After breakfast he noticed two British torpedo4 boat destroyers, one to starboard, the other on the port bow, apparently5 keeping pace with the Volhynia. They were still there at noon, subjects of speculation6 among the passengers; and at tea-time their number was increased to five, the three new destroyers appearing suddenly out of nowhere, dead ahead, dashing forward through a lively sea under a swirling7 vortex of gulls.
The curiosity of the passengers, always easily aroused, became more thoroughly8 stirred up by the bulletins posted late that afternoon, indicating that the tension between the several European chancelleries was becoming acute, and that emperors and kings were exchanging personal telegrams.
There was all sorts of talk on deck and at the dinner table, wild talk, speculative9 talk, imaginative discussions, logical and illogical. But, boiled down to its basic ingredients, the wildest imagination on board the Volhynia admitted war to be an impossibility of modern times, and that, ultimately, diplomacy10 would 224settle what certainly appeared to be the ugliest international situation in a hundred years.
At the bottom of his heart Neeland believed this, too; wished for it when his higher and more educated spiritual self was flatly interrogated11; and yet, in the everyday, impulsive12 ego13 of James Neeland, the drop of Irish had begun to sing and seethe14 with the atavistic instinct for a row.
War? He didn’t know what it meant, of course. It made good poetry and interesting fiction; it rendered history amusing; made dry facts succulent.
Preparations for war in Europe, which had been going on for fifty years, were most valuable, too, in contributing the brilliant hues15 of uniforms to an otherwise sombre civilian16 world, and investing commonplace and sober cities with the omnipresent looming17 mystery of fortifications.
To a painter, war seemed to be a dramatic and gorgeous affair; to a young man it appealed as all excitement appeals. The sportsman in him desired to witness a scrap18; his artist’s imagination was aroused; the gambler in him speculated as to the outcome of such a war. And the seething19, surging drop of Irish fizzed and purred and coaxed20 for a chance to edge sideways into any fight which God in His mercy might provide for a decent gossoon who had never yet had the pleasure of a broken head.
“Not,” thought Neeland to himself, “that I’ll go trailing my coat tails. I’ll go about my own business, of course—but somebody may hit me a crack at that!”
He thought of Ilse Dumont and of the man with the golden beard, realising that he had had a wonderful time, after all; sorry in his heart that it was all over 225and that the Volhynia was due to let go her mudhooks in the Mersey about three o’clock the next morning.
As he leaned on the deck rail in the soft July darkness, he could see the lights of the destroyers to port and starboard, see strings21 of jewel-like signals flash, twinkle, fade, and flash again.
All around him along the deck passengers were promenading22, girls in evening gowns or in summer white; men in evening dress or reefed in blue as nautically23 as possible; old ladies toddling24, swathed in veils, old gentlemen in dinner coats and sporting headgear—every weird25 or conventional combination infested26 the decks of the Volhynia.
Now, for the first time during the voyage, Neeland felt free to lounge about where he listed, saunter wherever the whim27 of the moment directed his casual steps. The safety of the olive-wood box was no longer on his mind, the handle no longer in his physical clutch. He was at liberty to stroll as carelessly as any boulevard flâneur; and he did so, scanning the passing throng28 for a glimpse of Ilse Dumont or of the golden-bearded one, but not seeing either of them.
In fact, he had not laid eyes on them since he had supped not wisely but too well on the soup that Scheherazade had flavoured for him.
The stateroom door of the golden-bearded man had remained closed. His own little cockney steward29, who also looked out for Golden Beard, reported that gentleman as requiring five meals a day, with beer in proportion, and the porcelain30 pipe steaming like Ætna all day long.
His little West Indian stewardess31 also reported the gossip from her friend on another corridor, which was, in effect, that Miss White, the trained nurse, took all 226meals in her room and had not been observed to leave that somewhat monotonous32 sanctuary33.
How many more of the band there might be Neeland did not know. He remembered vaguely34, while lying rigid35 under the grip of the drug, that he had heard Ilse Dumont’s voice mention somebody called Karl. And he had an idea that this Karl might easily be the big, ham-fisted German who had tried so earnestly to stifle36 him and throw him from the vestibule of the midnight express.
