“59 Preston Street, Brighton, 1 a.m.
“Dearest, — This is my address. I love you. Every bit of me is absolutely yours. Write me.—H.L.”
That was all. It was enough. Its tone enchanted11 him. Also it startled him. But it reminded him of her lips. He had begun a letter to her. He saw now that what he had written was too cold in the expression of his feelings. Hilda’s note suddenly and completely altered his views upon the composition of love-letters. “Every bit of me is absolutely yours.” How fine, how untrammelled, how like Hilda! What other girl could or would have written such a phrase? More than ever was he convinced that she was unique. The thrill divine quickened in him again, and he rose eagerly to her level of passion. The romance, the secrecy, the mystery, the fever! He walked down Trafalgar Road with the letter in his pocket, and once he pulled it out to read it in the street. His discretion12 objected to this act, but Edwin was not his own master. Stifford, hurrying in exactly at eight, was somewhat perturbed13 to find his employer’s son already installed in the cubicle14, writing by the light of gas, as the shutters15 were not removed. Edwin had finished and stamped his first love-letter just as his father entered the cubicle. Owing to dyspeptic accidents Darius had not set foot in the cubicle since it had been sanctified by Hilda. Edwin, leaving it, glanced at the old man’s back and thought disdainfully: “Ah! You little know, you rhinoceros17, that less than two days ago, she and I, on that very spot—”
As soon as his father had gone to pay the morning visit to the printing shops, he ran out to post the letter himself. He could not be contented18 until it was in the post. Now, when he saw men of about his own class and age in the street, he would speculate upon their experiences in the romance of women. And it did genuinely seem to him impossible that anybody else in a town like Bursley could have passed through an episode so exquisitely19 strange and beautiful as that through which he was passing. Yet his reason told him that he must be wrong there. His reason, however, left him tranquil20 in the assurance that no girl in Bursley had ever written to her affianced: “I love you. Every bit of me is absolutely yours.”
Hilda’s second letter did not arrive till the following Tuesday, by which time he had become distracted by fears and doubts. Yes, doubts! No rational being could have been more loyal than Edwin, but these little doubts would keep shooting up and withering21 away. He could not control them. The second letter was nearly as short as the first. It told him nothing save her love and that she was very worried by her friend’s situation, and that his letters were a joy. She had had a letter from him each day. In his reply to her second he gently implied, between two lines, that her letters lacked quantity and frequency. She answered: “I simply cannot write letters. It isn’t in me. Can’t you tell that from my handwriting? Not even to you! You must take me as I am.” She wrote each day for three days. Edwin was one of those who learn quickly, by the acceptance of facts. And he now learnt that profound lesson that an individual must be taken or left in entirety, and that you cannot change an object merely because you love it. Indeed he saw in her phrase, “You must take me as I am,” the accents of original and fundamental wisdom, springing from the very roots of life. And he submitted. At intervals23 he would say resentfully: “But surely she could find five minutes each day to drop me a line! What’s five minutes?” But he submitted. Submission24 was made easier when he co-ordinated with Hilda’s idiosyncrasy the fact that Maggie, his own unromantic sister, could never begin to write a letter with less than from twelve to twenty-four hours’ bracing25 of herself to the task. Maggie would be saying and saying: “I really must write that letter... Dear me! I haven’t written that letter yet.”
His whole life seemed to be lived in the post, and postmen were the angels of the creative spirit. His unhappiness increased with the deepening of the impression that the loved creature was treating him with cruelty. Time dragged. At length he had been engaged a fortnight. On Thursday a letter should have come. It came not. Nor on Friday nor Saturday. On Sunday it must come. But it did not come on Sunday. He determined26 to telegraph to her on the Monday morning. His loyalty27, though valorous, needed aid against all those pricking28 battalions29 of ephemeral doubts. On the Sunday evening he suddenly had the idea of strengthening himself by a process that resembled boat-burning. He would speak to his father. His father’s mentality30 was the core of a difficulty that troubled him exceedingly, and he took it into his head to attack the difficulty at once, on the spot.
Two.
