Up to that day Portsmouth had been a very secluded3 little community, and had had the courage of its seclusion4. From time to time it had calmly produced an individual built on plans and specifications5 of its own, without regard to the prejudices and conventionalities of outlying districts. This individual was purely6 indigenous7. He was born in the town, he lived to a good old age in the town, and never went out of the place, until he was finally laid under it. To him, Boston, though only fifty-six miles away, was virtually an unknown quantity—only fifty-six miles by brutal8 geographical9 measurement, but thousands of miles distant in effect. In those days, in order to reach Boston you were obliged to take a great yellow, clumsy stage-coach, resembling a three-story mud-turtle—if zoologist10 will, for the sake of the simile11, tolerate so daring an invention; you were obliged to take it very early in the morning, you dined at noon at Ipswich, and clattered12 into the great city with the golden dome13 just as the twilight14 was falling, provided always the coach had not shed a wheel by the roadside or one of the leaders had not gone lame15. To many worthy16 and well-to-do persons in Portsmouth, this journey was an event which occurred only twice or thrice during life. To the typical individual with whom I am for the moment dealing17, it never occurred at all. The town was his entire world; he was a parochial as a Parisian; Market Street was his Boulevard des Italiens, and the North End his Bois de Boulogne.
Of course there were varieties of local characters without his limitations; venerable merchants retired18 from the East India trade; elderly gentlewomen, with family jewels and personal peculiarities19; one or two scholarly recluses21 in by-gone cut of coat, haunting the Athenaeum reading-room; ex-sea captains, with rings on their fingers, like Simon Danz’s visitors in Longfellow’s poem—men who had played busy parts in the bustling22 world, and had drifted back to Old Strawberry Bank in the tranquil23 sunset of their careers. I may say, in passing, that these ancient mariners24, after battling with terrific hurricanes and typhoons on every known sea, not infrequently drowned themselves in pleasant weather in small sail-boats on the Piscataqua River. Old sea-dogs who had commanded ships of four or five hundred tons had naturally slight respect for the potentialities of sail-boats twelve feet long. But there was to be no further increase of these odd sticks—if I may call them so, in no irreverent mood—after those innocent-looking parallel bars indissolubly linked Portsmouth with the capital of the Commonwealth26 of Massachusetts. All the conditions were to be changed, the old angles to be pared off, new horizons to be regarded. The individual, as an eccentric individual, was to undergo great modifications27. If he were not to become extinct—a thing little likely—he was at least to lose his prominence28.
However, as I said, local character, in the sense in which the term is here used, was not instantly killed; it died a lingering death, and passed away so peacefully and silently as not to attract general, or perhaps any, notice. This period of gradual dissolution fell during my boyhood. The last of the cocked hats had gone out, and the railway had come in, long before my time; but certain bits of color, certain half obsolete30 customs and scraps31 of the past, were still left over. I was not too late, for example, to catch the last town crier—one Nicholas Newman, whom I used to contemplate32 with awe33, and now recall with a sort of affection.
Nicholas Newman—Nicholas was a sobriquet34, his real name being Edward—was a most estimable person, very short, cross-eyed, somewhat bow-legged, and with a bell out of all proportion to his stature35. I have never since seen a bell of that size disconnected with a church steeple. The only thing about him that matched the instrument of his office was his voice. His “Hear All!” still deafens36 memory’s ear. I remember that he had a queer way of sidling up to one, as if nature in shaping him had originally intended a crab37, but thought better of it, and made a town-crier. Of the crustacean38 intention only a moist thumb remained, which served Mr. Newman in good stead in the delivery of the Boston evening papers, for he was incidentally newsdealer. His authentic39 duties were to cry auctions40, funerals, mislaid children, traveling theatricals41, public meetings, and articles lost or found. He was especially strong in announcing the loss of reticules, usually the property of elderly maiden42 ladies. The unction with which he detailed43 the several contents, when fully29 confided44 to him, would have seemed satirical in another person, but on his part was pure conscientiousness45. He would not let so much as a thimble, or a piece of wax, or a portable tooth, or any amiable46 vanity in the way of tonsorial device, escape him. I have heard Mr. Newman spoken of as “that horrid47 man.” He was a picturesque48 figure.
