“That’s all right,” said Davies. “Now we can go anywhere.”
“Well, it’s Norderney, isn’t it? We’ve settled that.”
“Yes, I suppose we have. I was wondering whether it wouldn’t be shortest to go inside Langeoog after all.”
“Surely not,” I urged. “The tide’s ebbing14 now, and the light’s bad; it’s new ground, with a ‘watershed15’ to cross, and we’re safe to get aground.”
“All right—outside. Ready about.” We swung lazily round and headed for the open sea. I record the fact, but in truth Davies might have taken me where he liked, for no land was visible, only a couple of ghostly booms.
“It seems a pity to miss over that channel,” said Davies with a sigh; “just when the Kormoran can’t watch us.” (We had not seen her at all this morning.)
I set myself to the lead again, averse17 to reopening a barren argument. Grimm had done his work for the present, I felt certain, and was on his way by the shortest road to Norderney and Memmert.
We were soon outside and heading west, our boom squared away and the island sand-dunes just apparent under our lee. Then the breeze died to the merest draught18, and left us rolling inert19 in a long swell. Consumed with impatience20 to get on I saw fatality21 in this failure of wind, after a fortnight of unprofitable meanderings, when we had generally had too much of it, and always enough for our purpose. I tried to read below, but the vile22 squirting of the centreboard drove me up.
“Can’t we go any faster?” I burst out once. I felt that there ought to be a pyramid of gauzy canvas aloft, spinnakers, flying jibs and what not.
“I don’t go in for speed,” said Davies, shortly. He loyally did his best to “shove her” along, but puffs23 and calms were the rule all day, and it was only by towing in the dinghy for two hours in the afternoon that we covered the length of Langeoog, and crept before dark to an anchorage behind Baltrum, its slug-shaped neighbour on the west. Strictly25, I believe, we should have kept the sea all night; but I had not the grit26 to suggest that course, and Davies was only too glad of an excuse for threading the shoals of the Accumer Ee on a rising tide. The atmosphere had been slowly clearing as the day wore on; but we had scarcely anchored ten minutes before a blanket of white fog, rolling in from seaward, swallowed us up. Davies was already afield in the dinghy, and I had to guide him back with a foghorn27, whose music roused hosts of sea birds from the surrounding flats, and brought them wheeling and complaining round us, a weird28 invisible chorus to my mournful solo.
The fog hung heavy still at daybreak on the 20th, but dispersed29 partially30 under a catspaw from the south about eight o’clock, in time for us to traverse the boomed channel behind Baltrum, before the tide left the watershed.
“We shan’t get far to-day,” said Davies, with philosophy. “And this sort of thing may go on for any time. It’s a regular autumn anti-cyclone—glass thirty point five and steady. That gale31 was the last of a stormy equinox.”
We took the inside route as a matter of course to-day. It was now the shortest to Norderney harbour, and scarcely less intricate than the Wichter Ee, which appeared to be almost totally blocked by banks, and is, in fact, the most impassable of all these outlets32 to the North Sea. But, as I say, this sort of navigation, always puzzling to me, was utterly33 bewildering in hazy34 weather. Any attempt at orientation35 made me giddy. So I slaved at the lead, varying my labour with a fierce bout16 of kedge-work when we grounded somewhere. I had two rests before two o’clock, one of an hour, when we ran into a patch of windless fog; another of a few moments, when Davies said, “There’s Norderney!” and I saw, surmounting36 a long slope of weedy sand, still wet with the receding37 sea, a cluster of sandhills exactly like a hundred others I had seen of late, but fraught38 with a new and unique interest.
The usual formula, “What have you got now?” checked my reverie, and “Helm’s a-lee,” ended it for the time. We tacked39 on (for the wind had headed us) in very shoal water.
Suddenly Davies said: “Is that a boat ahead?”
“Do you mean that galliot?” I asked. I could plainly distinguish one of those familiar craft about half a mile away, just within the limit of vision.
