He was returning, Ramuntcho, after his three years of absence, discharged from the army in that city of the North where his regiment1 was in garrison2. He was returning with his heart in disarray3, with his heart in a tumult4 and in distress5.
His twenty-two year old face had darkened under the ardent6 sun; his mustache, now very long, gave him an air of proud nobility. And, on the lapel of the civilian7 coat which he had just bought, appeared the glorious ribbon of his medal.
At Bordeaux, where he had arrived after a night of travel, he had taken a place, with some emotion, in that train of Irun which descends8 in a direct line toward the South, through the monotony of the interminable moors9. Near the right door he had installed himself in order to see sooner the Bay of Biscay open and the highlands of Spain sketch10 themselves.
Then, near Bayonne, he had been startled at the sight of the first Basque caps, at the tall gates, the first Basque houses among the pines and the oaks.
And at Saint-Jean-de-Luz at last, when he set foot on the soil, he had felt like one drunk—After the mist and the cold already begun in Northern France, he felt the sudden and voluptuous11 impression of a warmer climate, the sensation of going into a hothouse. There was a festival of sunlight that day; the southern wind, the exquisite12 southern wind, blew, and the Pyrenees had magnificent tints14 on the grand, free sky. Moreover, girls passed, whose laughter rang of the South and of Spain, who had the elegance15 and the grace of the Basques—and who, after the heavy blondes of the North, troubled him more than all these illusions of summer.—But promptly16 he returned to himself: what was he thinking of, since that regained17 land was to him an empty land forever? How could his infinite despair be changed by that tempting18 gracefulness19 of the girls, by that ironical20 gaiety of the sky, the human beings and the things?—No! He would go home, embrace his mother—!
As he had expected, the stage-coach to Etchezar had left two hours ago. But, without trouble, he would traverse on foot this long road so familiar to him and arrive in the evening, before night.
So he went to buy sandals, the foot-gear of his former runs. And, with the mountaineer's quick step, in long, nervous strides, he plunged21 at once into the heart of the silent country, through paths which were for him full of memories.
November was coming to an end in the tepid22 radiance of that sun which lingers always here for a long time, on the Pyrenean slopes. For days, in the Basque land, had lasted this same luminous23 and pure sky, above woods half despoiled24 of their leaves, above mountains reddened by the ardent tint13 of the ferns. From the borders of the paths ascended25 tall grasses, as in the month of May, and large, umbellated flowers, mistaken about the season; in the hedges, privets and briars had come into bloom again, in the buzz of the last bees; and one could see flying persistent26 butterflies, to whom death had given several weeks of grace.
The Basque houses appeared here and there among the trees,—very elevated, the roof protruding27, white in their extreme oldness, with their shutters28 brown or green, of a green ancient and faded. And everywhere, on their wooden balconies were drying the yellow gold pumpkins29, the sheafs of pink peas; everywhere, on their walls, like beautiful beads30 of coral, were garlands of red peppers: all the things of the soil still fecund31, all the things of the old, nursing soil, amassed32 thus in accordance with old time usage, in provision for the darkened months when the heat departs.
And, after the mists of the Northern autumn, that limpidity33 of the air, that southern sunlight, every detail of the land, awakened34 in the complex mind of Ramuntcho infinite vibrations35, painfully sweet.
It was the tardy36 season when are cut the ferns that form the fleece of the reddish hills. And, large ox-carts filled with them rolled tranquilly37, in the beautiful, melancholy39 sun, toward the isolated40 farms, leaving on their passage the trail of their fragrance41. Very slowly, through the mountain paths, went these enormous loads of ferns; very slowly, with sounds of cow-bells. The harnessed oxen, indolent and strong,—all wearing the traditional head-gear of sheepskin, fallow colored, which gives to them the air of bisons or of aurochs, pulled those heavy carts, the wheels of which are solid disks, like those of antique chariots. The cowboys, holding the long stick in their hands, marched in front, always noiselessly, in sandals, the pink cotton shirt revealing the chest, the waistcoat thrown over the left shoulder—and the woolen42 cap drawn43 over a face shaven, thin, grave, to which the width of the jaws44 and of the muscles of the neck gives an expression of massive solidity.
Then, there were intervals45 of solitude46 when one heard, in these paths, only the buzz of flies, in the yellowed and finishing shade of the trees.
Ramuntcho looked at them, at these rare passers-by who crossed his road, surprised at not meeting somebody he knew who would stop before him. But there were no familiar faces. And the friends whom he met were not effusive47, there were only vague good-days exchanged with folks who turned round a little, with an impression of having seen him sometime, but not recalling when, and fell back into the humble48 dream of the fields.—And he felt more emphasized than ever the primary differences between him and those farm laborers50.