Possibly it is because of his bell that I connect the town crier with those dolorous49 sounds which I used to hear rolling out of the steeple of the Old North every night at nine o’clock—the vocal50 remains51 of the colonial curfew. Nicholas Newman has passed on, perhaps crying his losses elsewhere, but this nightly tolling52 is still a custom. I can more satisfactorily explain why I associate with it a vastly different personality, that of Sol Holmes, the barber, for every night at nine o’clock his little shop on Congress Street was in full blast. Many a time at that hour I have flattened53 my nose on his window-glass. It was a gay little shop (he called it “an Emporium”), as barber shops generally are, decorated with circus bills, tinted54 prints, and gaudy55 fly-catchers of tissue and gold paper. Sol Holmes—whose antecedents to us boys were wrapped in thrilling mystery, we imagined him to have been a prince in his native land—was a colored man, not too dark “for human nature’s daily food,” and enjoyed marked distinction as one of the few exotics in town. At this juncture56 the foreign element was at its minimum; every official, from selectman down to the Dogberry of the watch, bore a name that had been familiar to the town for a hundred years or so. The situation is greatly changed. I expect to live to see a Chinese policeman, with a sandal-wood club and a rice-paper pocket handkerchief, patrolling Congress Street.
Holmes was a handsome man, six feet or more in height, and as straight as a pine. He possessed58 his race’s sweet temper, simplicity59, and vanity. His martial60 bearing was a positive factor in the effectiveness of the Portsmouth Greys, whenever those bloodless warriors61 paraded. As he brought up the rear of the last platoon, with his infantry62 cap stuck jauntily63 on the left side of his head and a bright silver cup slung64 on a belt at his hip25, he seemed to youthful eyes one of the most imposing65 things in the display. To himself he was pretty much “all the company.” He used to say, with a drollness66 which did not strike me until years afterwards, “Boys, I and Cap’n Towle is goin’ to trot67 out ‘the Greys’ to-morroh.” Though strictly68 honest in all business dealings, his tropical imagination, whenever he strayed into the fenceless fields of autobiography69, left much to be desired in the way of accuracy. Compared with Sol Holmes on such occasions, Ananias was a person of morbid70 integrity. Sol Holmes’s tragic71 end was in singular contrast with his sunny temperament72. One night, long ago, he threw himself from the deck of a Sound steamer, somewhere between Stonington and New York. What led or drove him to the act never transpired73.
There are few men who were boys in Portsmouth at the period of which I write but will remember Wibird Penhallow and his sky-blue wheelbarrow. I find it difficult to describe him other than vaguely74, possibly because Wilbird had no expression whatever in his countenance75. With his vacant white face lifted to the clouds, seemingly oblivious76 of everything, yet going with a sort of heaven-given instinct straight to his destination, he trundled that rattling77 wheelbarrow for many a year over Portsmouth cobblestones. He was so unconscious of his environment that sometimes a small boy would pop into the empty wheelbarrow and secure a ride without Wibird arriving at any very clear knowledge of the fact. His employment in life was to deliver groceries and other merchandise to purchasers. This he did in a dreamy, impersonal78 kind of way. It was as if a spirit had somehow go hold of an earthly wheelbarrow and was trundling it quite unconsciously, with no sense of responsibility. One day he appeared at a kitchen door with a two-gallon molasses jug79, the top of which was wanting. It was not longer a jug, but a tureen. When the recipient80 of the damaged article remonstrated82 with “Goodness gracious, Wibird! You have broken the jug,” his features lighted up, and he seemed immensely relieved. “I thought,” He remarked, “I heerd somethink crack!”