However, it did not matter now. The box was safe in the captain’s care; the Volhynia would be lying at anchor off Liverpool before daylight; the whole exciting and romantic business was ended.
With an unconscious sigh, not entirely37 of relief, Neeland opened his cigarette case, found it empty, turned and went slowly below with the idea of refilling it.
They were dancing somewhere on deck; the music of the ship’s orchestra came to his ears. He paused a moment on the next deck to lean on the rail in the darkness and listen.
Far beneath him, through a sea as black as onyx, swept the reflections of the lighted ports; and he could hear the faint hiss38 of foam39 from the curling flow below.
As he turned to resume his quest for cigarettes, he was startled to see directly in front of him the heavy figure of a man—so close to him, in fact, that Neeland instinctively40 threw up his arm, elbow out, to avoid contact.
But the man, halting, merely lifted his hat, saying that in the dim light he had mistaken Neeland for a friend; and they passed each other on the almost 227deserted deck, saluting41 formally in the European fashion, with lifted hats.
His spirits a trifle subdued42, but still tingling43 with the shock of discovering a stranger so close behind him where he had stood leaning over the ship’s rail, Neeland continued on his way below.
Probably the big man had made a mistake in good faith; but the man certainly had approached very silently; was almost at his very elbow when discovered. And Neeland remembered the light-shot depths over which, at that moment, he had been leaning; and he realised that it would have been very easy for a man as big as that to have flung him overboard before he had wit to realise what had been done to him.
Neither could he forget the curious gleam in the stranger’s eyes when a ray from a deck light fell across his shadowy face—unusually small eyes set a little too close together to inspire confidence. Nor had the man’s slight accent escaped him—not a Teutonic accent, he thought, but something fuller and softer—something that originated east of Scutari, suggesting the Eurasian, perhaps.
But Neeland’s soberness was of volatile44 quality; before he arrived at his stateroom he had recovered his gaiety of spirit. He glanced ironically at the closed door of Golden Beard as he fitted his key into his own door.
“A lively lot,” he thought to himself, “what with Scheherazade, Golden Beard, and now Ali Baba—by jinx!—he certainly did have an Oriental voice!—and he looked the part, too, with a beak45 for a nose and a black moustache à la Enver Pasha!”
Much diverted by his own waxing imagination, he 228turned on the light in his stateroom, filled the cigarette case, turned to go out, and saw on the carpet just inside his door a bit of white paper folded cocked-hat fashion and addressed to him.
Picking it up and unfolding it, he read:
May I see you this evening at eleven? My stateroom is 623. If there is anybody in the corridor, knock; if not, come in without knocking.
I mean no harm to you. I give my word of honour. Please accept it for as much as your personal courage makes it worth to you—its face value, or nothing.
Knowing you, I may say without flattery that I expect you. If I am disappointed, I still must bear witness to your courage and to a generosity46 not characteristic of your sex.
You have had both power and provocation47 to make my voyage on this ship embarrassing. You have not done so. And self-restraint in a man is a very deadly weapon to use on a woman.
I hope you will come. I desire to be generous on my part. Ask yourself whether you are able to believe this. You don’t know women, Mr. Neeland. Your conclusion probably will be a wrong one.
But I think you’ll come, all the same. And you will be right in coming, whatever you believe.
Ilse Dumont.
It was a foregone conclusion that he would go. He knew it before he had read half the note. And when he finished it he was certain.
Amused, his curiosity excited, grateful that the adventure had not yet entirely ended, he lighted a cigarette and looked impatiently at his watch.
He stuck the note into the frame of his mirror over the washstand with a vague idea that if anything 229happened to him this would furnish a clue to his whereabouts.
Then he thought of the steward, but, although he had no reason to believe the girl who had written him, something within him made him ashamed to notify the steward as to where he was going. He ought to have done it; common prudence49 born of experience with Ilse Dumont suggested it. And yet he could not bring himself to do it; and exactly why, he did not understand.