Over there, however, comes one of those carts whose sheaf is so big that branches of oaks in its passage catch it. In front, walks the driver, with a look of soft resignation, a big, peaceful boy, red as the ferns, red as the autumn, with a reddish fur in a bush on his bare chest; he walks with a supple51 and nonchalant manner, his arms extended like those of a cross on his goad52, placed across his shoulders. Thus, doubtless, on these same mountains, marched his ancestors, farm laborers and cowboys like him since numberless centuries.
And this one, at Ramuntcho's aspect, touches the forehead of his oxen, stops them with a gesture and a cry of command, then comes to the traveller, extending to him his brave hands.—Florentino! A Florentino much changed, having squarer shoulders, quite a man now, with an assured and fixed53 demeanor54.
The two friends embrace each other. Then, they scan each other's faces in silence, troubled suddenly by the wave of reminiscences which come from the depth of their minds and which neither the one nor the other knows how to express; Ramuntcho, not better than Florentino, for, if his language be infinitely55 better formed, the profoundness and the mystery of his thoughts are also much more unfathomable.
And it oppresses them to conceive things which they are powerless to tell; then their embarrassed looks return absent-mindedly to the two beautiful, big oxen:
“They are mine, you know,” says Florentino. “I was married two years ago.—My wife works. And, by working—we are beginning to get along.—Oh!” he adds, with naive56 pride, “I have another pair of oxen like these at the house.”
Then he ceases to talk, flushing suddenly under his sunburn, for he has the tact57 which comes from the heart, which the humblest possess often by nature, but which education never gives, even to the most refined people in the world: considering the desolate58 return of Ramuntcho, his broken destiny, his betrothed59 buried over there among the black nuns60, his mother dying, Florentino is afraid to have been already too cruel in displaying too much his own happiness.
Then the silence returned; they looked at each other for an instant with kind smiles, finding no words. Besides, between them, the abyss of different conceptions has grown deeper in these three years. And Florentino, touching62 anew the foreheads of his oxen, makes them march again with a call of his tongue, and presses tighter the hand of his friend:
“We shall see each other again, shall we not?”
And the noise of the cow-bells is soon lost in the calm of the road more shady, where begins to diminish the heat of the day—
“Well, he has succeeded in life, that one!” thinks Ramuntcho lugubriously63, continuing his walk under the autumn branches—
The road which he follows ascends64, hollowed here and there by springs and sometimes crossed by big roots of oaks.
Soon Etchezar will appear to him and, before seeing it, the image of it becomes more and more precise in him, recalled and enlivened in his memory by the aspect of the surroundings.
Empty now, all this land, where Gracieuse is no more, empty and sad as a beloved home where the great Reaper65 has passed!—And yet Ramuntcho, in the depths of his being, dares to think that, in some small convent over there, under the veil of a nun61, the cherished black eyes still exist and that he will be able at least to see them; that taking the veil is not quite like dying, and that perhaps the last word of his destiny has not been said irrevocably.—For, when he reflects, what can have changed thus the soul of Gracieuse, formerly66 so uniquely devoted67 to him?—Oh, terrible, foreign pressure, surely—And then, when they come face to face again, who knows?—When they talk, with his eyes in her eyes?—But what can he expect that is reasonable and possible?—In his native land has a nun ever broken her eternal vows68 to follow one to whom she was engaged? And besides, where would they go to live together afterward70, when folks would get out of their way, would fly from them as renegades?—To America perhaps, and even there!—And how could he take her from these white houses of the dead where the sisters live, eternally watched?—Oh, no, all this is a chimera71 which may not be realized—All is at an end, all is finished hopelessly—!
Then, the sadness which comes to him from Gracieuse is forgotten for a moment, and he feels nothing except an outburst of his heart toward his mother, toward his mother who remains72 to him, who is there, very near, a little upset, doubtless, by the joyful73 trouble of waiting for him.