For years past Darius Clayhanger had not gone to chapel31 on Sunday evening. In the morning he still went fairly regularly, but in the evening he would now sit in the drawing-room, generally alone, to read. On weekdays he never used the drawing-room, where indeed there was seldom a fire. He had been accustomed to only one living-room, and save on Sunday, when he cared to bend the major part of his mind to the matter, he scorned to complicate7 existence by utilising all the resources of the house which he had built. His children might do so; but not he. He was proud enough to see to it that his house had a drawing-room, and too proud to employ the drawing-room except on the ceremonious day. After tea, at about a quarter to six, when chapel-goers were hurriedly pulling gloves on, he would begin to establish himself in a saddle-backed, ear-flapped easy-chair with “The Christian32 News” and an ivory paper-knife as long and nearly as deadly as a scimitar. “The Christian News” was a religious weekly of a new type. It belonged to a Mr James Bott, and it gave to God and to the mysteries of religious experience a bright and breezy actuality. Darius’s children had damned it for ever on its first issue, in which Clara had found, in a report of a very important charitable meeting, the following words: “Among those present were the Prince of Wales and Mr James Bott.” Such is the hasty and unjudicial nature of children that this single sentence finished the career of “The Christian News” with the younger generation. But Darius liked it, and continued to like it. He enjoyed it. He would spend an hour and a half in reading it. And further, he enjoyed cutting open the morsel33. Once when Edwin, in hope of more laughter, had cut the pages on a Saturday afternoon, and his father had found himself unable to use the paper-knife on Sunday evening, there had been a formidable inquiry34: “Who’s been meddling35 with my paper?” Darius saved the paper even from himself until Sunday evening; not till then would he touch it. This habit had flourished for several years. It appeared never to lose its charm. And Edwin did not cease to marvel36 at his father’s pleasure in a tedious monotony.
It was the hallowed rite8 of reading “The Christian News” that Edwin disturbed in his sudden and capricious resolve. Maggie and Mrs Nixon had gone to chapel, for Mrs Nixon, by reason of her years, bearing, mantle37, and reputation, could walk down Trafalgar Road by the side of her mistress on a Sunday night without offence to the delicate instincts of the town. The niece, engaged to be married at an age absurdly youthful, had been permitted by Mrs Nixon the joy of attending evensong at the Bleakridge Church on the arm of a male, but under promise to be back at a quarter to eight to set supper. The house was perfectly38 still when Edwin came all on fire out of his bedroom and slid down the stairs. The gas burnt economically low within its stained-glass cage in the hall. The drawing-room door was unlatched. He hesitated a moment on the mat, and he could hear the calm ticking of the clock in the kitchen and see the red glint of the kitchen fire against the wall. Then he entered, looking and feeling apologetic.
His father was all curtained in; his slippered39 feet on the fender of the blazing hearth40, his head cushioned to a nicety, the long paper-knife across his knees. And the room was really hot and in a glow of light. Darius turned and, lowering his face, gazed at Edwin over the top of his new gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Not gone to chapel?” he frowned.
“No! ... I say, father, I just wanted to speak to you.”
Darius made no reply, but shifted his glance from Edwin to the fire, and maintained his frown. He was displeased41 at the interruption. Edwin failed to shut the door at the first attempt, and then banged it in his nervousness. In spite of himself he felt like a criminal. Coming forward, he leaned his loose, slim frame against a corner of the old piano.
Three.
“Well?” Darius growled42 impatiently, even savagely44. They saw each other, not once a week, but at nearly every hour of every day, and they were surfeited45 of the companionship.
“Supposing I wanted to get married?” This sentence shot out of Edwin’s mouth like a bolt. And as it flew, he blushed very red. In the privacy of his mind he was horribly swearing.
“So that’s it, is it?” Darius growled again. And he leaned forward and picked up the poker46, not as a menace, but because he too was nervous. As an opposer of his son he had never had quite the same confidence in himself since Edwin’s historic fury at being suspected of theft, though apparently47 their relations had resumed the old basis of bullying48 and submission.
“Well—” Edwin hesitated. He thought, “After all, people do get married. It won’t be a crime.”
“Who’st been running after?” Darius demanded inimically. Instead of being softened49 by this rumour50 of love, by this hint that his son had been passing through wondrous51 secret hours, he instinctively52 and without any reason hardened himself and transformed the news into an offence. He felt no sympathy, and it did not occur to him to recall that he too had once thought of marrying. He was a man whom life had brutalised about half a century earlier.