One thing, however, he could do; and he did. He wrote a note to Captain West giving the Paris address of the Princess Mistchenka, and asked that the olive-wood box be delivered to her in case any accident befell him. This note he dropped into the mailbox at the end of the main corridor as he went out. A few minutes later he stood in an empty passageway outside a door numbered 623. He had a loaded automatic in his breast pocket, a cigarette between his fingers, and, on his agreeable features, a smile of anticipation—a smile in which amusement, incredulity, reckless humour, and a spice of malice50 were blended—the smile born of the drop of Irish sparkling like champagne51 in his singing veins52.
And he turned the knob of door No. 623 and went in.
She was reading, curled up on her sofa under the electric bulb, a cigarette in one hand, a box of bonbons53 beside her.
She looked up leisurely55 as he entered, gave him a friendly nod, and, when he held out his hand, placed her own in it. With delighted gravity he bent56 and saluted57 her finger tips with lips that twitched58 to control a smile.
“Will you be seated, please?” she said gently.
The softness of her agreeable voice struck him as 230he looked around for a seat, then directly at her; and saw that she meant him to find a seat on the lounge beside her.
“Now, indeed you are Scheherazade of the Thousand and One Nights,” he said gaily59, “with your cigarette and your bonbons, and cross-legged on your divan––”
“Did Scheherazade smoke cigarettes, Mr. Neeland?”
“No,” he admitted; “that is an anachronism, I suppose. Tell me, how are you, dear lady?”
“Thank you, quite well.”
“And—busy?” His lips struggled again to maintain their gravity.
“Yes, I have been busy.”
“Cooking something up?—I mean soup, of course,” he added.
She forced a smile, but reddened as though it were difficult for her to accustom60 herself to his half jesting sarcasms61.
“So you’ve been busy,” he resumed tormentingly62, “but not with cooking lessons! Perhaps you’ve been practising with your pretty little pistol. You know you really need a bit of small arms practice, Scheherazade.”
“Yes,” she said, “I missed you. I needn’t have. I am really a dead shot, Mr. Neeland.”
“Oh, Scheherazade!” he protested.
“I am not bragging66; I could have killed you. I supposed it was necessary only to frighten you. It was my mistake and a bad one.”231
“My dear child,” he expostulated, “you meant murder and you know it. Do you suppose I believe that you know how to shoot?”
“But I do, Mr. Neeland,” she returned with good-humoured indifference67. “My father was head jäger to Count Geier von Sturmspitz, and I was already a dead shot with a rifle when we emigrated to Canada. And when he became an Athabasca trader, and I was only twelve years old, I could set a moose-hide shoe-lace swinging and cut it in two with a revolver at thirty yards. And I can drive a shingle68 nail at that distance and drive the bullet that drove it, and the next and the next, until my revolver is empty. You don’t believe me, do you?”
“You know that the beautiful Scheherazade––”
“Was famous for her fantastic stories? Yes, I know that, Mr. Neeland. I’m sorry you don’t believe I fired only to frighten you.”
“I’m sorry I don’t,” he admitted, laughing, “but I’ll practise trying, and maybe I shall attain69 perfect credulity some day. Tell me,” he added, “what have you been doing to amuse yourself?”
“I’ve been amusing myself by wondering whether you would come here to see me tonight.”
“But your note said you were sure I’d come.”
“You have come, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Scheherazade, I’m here at your bidding, spirit and flesh. But I forgot to bring one thing.”
“What?”
“The box which—you have promised yourself.”
“Yes, the captain has it, I believe,” she returned serenely.
“Oh, Lord! Have you even found out that? I don’t know whether I’m much flattered by this surveillance 232you and your friends maintain over me. I suppose you even know what I had for dinner. Do you?”
“Yes.”
When she told him, carelessly, and without humour, mentioning accurately71 every detail of his dinner, he lost his gaiety of countenance72 a little.
“Oh, I say, you know,” he protested, “that’s going it a trifle too strong. Now, why the devil should your people keep tabs on me to that extent?”
She looked up directly into his eyes:
“Mr. Neeland, I want to tell you why. I asked you here so that I may tell you. The people associated with me are absolutely pledged that neither the French nor the British Government shall have access to the contents of your box. That is why nothing that you do escapes our scrutiny73. We are determined74 to have the papers in that box, and we shall have them.”