And now, on the left of his route, is a humble hamlet, half hidden in the beeches74 and the oaks, with its ancient chapel,—and with its wall for the pelota game, under very old trees, at the crossing of two paths. At once, in Ramuntcho's youthful head, the course of thoughts changes again: that little wall with rounded top, covered with wash of kalsomine and ochre, awakens75 tumultuously in him thoughts of life, of force and of joy; with a childish ardor76 he says to himself that to-morrow he will be able to return to that game of the Basques, which is an intoxication77 of movement and of rapid skill; he thinks of the grand matches on Sundays after vespers, of the glory of the fine struggles with the champions of Spain, of all this deprivation78 of his years of exile. But it is a very short instant, and mortal despair comes back to him: his triumphs on the squares, Gracieuse shall not see them; then, what is the use!—Without her, all things, even these, fall back discolored, useless and vain, do not even exist—
Etchezar!—Etchezar, is revealed suddenly at a turn of the road!—It is in a red light, something like a fantasmagoria image, illuminated79 purposely in a special manner in the midst of grand backgrounds of shade and of night. It is the hour of the setting sun. Around the isolated village, which the old, heavy belfry, surmounts80, a last sheaf of rays traces a halo of the color of copper81 and gold, while clouds—and a gigantic obscurity emanating82 from the Gizune—darken the lands piled up above and under, the mass of brown hills, colored by the death of the ferns—
Oh! the melancholy apparition83 of the native land, to the soldier who returns and will not find his sweetheart—!
Three years have passed since he left here.—Well, three years, at his age, are an abyss of time, a period which changes all things. And, after that lone84 exile, how this village, which he adores, appears to him diminished, small, walled in the mountains, sad and hidden!—In the depth of his mind of a tall, uncultured boy, commences again, to make him suffer more, the struggle of those two sentiments of a too refined man, which are an inheritance of his unknown father: an attachment85 almost maladive to the home, to the land of childhood, and a fear of returning to be enclosed in it, when there exist in the world other places so vast and so free. —After the warm afternoon, the autumn is indicated now by the hasty fall of the day, with a coolness ascending86 suddenly from the valleys underneath87, a scent88 of dying leaves and of moss89. And then the thousand details of preceding autumns in the Basque country, of the former Novembers, come to him very precisely90; the cold fall of night succeeding the beautiful, sunlit day; the sad clouds appearing with the night; the Pyrenees confounded in vapors91 inky gray, or, in places, cut in black silhouettes92 on a pale, golden sky; around the houses, the belated flowers of the gardens, which the frost spares for a long time here, and, in front of all the doors, the strewn leaves of the plane-trees, the yellow strewn leaves cracking under the steps of the man returning in sandals to his home for supper.—Oh, the heedless joy of these returns to the home, in the nights of other times, after days of marching on the rude mountain! Oh, the gaiety, in that time, of the first winter fires—in the tall, smoky hearth93 ornamented94 with a drapery of white calico and with a strip of pink paper. No, in the city, with its rows of houses one does not have the real impression of returning home, of earthing up like plants at night in the primitive95 manner, as one has it here, under those Basque roofs, solitary96 in the midst of the country, with the grand, surrounding black, the grand, shivering black of the foliage97, the grand, changing black of the clouds and the summits.—But to-day, his travels, his new conceptions, have diminished and spoiled his mountaineer's home; he will doubtless find it almost desolate, especially in the thought that his mother shall not be there always—and that Gracieuse shall never be there again.
His pace quickens in his haste to embrace his mother; he turns around his village instead of going into it, in order to reach his house through a path which overlooks the square and church; passing quickly, he looks at everything with inexpressible pain. Peace, silence soar over this little parish of Etchezar, heart of the French Basque land and country of all the famous pelotaris of the past who have become heavy grandfathers, or are dead now. The immutable98 church, where have remained buried his dreams of faith, is surrounded by the same dark cypresses99, like a mosque100. The ball-game square, while he walks quickly above it, is still lighted by the sun with a finishing ray, oblique101, toward the background, toward the wall which the ancient inscription102 surmounts,—as on the evening of his first great success, four years ago, when, in the joyous103 crowd, Gracieuse stood in a blue gown, she who has become a black nun to-day.—On the deserted104 benches, on the granite105 steps where the grass grows, three or four old men are seated, who were formerly the heroes of the place and whom their reminiscences bring back here incessantly106, to talk at the end of the days, when the twilight107 descends from the summits, invades the earth, seems to emanate108 and to fall from the brown Pyrenees.—Oh, the folks who live here, whose lives run here; oh, the little cider inns, the little, simple shops and the old, little things—brought from the cities, from the other places—sold to the mountaineers of the surrounding country!—How all this seems to him now strange, separated from him, or set far in the background of the primitive past!—Is he truly not a man of Etchezar to-day, is he no longer the Ramuntcho of former times?—What particular thing resides in his mind to prevent him from feeling comfortable here, as the others feel? Why is it prohibited to him, to him alone, to accomplish here the tranquil38 destiny of his dreams, since all his friends have accomplished109 theirs?—
At last here is his house, there, before his eyes. It is as he expected to find it. As he expected, he recognizes along the wall all the persistent flowers cultivated by his mother, the same flowers which the frost has destroyed weeks ago in the North from which he comes: heliotropes, geraniums, tall dahlias and roses with climbing branches. And the cherished, strewn leaves, which fall every autumn from the vault-shaped plane-trees, are there also, and are crushed with a noise so familiar under his steps—!