“The Kormoran, do you think?” I added. Davies said nothing, but grew inattentive to his work. “Barely four,” from me passed unnoticed, and we touched once, but swung off under some play of the current. Then came abruptly41, “Stand by the anchor. Let go,” and we brought up in mid-stream of the narrow creek42 we were following. I triced up the main-tack40, and stowed the headsails unaided. When I had done Davies was still gazing to windward through his binoculars43, and, to my astonishment44, I noticed that his hands were trembling violently. I had never seen this happen before, even at moments when a false turn of the wrist meant death on a surf-battered bank.
“What is it?” I asked; “are you cold?”
“That little boat,” he said. I gazed to windward, too, and now saw a scrap45 of white in the distance, in sharp relief.
“Small standing46 lug24 and jib; it’s her, right enough,” said Davies to himself, in a sort of nervous stammer47.
“Who? What?”
“Medusa’s dinghy.”
He handed, or rather pushed, me the glasses, still gazing.
“Dollmann?” I exclaimed.
“No, it’s hers—the one she always sails. She’s come to meet m—, us.”
Through the glasses the white scrap became a graceful48 little sail, squared away for the light following breeze. An angle of the creek hid the hull49, then it glided50 into view. Someone was sitting aft steering51, man or woman I could not say, for the sail hid most of the figure. For full two minutes—two long, pregnant minutes—we watched it in silence. The damp air was fogging the lenses, but I kept them to my eyes; for I did not want to look at Davies. At last I heard him draw a deep breath, straighten himself up, and give one of his characteristic “h’ms”. Then he turned briskly aft, cast off the dinghy’s painter, and pulled her up alongside.
“You come too,” he said, jumping in, and fixing the rowlocks. (His hands were steady again.) I laughed, and shoved the dinghy off.
“I’d rather stay. I’ll tidy up, and put the kettle on.” Davies had taken a half stroke, but paused.
“She oughtn’t to come aboard.” he said.
“She might like to,” I suggested. “Chilly day, long way from home, common courtesy——”
“Carruthers,” said Davies, “if she comes aboard, please remember that she’s outside this business. There are no clues to be got from her.”
A little lecture which would have nettled53 me more if I had not been exultantly54 telling myself that, once and for all, for good or ill, the Rubicon was passed.
“It’s your affair this time,” I said; “run it as you please.”
He sculled away with vigorous strokes. “Just as he is,” I thought to myself: bare head, beaded with fog-dew, ancient oilskin coat (only one button); grey jersey55; grey woollen trousers (like a deep-sea fisherman’s) stuffed into long boots. A vision of his antitype, the Cowes Philanderer56, crossed me for a second. As to his face—well, I could only judge by it, and marvel57, that he was gripping his dilemma58 by either horn, as firmly as he gripped his sculls.
I watched the two boats converging59. They would meet in the natural course about three hundred yards away, but a hitch60 occurred. First, the sail-boat checked and slewed61; “aground,” I concluded. The rowboat leapt forward still; then checked, too. From both a great splashing of sculls floated across the still air, then silence. The summit of the watershed, a physical Rubicon, prosaic62 and slimy, had still to be crossed, it seemed. But it could be evaded63. Both boats headed for the northern side of the creek: two figures were out on the brink64, hauling on two painters. Then Davies was striding over the sand, and a girl—I could see her now—was coming to meet him. And then I thought it was time to go below and tidy up.
Nothing on earth could have made the Dulcibella’s saloon a worthy65 reception-room for a lady. I could only use hurried efforts to make it look its best by plying66 a bunch of cotton-waste and a floor-brush; by pitching into racks and lockers67 the litter of pipes, charts, oddments of apparel, and so on, that had a way of collecting afresh, however recently we had tidied up; by neatly68 arranging our demoralised library, and by lighting69 the stove and veiling the table under a clean white cloth.