“I was only thinking,” said Edwin clumsily—the fool had not sense enough even to sit down—“I was only thinking, suppose I did want to get married.”
“Who’st been running after?”
“Well, I can’t rightly say there’s anything—what you may call settled. In fact, nothing was to be said about it at all at present. But it’s Miss Lessways, father—Hilda Lessways, you know.”
“Her as came in the shop the other day?”
“Yes.”
“How long’s this been going on?”
Edwin thought of what Hilda had said. “Oh! Over a year.” He could not possibly have said “four days.” “Mind you this is strictly53 q.t.! Nobody knows a word about it, nobody! But of course I thought I’d better tell you. You’ll say nothing.” He tried wistfully to appeal as one loyal man to another. But he failed. There was no ray of response on his father’s gloomy features, and he slipped back insensibly into the boy whose right to an individual existence had never been formally admitted.
Something base in him—something of that baseness which occasionally actuates the oppressed—made him add: “She’s got an income of her own. Her father left money.” He conceived that this would placate54 Darius.
“I know all about her father,” Darius sneered55, with a short laugh. “And her father’s father! ... Well, lad, ye’ll go your own road.” He appeared to have no further interest in the affair. Edwin was not surprised, for Darius was seemingly never interested in anything except his business; but he thought how strange, how nigh to the incredible, the old man’s demeanour was.
“But about money, I was thinking,” he said, uneasily shifting his pose.
“What about money?”
“Well,” said Edwin, endeavouring, and failing, to find courage to put a little sharpness into his tone, “I couldn’t marry on seventeen-and-six a week, could I?”
At the age of twenty-five, at the end of nine years’ experience in the management and the accountancy of a general printing and stationery56 business, Edwin was receiving seventeen shillings and sixpence for a sixty-five-hour week’s work, the explanation being that on his father’s death the whole enterprise would be his, and that all money saved was saved for him. Out of this sum he had to pay ten shillings a week to Maggie towards the cost of board and lodging57, so that three half-crowns remained for his person and his soul. Thus he could expect no independence of any kind until his father’s death, and he had a direct and powerful interest in his father’s death. Moreover, all his future, and all unpaid58 reward of his labours in the past, hung hazardous59 on his father’s goodwill60. If he quarrelled with him, he might lose everything. Edwin was one of a few odd-minded persons who did not regard this arrangement as perfectly just, proper, and in accordance with sound precedent61. But he was helpless. His father would tell him, and did tell him, that he had fought no struggles, suffered no hardship, had no responsibility, and that he was simply coddled from head to foot in cotton-wool.
“I say you must go your own road,” said his father.
“But at this rate I should never be able to marry!”
“Do you reckon,” asked Darius, with mild cold scorn, “as you getting married will make your services worth one penny more to my business?” And he waited an answer with the august calm of one who is aware that he is unanswerable. But he might with equal propriety62 have tied his son’s hands behind him and then diverted himself by punching his head.
“And what about getting orders?” Darius questioned grimly. “Didn’t I offer you two and a half per cent on all new customers you got yourself? And how many have you got? Not one. I give you a chance to make extra money and you don’t take it. Ye’d sooner go running about after girls.”
This was a particular grievance64 of the father against the son: that the son brought no grist to the mill in the shape of new orders.
“But how can I get orders?” Edwin protested.
“How did I get ’em? How do I get ’em? Somebody has to get ’em.” The old man’s lips were pressed together, and he waved “The Christian News” slightly in his left hand.
Four.
In a few minutes both their voices had risen. Darius, savage43, stooped to replace with the shovel65 a large burning coal that had dropped on the tiles and was sending up a column of brown smoke.
“I tell you what I shall do,” he said, controlling himself bitterly. “It’s against my judgement, but I shall put you up to a pound a week at the New Year, if all goes well, of course. And it’s good money, let me add.”
He was entirely66 serious, and almost sincere. He loathed67 paying money over to his son. He was convinced that in an ideal world sons would toil68 gratis69 for their fathers who lodged70 and fed them and gifted them with the reversion of excellent businesses.
“But what good’s a pound a week?” Edwin demanded, with the querulousness of one who is losing hope.
“What good’s a pound a week!” Darius repeated, hurt and genuinely hurt. “Let me tell you that in my time young men married on a pound a week, and glad to! A pound a week!” He finished with a sardonic71 exclamation72.