In the lower hall, when he enters, there is already grayish indecision, already night. The high chimney, where his glance rests at first by an instinctive110 reminiscence of the fires of ancient evenings, stands the same with its white drapery; but cold, filled with shade, smelling of absence or death.
He runs up to his mother's room. She, from her bed having recognized her son's step, has straightened up, all stiff, all white in the twilight:
She extends her arms to him and as soon as she holds him, enlaces and embraces him:
“Ramuntcho!—”
Then, having uttered this name without adding anything, she leans her head against his cheek, in the habitual111 movement of surrender, in the movement of the grand, tender feelings of other times.—He, then, perceives that his mother's face is burning against his. Through her shirt he feels the arms that surround him thin, feverish112 and hot. And for the first time, he is frightened; the notion that she is doubtless very ill comes to his mind, the possibility and the sudden terror that she might die—
“Oh, you are alone, mother! But who takes care of you? Who watches over you?”
“Who watches over me?—” she replies with her abrupt113 brusqueness, her ideas of a peasant suddenly returned. “Spending money to nurse me, why should I do it?—The church woman or the old Doyamburu comes in the day-time to give me the things that I need, the things that the physician orders.—But—medicine!—Well! Light a lamp, my Ramuntcho!—I want to see you—and I cannot see you—”
And, when the clearness has come from a Spanish, smuggled114 match, she says in a tone of caress115 infinitely sweet, as one talks to a very little child whom one adores:
“Oh, your mustache! The long mustache which has come to you, my son!—I do not recognize my Ramuntcho!—Bring your lamp here, bring it here so that I can look at you!—”
He also sees her better now, under the new light of that lamp, while she admires him lovingly. And he is more frightened still, because the cheeks of his mother are so hollow, her hair is so whitened; even the expression of her eyes is changed and almost extinguished; on her face appears the sinister116 and irremediable labor49 of time, of suffering and of death—
And, now, two tears, rapid and heavy, fall from the eyes of Franchita, which widen, become living again, made young by desperate revolt and hatred117.
“Oh, that woman,” she says suddenly. “Oh, that Dolores!”
And her cry expresses and summarizes all her jealousy118 of thirty years' standing119, all her merciless rancor120 against that enemy of her childhood who has succeeded at last in breaking the life of her son.
A silence between them. He is seated, with head bent121, near the bed, holding the poor, feverish hand which his mother has extended to him. She, breathing more quickly, seems for a long while under the oppression of something which she hesitates to express:
“Tell me, my Ramuntcho!—I would like to ask you.—What do you intend to do, my son? What are your projects for the future?—”
“I do not know, mother.—I will think, I will see.—You ask—all at once.—We have time to talk of this, have we not?—To America, perhaps—”
“Oh, yes,” she says slowly, with the fear that was in her for days, “to America—I suspected it. Oh, that is what you will do.—I knew it, I knew it—”
Her phrase ends in a groan and she joins her hands to try to pray—
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1
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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2
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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3
disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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4
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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5
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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6
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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8
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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9
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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10
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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11
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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12
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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13
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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14
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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15
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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gracefulness
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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22
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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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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pumpkins
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| n.南瓜( pumpkin的名词复数 )；南瓜的果肉，南瓜囊 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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fecund
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| adj.多产的，丰饶的，肥沃的 | |
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amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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limpidity
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| n.清澈，透明 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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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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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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41
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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42
woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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43
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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44
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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45
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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46
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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47
effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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48
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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49
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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50
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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51
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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52
goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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53
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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54
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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55
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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56
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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57
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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58
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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59
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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60
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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61
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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62
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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63
lugubriously
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64
ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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65
reaper
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| n.收割者，收割机 | |
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66
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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67
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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68
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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69
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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70
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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71
chimera
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| n.神话怪物；梦幻 | |
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72
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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73
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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74
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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75
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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76
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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77
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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78
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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79
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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80
surmounts
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| 战胜( surmount的第三人称单数 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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81
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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82
emanating
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的现在分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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83
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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84
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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85
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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86
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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87
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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88
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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89
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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90
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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91
vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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92
silhouettes
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| 轮廓( silhouette的名词复数 )； （人的）体形； （事物的）形状； 剪影 | |
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93
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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94
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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96
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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97
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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98
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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99
cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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100
mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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101
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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102
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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103
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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104
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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105
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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106
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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107
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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108
emanate
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| v.发自，来自，出自 | |
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109
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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110
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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111
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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112
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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113
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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114
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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115
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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116
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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117
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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118
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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119
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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120
rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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121
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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