I suppose about twenty minutes had elapsed, and I was scrubbing fruitlessly at the smoky patch on the ceiling, when I heard the sound of oars70 and voices outside. I threw the cotton-waste into the fo’c’sle, made an onslaught on my hands, and then mounted the companion ladder. Our own dinghy was just rounding up alongside, Davies sculling in the bows, facing him in the stern a young girl in a grey tam-o’-shanter, loose waterproof71 jacket and dark serge skirt, the latter, to be frigidly72 accurate, disclosing a pair of workman-like rubber boots which, mutatis mutandis, were very like those Davies was wearing. Her hair, like his, was spangled with moisture, and her rose-brown skin struck a note of delicious colour against the sullen73 Stygian background.
“There he is,” said Davies. Never did his “meiner Freund, Carruthers,” sound so pleasantly in my ears; never so discordantly74 the “Fräulein Dollmann” that followed it. Every syllable75 of the four was a lie. Two honest English eyes were looking up into mine; an honest English hand—is this insular76 nonsense? Perhaps so, but I stick to it—a brown, firm hand—no, not so very small, my sentimental77 reader—was clasping mine. Of course I had strong reasons, apart from the racial instinct, for thinking her to be English, but I believe that if I had had none at all I should at any rate have congratulated Germany on a clever bit of plagiarism78. By her voice, when she spoke79, I knew that she must have talked German habitually80 from childhood; diction and accent were faultless, at least to my English ear; but the native constitutional ring was wanting.
She came on board. There was a hollow discussion first about time and weather, but it ended as we all in our hearts wished it to end. None of us uttered our real scruples81. Mine, indeed, were too new and rudimentary to be worth uttering, so I said common-sense things about tea and warmth; but I began to think about my compact with Davies.
“Just for a few minutes, then,” she said.
I held out my hand and swung her up. She gazed round the deck and rigging with profound interest—a breathless, hungry interest—touching to see.
“You’ve seen her before, haven’t you?” I said.
“I’ve not been on board before,” she answered.
This struck me in passing as odd; but then I had only too few details from Davies about his days at Norderney in September.
“Of course, that is what puzzled me,” she exclaimed, suddenly, pointing to the mizzen. “I knew there was something different.”
Davies had belayed the painter, and now had to explain the origin of the mizzen. This was a cumbrous process, and his hearer’s attention soon wandered from the subject and became centred in him—his was already more than half in her—and the result was a golden opportunity for the discerning onlooker82. It was very brief, but I made the most of it; buried deep a few regrets, did a little heartfelt penance83, told myself I had been a cynical84 fool not to have foreseen this, and faced the new situation with a sinking heart; I am not ashamed to admit that, for I was fond of Davies, and I was keen about the quest.
She had never been a guilty agent in that attempt on Davies. Had she been an unconscious tool or only an unwilling85 one? If the latter, did she know the secret we were seeking? In the last degree unlikely, I decided86. But, true to the compact, whose importance I now fully87 appreciated, I flung aside my diplomatic weapons, recoiling88, as strongly, or nearly as strongly, let us say, from any effort direct or indirect to gain information from such a source. It was not our fault if by her own conversation and behaviour she gave us some idea of how matters stood. Davies already knew more than I did.
We spent a few minutes on deck while she asked eager questions about our build and gear and seaworthiness, with a quaint89 mixture of professional acumen90 and personal curiosity.
“How did you manage alone that day?” she asked Davies, suddenly.
“Oh, it was quite safe,” was the reply. “But it’s much better to have a friend.”
She looked at me; and—well, I would have died for Davies there and then.
“Father said you would be safe,” she remarked, with decision—a slight excess of decision, I thought. And at that turned to some rope or block and pursued her questioning. She found the compass impressive, and the trappings of that hateful centreboard had a peculiar91 fascination92 for her. Was this the way we did it in England? was her constant query93.
