At the end of that time the weather, which had again become bleak7 and inclement8, suddenly softened9 with the return of the westerly wind, becoming so mild as to savour of spring. The change was felt and responded to by every creature. On St Valentine’s Day when Golden Valley resounded10 with the love songs of birds, the hare had already set out in search of a mate. Whether influenced by reason or by instinct, he did not seek her along his usual beats, on which he had not once crossed the trail of his kind, but set his face to the north, to the unexplored land he had often looked down on from Bartinney and Chapel11 Carn Brea; there he was in high hope of meeting her.
So intent was he on his quest that he never stopped to browse12, leaving untouched patch after patch of tender herbage in the moorland farms he crossed. Yet he never saw a living thing. He came to the wild which is crowned by the weird14 rocks of Carn Kenidzhek, and here, standing15 near the summit, he scrutinised the moonlit waste, apparently16 a desolate17 land, a land without life. Just before daybreak, however, there came into view, ghostly as the stoats but very much larger, a creature threading its way in and out among the furze bushes as it made for the Carn. The hare was puzzled as to its identity until it began to ascend18 the slope, when to his surprise he saw that it was that uncommon19 thing, a white badger20.
It presently winded the hare, stood, gazed at him, then after a glance at the faint glow in the depressions between the hills, hurried to its earth. As soon as it had disappeared the hare sought a couch in the heather, and sat with his face to the far-off Carns, whose crests21 were soon bright in the rays of the rising sun.
“In that golden land,” he thought, “I shall surely find her. To-night I will go there.”
The day proved as glorious as the night had been serene22, but for the hare it was all too long. He could hardly sit in his form, so eager was he to be afoot, and the moment the stars peeped he quitted the seat.
What miles on miles he traversed: he visited the hills, he penetrated23 to the cliffs of Morvah, he turned inland again and roamed wide stretches of moor13 and down, he skirted Chun[8] cromlech, and passed within sight of the Men Scryfa as he headed for the Galver, with its upthrust peak conspicuous24 against the stars. From the Galver he went to Hannibal’s Carn, and presently stood on its highest rock gazing at the plain beneath. His ears were pricked25 as they had been a score times since sundown to catch the whispers of the waste and perhaps hear the bleat26 of a doe. He listened as he had never listened before; but there came no call, no sound indeed save the murmur27 of the dawn wind about the crags; so at last the love-sick fellow forsook28 his station and returned to the Galver, where after weaving a maze29 of trails he sought a form high up the slope.
In his lone30 retreat he felt as safe as on Chapel Carn Brea; he was even more remote from the haunts of man. Yet harriers were already on their way to the meet, and it was that very ground where he sat that was to be hunted.
The Squire31 of Trengwainton had breakfasted by candlelight, and as the clock over the stables was striking half-past six, he mounted his favourite grey mare32 and started out attired33 in full hunting costume, green coat, white breeches, boots reaching almost to the knee, and a velvet34 cap that well became his clean-shaven face. Twelve couple of hounds followed at his horse’s heels, the little procession as it made its way along the avenue of beeches35 being closed by Sam Noy, the whipper-in.
Coming to the high ground beyond the Forest Carn where the track forks, the squire turned in his saddle and asked which road he should take.
“The lower road, Sir Tudor,” was the prompt reply. Strange though it seems that the Squire of Trengwainton should ask his way to the meet, the explanation is simple.
He had arrived in Cornwall from Pembroke only three weeks earlier, after a voyage exciting even for those disturbed times. The schooner36 in which he sailed was attacked off the Land’s End by a privateer which had been harassing37 St Ives, and compelled to run before the wind in order to escape capture. Under cover of darkness she got away, and reached St Ives with no more damage than a hole in her mainsail and the loss of her topmast. But the mayor and the watch mistaking the rakish-looking craft for another Frenchman, had opened fire from the three four-pounders on the “Island”—luckily without effect, the balls dropping at least fifty yards short.
