stockade127. The dying Sultan had taken the field against him, and this division of forces made Alec's position immeasurably stronger.
Dick handed Lucy the letter, and watched her while she read it.
'He says nothing about George,' he said.
'He's evidently quite well.'
Though it seemed strange that Alec made no mention of the boy, Dick said no more. Lucy appeared to be satisfied, and that was the chief thing. But he could not rid his mind of a certain uneasiness. He had received with misgiving128 Lucy's plan that George should accompany Alec. He could not help wondering whether those frank blue eyes and that facile smile did not conceal129 a nature as shallow as Fred Allerton's. But, after all, it was the boy's only chance, and he must take it.
Then an immense silence followed. Alec disappeared into those unknown countries as a man disappears into the night, and no more was heard of him. None knew how he fared. Not even a rumour130 reached the coast of success or failure. When he had crossed the mountains that divided the British protectorate from the lands that were to all intents independent, he vanished with his followers131 from human ken1. The months passed, and there was nothing. It was a year now since he had arrived at Mombassa, then it was a year since the last letter had come from him. It was only possible to guess that behind those gaunt rocks fierce battles were fought, new lands explored, and the slavers beaten back foot by foot. Dick sought to persuade himself that the silence was encouraging, for it seemed to him that if the expedition had been cut to pieces the rejoicing of the Arabs would have spread itself abroad, and some news of a disaster would have travelled through Somaliland to the coast, or been carried by traders to Zanzibar. He made frequent inquiries132 at the Foreign Office, but there, too, nothing was known. The darkness had fallen upon them.
But Lucy suffered neither from anxiety nor fear. She had an immense confidence in Alec, and she believed in his strength, his courage, and his star. He had told her that he would not return till he had accomplished133 his task, and she expected to hear nothing till he had brought it to a triumphant134 conclusion. She did her little to help him. For at length the directors of the North East Africa Trading Company, growing anxious, proposed to get a question asked in Parliament, or to start an outcry in the newspapers which should oblige the government to send out a force to relieve Alec if he were in difficulties, or avenge135 him if he were dead. But Lucy knew that there was nothing Alec dreaded136 more than official interference. He was convinced that if this work could be done at all, he alone could do it; and she influenced Robert Boulger and Dick Lomas to use such means as they could to prevent anything from being done. She was certain that all Alec needed was time and a free hand.
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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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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exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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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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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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solicitude
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slippers
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solitary
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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26
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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27
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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28
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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29
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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30
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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31
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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32
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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33
repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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34
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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35
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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36
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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37
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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38
ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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39
skittish
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| adj.易激动的，轻佻的 | |
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40
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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41
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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42
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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43
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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44
encyclopedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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45
tariff
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| n.关税，税率；(旅馆、饭店等)价目表，收费表 | |
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46
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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47
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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48
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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49
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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50
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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51
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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52
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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53
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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55
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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56
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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57
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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58
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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59
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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60
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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61
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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62
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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63
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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64
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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65
slings
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| 抛( sling的第三人称单数 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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66
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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67
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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68
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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69
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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70
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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72
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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73
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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74
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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75
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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76
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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77
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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78
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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80
verandas
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| 阳台，走廊( veranda的名词复数 ) | |
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81
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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82
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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83
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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84
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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85
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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86
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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87
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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88
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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89
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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90
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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91
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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92
buckling
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| 扣住 | |
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93
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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94
maize
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| n.玉米 | |
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95
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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96
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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97
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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98
beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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99
gnaw
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| v.不断地啃、咬；使苦恼，折磨 | |
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100
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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101
hyena
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| n.土狼，鬣狗 | |
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102
foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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103
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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104
cactus
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| n.仙人掌 | |
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105
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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106
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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107
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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108
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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109
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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110
scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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111
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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112
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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113
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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114
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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115
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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116
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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117
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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119
humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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120
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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121
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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122
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
levies
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| （部队）征兵( levy的名词复数 )； 募捐； 被征募的军队 | |
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124
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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125
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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126
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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127
stockade
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| n.栅栏，围栏；v.用栅栏防护 | |
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128
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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129
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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130
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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131
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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132
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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133
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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134
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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135
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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136
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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