Yet, in spite of a superficial freedom, we were all shy and constrained94. The descent below was a welcome diversion, for we should have been less than human if we had not extracted some spontaneous fun from the humours of the saloon. I went down first to see about the tea, leaving them struggling for mutual95 comprehension over the theory of an English lifeboat. They soon followed, and I can see her now stooping in at the doorway96, treading delicately, like a kitten, past the obstructive centreboard to a place on the starboard sofa, then taking in her surroundings with a timid rapture98 that broke into delight at all the primitive99 arrangements and dingy100 amenities101 of our den3. She explored the cavernous recesses102 of the Rippingille, fingered the duck-guns and the miscellany in the racks, and peeped into the fo’c’sle with dainty awe103. Everything was a source of merriment, from our cramped104 attitudes to the painful deficiency of spoons and the “yachtiness” (there is no other word to describe it) of the bread, which had been bought at Bensersiel, and had suffered from incarceration105 and the climate. This fact came out, and led to some questions, while we waited for the water to boil, about the gale and our visit there. The topic, a pregnant one for us, appeared to have no special significance to her. At the mention of von Brüning she showed no emotion of any sort; on the contrary, she went out of her way, from an innocent motive106 that anyone could have guessed, to show that she could talk about him with dispassionate detachment.
“He came to see us when you were here last, didn’t he?” she said to Davies. “He often comes. He goes with father to Memmert sometimes. You know about Memmert? They are diving for money out of an old wreck107.”
“Yes, we had heard about it.”
“Of course you have. Father is a director of the company, and Commander von Brüning takes great interest in it; they took me down in a diving-bell once.”
I murmured, “Indeed!” and Davies sawed laboriously108 at the bread. She must have misconstrued our sheepish silence, for she stopped and drew herself up with just a touch of momentary110 hauteur111, utterly lost on Davies. I could have laughed aloud at this transient little comedy of errors.
“Did you see any gold?” said Davies at last, with husky solemnity. Something had to be said or we should defeat our own end; but I let him say it. He had not my faith in Memmert.
“No, only mud and timber—oh, I forgot——”
“You mustn’t betray the company’s secrets,” I said, laughing; “Commander von Brüning wouldn’t tell us a word about the gold.” (“There’s self-denial!” I said to myself.)
“Oh, I don’t think it matters much,” she answered, laughing too. “You are only visitors.”
“You will stop at Norderney?” she said, with naïve anxiety. “Herr Davies said——”
I looked to Davies; it was his affair. Fair and square came his answer, in blunt dog-German.
“Yes, of course, we shall. I should like to see your father again.”
Up to this moment I had been doubtful of his final decision; for ever since our explanation at Bensersiel I had had the feeling that I was holding his nose to a very cruel grindstone. This straight word, clear and direct, beyond anything I had hoped for, brought me to my senses and showed me that his mind had been working far in advance of mine; and more, shaping a double purpose that I had never dreamt of.
“My father?” said Fräulein Dollmann; “yes, I am sure he will be very glad to see you.
There was no conviction in her tone, and her eyes were distant and troubled.
“He’s not at home now, is he?” I asked.
I might have added that it had been clear as daylight all along that this visit was in the nature of an escapade of which her father might not approve. I tried to say “I won’t tell,” without words, and may have succeeded.
“I told Mr Davies when we first met,” she went on. “I expect him back very soon—to-morrow in fact; he wrote from Amsterdam. He left me at Hamburg and has been away since. Of course, he will not know your yacht is back again. I think he expected Mr Davies would stay in the Baltic, as the season was so late. But—but I am sure he will be glad to see you.”
“Is the Medusa in harbour?” said Davies.
“Yes; but we are not living on her now. We are at our villa114 in the Schwannallée—my stepmother and I, that is.” She added some details, and Davies gravely pencilled down the address on a leaf of the log-book; a formality which somehow seemed to regularise the present position.
“We shall be at Norderney to-morrow,” he said.
Meanwhile the kettle was boiling merrily, and I made the tea—cocoa, I should say, for the menu was changed in deference115 to our visitor’s tastes. “This is fun!” she said. And by common consent we abandoned ourselves, three youthful, hungry mariners116, to the enjoyment117 of this impromptu118 picnic. Such a chance might never occur again—carpamus diem.