Wibird Penhallow’s heaviest patron was the keeper of a variety store, and the first specimen83 of a pessimist84 I ever encountered. He was an excellent specimen. He took exception to everything. He objected to the telegraph, to the railway, to steam in all its applications. Some of his arguments, I recollect85, made a deep impression on my mind. “Nowadays,” he once observed to me, “if your son or your grandfather drops dead at the other end of creation, you know of it in ten minutes. What’s the use? Unless you are anxious to know he’s dead, you’ve got just two or three weeks more to be miserable86 in.” He scorned the whole business, and was faithful to his scorn. When he received a telegram, which was rare, he made a point of keeping it awhile unopened. Through the exercise of this whim87 he once missed an opportunity of buying certain goods to great advantage. “There!” he exclaimed, “if the telegraph hadn’t been invented the idiot would have written to me, and I’d have sent a letter by return coach, and got the goods before he found out prices had gone up in Chicago. If that boy brings me another of those tapeworm telegraphs, I’ll throw an axe-handle at him.” His pessimism88 extended up, or down, to generally recognized canons of orthography89. They were all iniquitous90. If k-n-i-f-e spelled knife, then, he contended, k-n-i-f-e-s was the plural91. Diverting tags, written by his own hand in conformity92 with this theory, were always attached to articles in his shop window. He is long since ded, as he himself would have put it, but his phonetic93 theory appears to have survived him in crankish brains here and there. As my discouraging old friend was not exactly a public character, like the town crier or Wibird Penhallow, I have intentionally94 thrown a veil over his identity. I have, so to speak, dropped into his pouch95 a grain or two of that magical fern-seed which was supposed by our English ancestors, in Elizabeth’s reign57, to possess the quality of rendering96 a man invisible.
Another person who singularly interested me at this epoch97 was a person with whom I had never exchanged a word, whose voice I had never heard, but whose face was as familiar to me as every day could make it. For each morning as I went to school, and each afternoon as I returned, I saw this face peering out of a window in the second story of a shambling yellow house situated98 in Washington Street, not far from the corner of State. Whether some malign99 disease had fixed100 him to the chair he sat on, or whether he had lost the use of his legs, or, possible, had none (the upper part of him was that of a man in admirable health), presented a problem which, with that curious insouciance101 of youth I made no attempt to solve. It was an established fact, however, that he never went out of that house. I cannot vouch102 so confidently for the cobwebby legend which wove itself about him. It was to this effect: He had formerly103 been the master of a large merchantman running between New York and Calcutta; while still in his prime he had abruptly105 retired from the quarter-deck, and seated himself at that window—where the outlook must have been the reverse of exhilarating, for not ten persons passed in the course of the day, and the hurried jingle106 of the bells on Parry’s bakery-cart was the only sound that ever shattered the silence. Whether it was an amatory or a financial disappointment that turned him into a hermit107 was left to ingenious conjecture108. But there he sat, year in and year out, with his cheek so close to the window that the nearest pane109 became permanently110 blurred111 with his breath; for after his demise112 the blurr remained.
In this Arcadian era it was possible, in provincial113 places, for an undertaker to assume the dimensions of a personage. There was a sexton in Portsmouth—his name escapes me, but his attributes do not—whose impressiveness made him own brother to the massive architecture of the Stone Church. On every solemn occasion he was the striking figure, even to the eclipsing of the involuntary object of the ceremony. His occasions, happily, were not exclusively solemn; he added to his other public services that of furnishing ice-cream for the evening parties. I always thought—perhaps it was the working of an unchastened imagination—that he managed to throw into his ice-creams a peculiar20 chill not attained114 by either Dunyon or Peduzzi—arcades ambo—the rival confectioners.
Perhaps I should not say rival, for Mr. Dunyon kept a species of restaurant, while Mr. Peduzzi restricted himself to preparing confections to be discussed elsewhere than on his premises115. Both gentlemen achieved great popularity in their respective lines, but neither offered to the juvenile116 population quite the charm of those prim104, white-capped old ladies who presided over certain snuffy little shops, occurring unexpectedly in silent side-streets where the football of commerce seemed an incongruous thing. These shops were never intended in nature. They had an impromptu117 and abnormal air about them. I do not recall one that was not located in a private residence, and was not evidently the despairing expedient118 of some pathetic financial crisis, similar to that which overtook Miss Hepzibah Pyrcheon in The House of the Seven Gables. The horizontally divided street door—the upper section left open in summer—ushered you, with a sudden jangle of bell that turned your heart over, into a strictly private hall, haunted by the delayed aroma119 of thousands of family dinners. Thence, through another door, you passed into what had formerly been the front parlor120, but was now a shop, with a narrow, brown, wooden counter, and several rows of little drawers built up against the picture-papered wall behind it. Through much use the paint on these drawers was worn off in circles round the polished brass121 knobs. Here was stored almost every small article required by humanity, from an inflamed122 emery cushion to a peppermint123 Gibraltar—the latter a kind of adamantine confectionery which, when I reflect upon it, raises in me the wonder that any Portsmouth boy or girl ever reached the age of fifteen with a single tooth left unbroken. The proprietors124 of these little knick-knack establishments were the nicest creatures, somehow suggesting venerable doves. They were always aged81 ladies, sometimes spinsters, sometimes relicts of daring mariners, beached long before. They always wore crisp muslin caps and steel-rimmed spectacles; they were not always amiable, and no wonder, for even doves may have their rheumatism125; but such as they were, they were cherished in young hearts, and are, I take it, impossible to-day.