“I couldn’t marry Miss Lessways on a pound a week,” Edwin murmured, in despair, his lower lip hanging. “I thought you might perhaps be offering me a partnership73 by this time!” Possibly in some mad hour a thought so wild had indeed flitted through his brain.
“Did you?” rejoined Darius. And in the fearful grimness of the man’s accents was concealed74 all his intense and egoistic sense of possessing in absolute ownership the business which the little boy out of the Bastille had practically created. Edwin did not and could not understand the fierce strength of his father’s emotion concerning the business. Already in tacitly agreeing to leave Edwin the business after his own death, Darius imagined himself to be superbly benevolent75.
“And then there would be house-furnishing, and so on,” Edwin continued.
Edwin was startled. Never since the historic scene had Darius made the slightest reference to the proceeds of the Building Society share.
“I haven’t spent all of it,” Edwin muttered.
Do what he would with his brain, the project of marriage and house-tenancy and a separate existence obstinately77 presented itself to him as fantastic and preposterous78. Who was he to ask so much from destiny? He could not feel that he was a man. In his father’s presence he never could feel that he was a man. He remained a boy, with no rights, moral or material.
“And if as ye say she’s got money of her own—” Darius remarked, and was considerably79 astonished when the boy walked straight out of the room and closed the door.
It was his last grain of common sense that took Edwin in silence out of the room.
Miserable80, despicable baseness! Did the old devil suppose that he would be capable of asking his wife to find the resources which he himself could not bring? He was to say to his wife: “I can only supply a pound a week, but as you’ve got money it won’t matter.” The mere22 notion outraged81 him so awfully82 that if he had stayed in the room there would have been an altercation83 and perhaps a permanent estrangement84.
As he stood furious and impotent in the hall, he thought, with his imagination quickened by the memory of Mr Shushions: “When you’re old, and I’ve got you”—he clenched85 his fists and his teeth—“when I’ve got you and you can’t help yourself, by God it’ll be my turn!”
And he meant it.
Five.
He seized his overcoat and hat, and putting them on anyhow, strode out. The kitchen clock struck half-past seven as he left. Chapel-goers would soon be returning in a thin procession of twos and threes up Trafalgar Road. To avoid meeting acquaintances he turned down the side street, towards the old road which was a continuation of Aboukir Street. There he would be safe. Letting his overcoat fly open, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. It was a cold night of mist. Humanity was separated from him by the semi-transparent blinds of the cottage windows, bright squares in the dark and enigmatic façades of the street. He was alone.
All along he had felt and known that this disgusting crisis would come to pass. He had hoped against it, but not with faith. And he had no remedy for it. What could he immediately and effectively do? He was convinced that his father would not yield. There were frequent occasions when his father was proof against reason, when his father seemed genuinely unable to admit the claim of justice, and this occasion was one of them. He could tell by certain peculiarities86 of tone and gesture. A pound a week! Assuming that he cut loose from his father, in a formal and confessed separation, he might not for a long time be in a position to earn more than a pound a week. A clerk was worth no more. And, except as responsible manager of a business, he could only go into the market as a clerk. In the Five Towns how many printing offices were there that might at some time or another be in need of a manager? Probably not one. They were all of modest importance, and directed personally by their proprietary87 heads. His father’s was one of the largest... No! His father had nurtured88 and trained, in him, a helpless slave.
And how could he discuss such a humiliating question with Hilda? Could he say to Hilda: “See here, my father won’t allow me more than a pound a week. What are we to do?” In what terms should he telegraph to her to-morrow?
He heard the rapid firm footsteps of a wayfarer89 overtaking him. He had no apprehension90 of being disturbed in his bitter rage. But a hand was slapped on his shoulder, and a jolly voice said—
“Now, Edwin, where’s this road leading you to on a Sunday night?”
It was Osmond Orgreave who, having been tramping for exercise in the high regions beyond the Loop railway line, was just going home.
“Oh! Nowhere particular,” said Edwin feebly.
“Working off Sunday dinner, eh?”
“Yes.” And Edwin added casually91, to prove that there was nothing singular in his mood: “Nasty night!”
“You must come in a bit,” said Mr Orgreave.
“Oh no!” He shrank away.