But the banquet was never celebrated119. As at Belshazzar’s feast, there was a writing on the wall; no supernatural inscription120, but just a printed name; an English surname with title and initials, in cheap gilt121 lettering on the back of an old book; a silent, sneering122 witness of our snug123 party. The catastrophe124 came and passed so suddenly that at the time I had scarcely even an inkling of what caused it; but I know now that this is how it happened. Our visitor was sitting at the forward end of the starboard sofa, close to the bulkhead. Davies and I were opposite her. Across the bulkhead, on a level with our heads, ran the bookshelf, whose contents, remember, I had carefully straightened only half an hour ago, little dreaming of the consequence. Some trifle, probably the logbook which Davies had reached down from the shelf, called her attention to the rest of our library. While busied with the cocoa I heard her spelling out some titles, fingering leaves, and twitting Davies with the little care he took of his books. Suddenly there was a silence which made me look up, to see a startled and pitiful change in her. She was staring at Davies with wide eyes and parted lips, a burning flush mounting on her forehead, and such an expression on her face as a sleep-walker might wear, who wakes in fear he knows not where.
Half her mind was far away, labouring to construe109 some hideous125 dream of the past; half was in the present, cringing126 before some sickening reality. She remained so for perhaps ten seconds, and then—plucky girl that she was—she mastered herself, looked deliberately127 round and up with a circular glance, strangely in the manner of Davies himself, and spoke. How late it was, she must be going—her boat was not safe. At the same time she rose to go, or rather slid herself along the sofa, for rising was impossible. We sat like mannerless louts, in blank amazement128. Davies at the outset had said, “What’s the matter?” in plain English, and then relapsed into stupefaction. I recovered myself the first, and protested in some awkward fashion about the cocoa, the time, the absence of fog. In trying to answer, her self-possession broke down, poor child, and her retreat became a blind flight, like that of a wounded animal, while every sordid129 circumstance seemed to accentuate130 her panic.
She tilted131 the corner of the table in leaving the sofa and spilt cocoa over her skirt; she knocked her head with painful force against the sharp lintel of the doorway, and stumbled on the steps of the ladder. I was close behind, but when I reached the deck she was already on the counter hauling up the dinghy. She had even jumped in and laid hands on the sculls before any check came in her precipitate132 movements. Now there occurred to her the patent fact that the dinghy was ours, and that someone must accompany her to bring it back.
“Davies will row you over,” I said.
“Oh no, thank you,” she stammered133. “If you will be so kind, Herr Carruthers. It is your turn. No, I mean, I want——”
“Go on,” said Davies to me in English.
I stepped into the dinghy and motioned to take the sculls from her. She seemed not to see me, and pushed off while Davies handed down her jacket, which she had left in the cabin. Neither of us tried to better the situation by conventional apologies. It was left to her, at the last moment, to make a show of excusing herself, an attempt so brave and yet so wretchedly lame134 that I tingled135 all over with hot shame. She only made matters worse, and Davies interrupted her.
“Auf Wiedersehen,” he said, simply.
She shook her head, did not even offer her hand, and pulled away; Davies turned sharp round and went below.
There was now no muddy Rubicon to obstruct97 us, for the tide had risen a good deal, and the sands were covering. I offered again to take the sculls, but she took no notice and rowed on, so that I was a silent passenger on the stern seat till we reached her boat, a spruce little yacht’s gig, built to the native model, with a spoon-bow and tiny lee-boards. It was already afloat, but riding quite safely to a rope and a little grapnel, which she proceeded to haul in.
“It was quite safe after all, you see,” I said.
“Yes, but I could not stay. Herr Carruthers, I want to say something to you.” (I knew it was coming; von Brüning’s warning over again.) “I made a mistake just now; it is no use your calling on us to-morrow.”
“Why not?”
“You will not see my father.”
“I thought you said he was coming back?”
“Yes, by the morning steamer; but he will be very busy.”
“We can wait. We have several days to spare, and we have to call for letters anyhow.”
“You must not delay on our account. The weather is very fine at last. It would be a pity to lose a chance of a smooth voyage to England. The season——”
“My father will be much occupied.”