“You have come to that determination too late,” he began; but she stopped him with a slight gesture of protest:
“Please don’t interrupt me, Mr. Neeland.”
“I won’t; go on, dear lady!”
“Then, I’m trying to tell you all I may. I am trying to tell you enough of the truth to make you reflect very seriously.
“This is no ordinary private matter, no vulgar attempt at robbery and crime as you think—or pretend to think—for you are very intelligent, Mr. Neeland, and you know that the contrary is true.
“This affair concerns the secret police, the embassies, the chancelleries, the rulers themselves of nations long 233since grouped into two formidable alliances radically75 hostile to one another.
“I don’t think you have understood—perhaps even yet you do not understand why the papers you carry are so important to certain governments—why it is impossible that you be permitted to deliver them to the Princess Mistchenka––”
“Where did you ever hear of her!” he demanded in astonishment76.
The girl smiled:
“Dear Mr. Neeland, I know the Princess Mistchenka better, perhaps, than you do.”
“Do you?”
“Indeed I do. What do you know about her? Nothing at all except that she is handsome, attractive, cultivated, amusing, and apparently wealthy.
“You know her as a traveller, a patroness of music and the fine arts—as a devotee of literature, as a graceful77 hostess, and an amiable78 friend who gives promising79 young artists letters of introduction to publishers who are in a position to offer them employment.”
That this girl should know so much about the Princess Mistchenka and about his own relations with her amazed Neeland. He did not pretend to account for it; he did not try; he sat silent, serious, and surprised, looking into the pretty and almost smiling face of a girl who apparently had been responsible for three separate attempts to kill him—perhaps even a fourth attempt; and who now sat beside him talking in a soft and agreeable voice about matters concerning which he had never dreamed she had heard.
For a few moments she sat silent, observing in his changing expression the effects of what she had said to him. Then, with a smile:234
“Ask me whatever questions you desire to ask, Mr. Neeland. I shall do my best to answer them.”
“Very well,” he said bluntly; “how do you happen to know so much about me?”
“I know something about the friends of the Princess Mistchenka. I have to.”
“Did you know who I was there in the house at Brookhollow?”
“No.”
“When, then?”
“When you yourself told me your name, I recognised it.”
“I surprised you by interrupting you in Brookhollow?”
“Yes.”
“You expected no interruption?”
“None.”
“How did you happen to go there? Where did you ever hear of the olive-wood box?”
“I had advices by cable from abroad—directions to go to Brookhollow and secure the box.”
“Then somebody must be watching the Princess Mistchenka.”
“Of course,” she said simply.
“Why ‘of course’?”
“Mr. Neeland, the Princess Mistchenka and her youthful protégée, Miss Carew––”
“What!!!”
The girl smiled wearily:
“Really,” she said, “you are such a boy to be mixed in with matters of this colour. I think that’s the reason you have defeated us—the trained fencer dreads80 a left-handed novice81 more than any classic master of the foils.235
“But such victories are only momentary, Mr. Neeland. Please believe it. Please try to understand, too, that this is no battle with masks and plastrons and nicely padded buttons. No; it is no comedy, but a grave and serious affair that must inevitably83 end in tragedy—for somebody.”
“For me?” he asked without smiling.
She turned on him abruptly84 and laid one hand lightly on his arm with a pretty gesture, at once warning, appealing, and protective.
“I asked you to come here,” she said, “because—because I want you to escape the tragedy.”
“You want me to escape?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I—am sorry for you.”
He said nothing.
“And—I like you, Mr. Neeland.”
The avowal85 in the soft, prettily86 modulated87 voice, lost none of its charm and surprise because the voice was a trifle tremulous, and the girl’s face was tinted88 with a delicate colour.
“I like to believe what you say, Scheherazade,” he said pleasantly. “Somehow or other I never did think you hated me personally—except once––”
She flushed, and he was silent, remembering her humiliation89 in the Brookhollow house.
“I don’t know,” she said in a colder tone, “why I should feel at all friendly toward you, Mr. Neeland, except that you are personally courageous90, and you have shown yourself generous under a severe temptation to be otherwise.236
“As for—any personal humiliation—inflicted upon me––” She looked down thoughtfully and pretended to sort out a bonbon54 to her taste, while the hot colour cooled in her cheeks.