When I look back to Portsmouth as I knew it, it occurs to me that it must have been in some respects unique among New England towns. There were, for instance, no really poor persons in the place; every one had some sufficient calling or an income to render it unnecessary; vagrants126 and paupers127 were instantly snapped up and provided for at “the Farm.” There was, however, in a gambrel-roofed house here and there, a decayed old gentlewoman, occupying a scrupulously128 neat room with just a suspicion of maccaboy snuff in the air, who had her meals sent in to her by the neighborhood—as a matter of course, and involving no sense of dependency on her side. It is wonderful what an extension of vitality129 is given to an old gentlewoman in this condition!
I would like to write about several of those ancient Dames130, as they were affectionately called, and to materialize others of the shadows that stir in my recollection; but this would be to go outside the lines of my purpose, which is simply to indicate one of the various sorts of changes that have come over the vie intime of formerly secluded places like Portsmouth—the obliteration131 of odd personalities132, or, if not the obliteration, the general disregard of them. Everywhere in New England the impress of the past is fading out. The few old-fashioned men and women—quaint, shrewd, and racy of the soil—who linger in little, silvery-gray old homesteads strung along the New England roads and by-ways will shortly cease to exist as a class, save in the record of some such charming chronicler as Sarah Jewett, or Mary Wilkins, on whose sympathetic page they have already taken to themselves a remote air, an atmosphere of long-kept lavender and pennyroyal.
Peculiarity133 in any kind requires encouragement in order to reach flower. The increased facilities of communication between points once isolated134, the interchange of customs and modes of thought, make this encouragement more and more difficult each decade. The naturally inclined eccentric finds his sharp outlines rubbed off by unavoidable attrition with a larger world than owns him. Insensibly he lends himself to the shaping hand of new ideas. He gets his reversible cuffs135 and paper collars from Cambridge, Massachusetts, the scarabaeus in his scarf-pin from Mexico, and his ulster from everywhere. He has passed out of the chrysalis state of Odd Stick; he has ceased to be parochial; he is no longer distinct; he is simply the Average Man.
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1
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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specifications
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| n.规格；载明；详述；（产品等的）说明书；说明书( specification的名词复数 )；详细的计划书；载明；详述 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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zoologist
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| n.动物学家 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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recluses
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| n.隐居者，遁世者，隐士( recluse的名词复数 ) | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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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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mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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modifications
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| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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sobriquet
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| n.绰号 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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deafens
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| 使聋( deafen的第三人称单数 )； 使隔音 | |
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crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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crustacean
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| n.甲壳动物；adj.甲壳纲的 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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auctions
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| n.拍卖，拍卖方式( auction的名词复数 ) | |
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theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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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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dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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64
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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65
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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drollness
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| n.离奇古怪；滑稽；幽默；诙谐 | |
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67
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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68
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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69
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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70
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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71
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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72
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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73
transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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74
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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75
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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76
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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77
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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78
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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79
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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80
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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81
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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82
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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83
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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84
pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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85
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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86
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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87
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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88
pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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89
orthography
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| n.拼字法，拼字式 | |
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90
iniquitous
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| adj.不公正的；邪恶的；高得出奇的 | |
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plural
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| n.复数；复数形式；adj.复数的 | |
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conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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93
phonetic
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| adj.语言的，语言上的，表示语音的 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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96
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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97
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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98
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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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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101
insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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102
vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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103
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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104
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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105
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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106
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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107
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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108
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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109
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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110
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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111
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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112
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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113
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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114
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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115
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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116
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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117
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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118
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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119
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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120
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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121
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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122
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
peppermint
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| n.薄荷，薄荷油，薄荷糖 | |
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124
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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125
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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126
vagrants
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| 流浪者( vagrant的名词复数 )； 无业游民； 乞丐； 无赖 | |
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127
paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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128
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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129
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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130
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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131
obliteration
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| n.涂去，删除；管腔闭合 | |
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132
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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133
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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134
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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135
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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