“We can see you.”
I insisted on being obtuse137, for though this fencing with an unstrung girl was hateful work, the quest was at stake. We were going to Norderney, come what might, and sooner or later we must see Dollmann. It was no use promising138 not to. I had given no pledge to von Brüning, and I would give none to her. The only alternative was to violate the compact (which the present fiasco had surely weakened), speak out, and try and make an ally of her. Against her own father? I shrank from the responsibility and counted the cost of failure—certain failure, to judge by her conduct. She began to hoist139 her lugsail in a dazed, shiftless fashion, while our two boats drifted slowly to leeward140.
“Father might not like it,” she said, so low and from such tremulous lips that I scarcely caught her words. “He does not like foreigners much. I am afraid . . . he did not want to see Herr Davies again.”
“But I thought——”
“It was wrong of me to come aboard—I suddenly remembered; but I could not tell Herr Davies.”
“I see,” I answered. “I will tell him.”
“Yes, that he must not come near us.”
“He will understand. I know he will be very sorry, but,” I added, firmly, “you can trust him implicitly141 to do the right thing.” And how I prayed that this would content her! Thank Heaven, it did.
“Yes,” she said, “I am afraid I did not say good-bye to him. You will do so?” She gave me her hand.
“One thing more,” I added, holding it, “nothing had better be said about this meeting?”
“No, no, nothing. It must never be known.”
I let go the gig’s gunwale and watched her tighten142 her sheet and make a tack or two to windward. Then I rowed back to the Dulcibella as hard as I could.
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creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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buoy
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| n.浮标；救生圈；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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watershed
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| n.转折点，分水岭，分界线 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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lug
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| n.柄，突出部，螺帽；(英）耳朵；（俚）笨蛋；vt.拖，拉，用力拖动 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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foghorn
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| n..雾号（浓雾信号） | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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30
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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31
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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32
outlets
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| n.出口( outlet的名词复数 )；经销店；插座；廉价经销店 | |
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33
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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34
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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35
orientation
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| n.方向，目标；熟悉，适应，情况介绍 | |
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36
surmounting
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| 战胜( surmount的现在分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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37
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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38
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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39
tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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40
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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41
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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42
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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43
binoculars
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| n.双筒望远镜 | |
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44
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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45
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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46
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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47
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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48
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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49
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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50
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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51
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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52
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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53
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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54
exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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55
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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56
philanderer
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| n.爱和女人调情的男人，玩弄女性的男人 | |
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57
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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58
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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59
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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60
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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61
slewed
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| adj.喝醉的v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去式 )( slew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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63
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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64
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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65
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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66
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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67
lockers
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| n.寄物柜( locker的名词复数 ) | |
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68
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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69
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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70
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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71
waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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72
frigidly
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| adv.寒冷地；冷漠地；冷淡地；呆板地 | |
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73
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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74
discordantly
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| adv.不一致地，不和谐地 | |
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75
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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76
insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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77
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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78
plagiarism
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| n.剽窃，抄袭 | |
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79
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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80
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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81
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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82
onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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83
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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84
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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85
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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86
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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87
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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88
recoiling
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| v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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89
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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90
acumen
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| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
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91
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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92
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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93
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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94
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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95
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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96
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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97
obstruct
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| v.阻隔，阻塞(道路、通道等)；n.阻碍物，障碍物 | |
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98
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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99
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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100
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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101
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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102
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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103
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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104
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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105
incarceration
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| n.监禁，禁闭；钳闭 | |
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106
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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107
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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108
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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109
construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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110
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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111
hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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112
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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113
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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114
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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115
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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116
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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117
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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118
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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119
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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120
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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121
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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122
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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123
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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124
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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125
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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126
cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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127
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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128
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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129
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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130
accentuate
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| v.着重，强调 | |
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131
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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132
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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133
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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135
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
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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137
obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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138
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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139
hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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140
leeward
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| adj.背风的；下风的 | |
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141
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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142
tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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