“I know,” he said, “I’ve also jeered91 at you, jested, nagged92 you, taunted93 you, kiss––” He checked himself and he smiled and ostentatiously lighted a cigarette.
“Well,” he said, blowing a cloud of aromatic94 smoke toward the ceiling, “I believe that this is as strange a week as any man ever lived. It’s like a story book—like one of your wonderful stories, Scheherazade. It doesn’t seem real, now that it is ended––”
“It is not ended,” she interrupted in a low voice.
He smiled.
“You know,” he said, “there’s no use trying to frighten such an idiot as I am.”
She lifted her troubled eyes:
“That is what frightens me,” she said. “I am afraid you don’t know enough to be afraid.”
He laughed.
“But I want you to be afraid. A really brave man knows what fear is. I want you to know.”
“What do you wish me to do, Scheherazade?”
“Keep away from that box.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. You can leave it in charge of the captain of this ship and let him see that an attempt is made to deliver it to the Princess Mistchenka.”
She was in deadly earnest; he saw that. And, in spite of himself, a slight thrill that was almost a chill passed over him, checked instantly by the hot wave of sheer exhilaration at the hint of actual danger.
“Oho!” he said gaily. “Then you and your friends are not yet finished with me?”237
“Yes, if you will consider your mission accomplished95.”
“And leave the rest to the captain of the Volhynia?”
“Yes.”
“Scheherazade,” he said, “did you suppose me to be a coward?”
“No. You have done all that you can. A reserve officer of the British Navy has the box in his charge. Let him, protected by his Government, send it toward its destination.”
“I ask you,” she went on, “to keep out of this affair—to disassociate yourself from it. I ask it because you have been considerate and brave, and because I do not wish you harm.”
He turned toward her, leaning a little forward on the lounge:
“No use,” he said, smiling. “I’m in it until it ends––”
“Let it end then!” said a soft, thick voice directly behind him. And Neeland turned and found the man he had seen on deck standing98 beside him. One of his fat white hands held an automatic pistol, covering him; the other was carefully closing the door which he had noiselessly opened to admit him.
“Karl!” exclaimed Ilse Dumont.
“It is safaire that you do not stir, either, to interfere,” he said, squinting99 for a second at her out of his eyes set too near together.
“Karl!” she cried. “I asked him to come in order to persuade him! I gave him my word of honour!”
“Did you do so? Then all the bettaire. I think we 238shall persuade him. Do not venture to move, young man; I shoot veree willingly.”
And Neeland, looking at him along the blunt barrel of the automatic pistol, was inclined to believe him.
His sensations were not agreeable; he managed to maintain a calm exterior100; choke back the hot chagrin101 that reddened his face to the temples; and cast a half humorous, half contemptuous glance at Ilse Dumont.
“You prove true, don’t you?” he said coolly. “—True to your trade of story-telling, Scheherazade!”
But Neeland only laughed disagreeably.
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1
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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3
smacks
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| 掌掴（声）( smack的名词复数 )； 海洛因； （打的）一拳； 打巴掌 | |
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torpedo
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| n.水雷，地雷；v.用鱼雷破坏 | |
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5
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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8
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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seethe
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| vi.拥挤，云集；发怒，激动，骚动 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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strings
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promenading
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nautically
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| 在航海方面 | |
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toddling
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的现在分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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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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infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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stewardess
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| n.空中小姐，女乘务员 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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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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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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42
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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46
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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50
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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51
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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52
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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53
bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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54
bonbon
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| n.棒棒糖；夹心糖 | |
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55
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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58
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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tormentingly
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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bragging
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的现在分词 )；大话 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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68
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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69
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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72
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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73
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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80
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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82
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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83
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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84
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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85
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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86
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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87
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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88
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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89
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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90
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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91
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
nagged
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| adj.经常遭责怪的；被压制的；感到厌烦的；被激怒的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的过去式和过去分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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93
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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94
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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95
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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96
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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97
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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98
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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99
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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100
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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101
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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102
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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103
crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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