“Now, now!” said Mr Orgreave masterfully. “You’ve got to come in, so you may as well give up first as last. Janet’s in. She’s like you and me, she’s a bad lot,—hasn’t been to church.” He took Edwin by the arm, and they turned into Oak Street at the lower end.
Edwin continued to object, but Mr Orgreave, unable to scrutinise his face in the darkness, and not dreaming of an indiscretion, rode over his weak negatives, horse and foot, and drew him by force into the garden; and in the hall took his hat away from him and slid his overcoat from his shoulders. Mr Orgreave, having accomplished92 a lot of forbidden labour on that Sabbath, was playful in his hospitality.
“Prisoner! Take charge of him!” exclaimed Mr Orgreave shortly, as he pushed Edwin into the breakfast-room and shut the door from the outside. Janet was there, exquisitely welcoming, unconsciously pouring balm from her eyes. But he thought she looked graver than usual. Edwin had to enact93 the part of a man to whom nothing has happened. He had to behave as though his father was the kindest and most reasonable of fathers, as though Hilda wrote fully16 to him every day, as though he were not even engaged to Hilda. He must talk, and he scarcely knew what he was saying.
“Heard lately from Miss Lessways?” he asked lightly, or as lightly as he could. It was a splendid effort. Impossible to expect him to start upon the weather or the strike! He did the best he could.
Janet’s eyes became troubled. Speaking in a low voice she said, with a glance at the door—
“I suppose you’ve not heard. She’s married.”
He did not move.
Six.
“Married?”
“Yes. It is rather sudden, isn’t it?” Janet tried to smile, but she was exceedingly self-conscious. “To a Mr Cannon94. She’s known him for a very long time, I think.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. I had a note this morning. It’s quite a secret yet. I haven’t told father and mother. But she asked me to tell you if I saw you.”
He thought her eyes were compassionate95.
Mrs Orgreave came smiling into the room.
“Well, Mr Edwin, it seems we can only get you in here by main force.”
“Are you quite better, Mrs Orgreave?” he rose to greet her.
He had by some means or other to get out.
“I must just run in home a second,” he said, after a moment. “I’ll be back in three minutes.”
But he had no intention of coming back. He would have told any lie in order to be free.
In his bedroom, looking at himself in the glass, he could detect on his face no sign whatever of suffering or of agitation96. It seemed just an ordinary mild, unmoved face.
And this, too, he had always felt and known would come to pass: that Hilda would not be his. All that romance was unreal; it was not true; it had never happened. Such a thing could not happen to such as he was... He could not reflect. When he tried to reflect, the top of his head seemed as though it would fly off... Cannon! She was with Cannon somewhere at that very instant... She had specially97 asked that he should be told. And indeed he had been told before even Mr and Mrs Orgreave... Cannon! She might at that very instant be in Cannon’s arms.
It could be said of Edwin that he fully lived that night. Fate had at any rate roused him from the coma98 which most men called existence.
Simple Maggie was upset because, from Edwin’s absence and her father’s demeanour at supper, she knew that her menfolk had had another terrible discussion. And since her father offered no remark as to it, she guessed that this one must be even more serious that the last.
There was one thing that Edwin could not fit into any of his theories of the disaster which had overtaken him, and that was his memory of Hilda’s divine gesture as she bent99 over Mr Shushions on the morning of the Centenary.
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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appreciably
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dread
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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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complicate
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rite
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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frankly
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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discretion
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cubicle
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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fully
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rhinoceros
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contented
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exquisitely
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tranquil
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withering
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mere
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intervals
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submission
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bracing
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determined
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loyalty
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pricking
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battalions
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mentality
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chapel
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Christian
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morsel
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inquiry
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meddling
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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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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slippered
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| 穿拖鞋的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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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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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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surfeited
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| v.吃得过多( surfeit的过去式和过去分词 )；由于过量而厌腻 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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51
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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placate
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| v.抚慰，平息(愤怒) | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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57
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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65
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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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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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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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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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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83
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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84
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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85
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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87
proprietary
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| n.所有权，所有的；独占的；业主 | |
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88
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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89
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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92
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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93
enact
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| vt.制定(法律)；上演，扮演 | |
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94
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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95
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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96
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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97
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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98
coma
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| n.昏迷，昏迷状态 | |
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99
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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