The incident had so greatly amused the squire that the very memory of it brought a smile to his face again and again as he rode through the grey dawn. By and by the sun rose, making a jewel of every dewdrop, and calling forth38 the carols of the birds.
This changed the train of his thoughts. His mind reverted39 to Gaston de Foix, of all followers40 of the chase the one dearest to his heart, and after passing the farmhouse41 at Lanyon as he descended42 the hill to the millpool he was quoting aloud: “Et quant le soleil sera levé, il verra celle douce rosée sur rincelles et herbettes et le soleil par5 sa vertu les fera reluysir. C’est grant plaisance et joye au cœur du veneur.”
“We turn in here, sir,” presently interposed the whipper-in, who thought the squire had taken leave of his seven senses.
“Four Parishes, where the meet is, lies right afore ’ee under the Galver, and the Galver is that git hill up again’ the sky theere.”
Whereupon Sir Tudor left the track for the moor lined with the shadows of the Carns.
Awaiting him at Four Parishes[9] were Squire Tregenna, to whose gun-fire he had been exposed in St Ives Bay, Squire Praed of Trevethoe, a few yeomen, some crofters for the most part fairly mounted, and a promiscuous43 crowd of men afoot, amongst whom the fiddler’s pinched face peeped out between the rough beards of two tall smugglers, and three or four ne’er-do-wells were marked off by their careless slouch from the sturdier forms of half a dozen miners.
After greetings had been exchanged, Sir Tudor appealed to Jim Curnow of Towednack, whose keenness and knowledge he had already noticed: “Where shall we draw first?”
“Try the ground about the Galver,” said Curnow, “if there’s a hare left in the country she’ll be there.”
So it was decided44; and all moved off to the hill, where the pack scattered45 freely in search of the game.
They were a level lot of hounds, very much alike to a stranger, yet as different in the eyes of the squire as were their names to his ears. He had named them himself, most happily Squire Praed thought, on hearing Sir Tudor call in turn on Melody, Corisande, Guinevere, Merlin, Cymro, and Caradoc.
Awhile each hound worked separately, indifferent to all around, one would have thought, yet in reality keenly observant of the others, for as soon as Trueboy waved his stern half a score flocked to him.
They are at once all excitement, as well they may be; they have hit the line of the hare, and are following it between the two big boulders46 where he passed on his way to Hannibal’s Carn, the tan splashes on their coats gleaming like russet gold in the slant47 sunlight, their musical voices awakening48 the echoes of the rocks, and thrilling every member of the little field.
Soon they return to the Galver, clinging tenaciously49 to the trail, whose bewildering maze they strive their utmost to unravel50. The eager movements of every hound show that he knows the hare is near and will soon be afoot, yet, when like a shadow gliding51 over the sunlit slope below the ridge52 he silently steals away, not one even suspects that he has risen, much less catches a glimpse of his crouching53 form.
The squire, however, has viewed him; his hand proclaims it, raised to command silence and allow a reasonable start to the jack54, who still moves stealthily in the hope of getting away unobserved. But the moment the squire cheers the hounds on to his line he knows that he has been seen, instantly abandons his slinking tactics and breaks into a gallop55, his head pointed56 straight for his native hills.
It was an exhilarating moment for Sir Tudor, and as he settled down to ride, what with the pleasant undulations of his horse, what with the freshness of the morning and the wildness of the country, above all with the thought that his little companions in a hundred hunts were chiming on the scent57 of their first Cornish hare, he would not have changed seats with King George.
He kept sufficiently58 close to the pack to observe the niceties of the chase and help the hounds in case of a check; but they held on, straight as a crow might fly, in the direction of Chun Castle.
There the hare stopped for the first time and looked back. His glance, which took in hounds, horsemen, and the straggling line of pedestrians59, removed all doubts that he himself was the object of pursuit, so he laid his ears back again and resumed his gallop, scared nearly as much by the glaring sunlight as by the cries of the pack.
Twice he swerved60, the first time to cross a ploughed field which he knew would hold little scent, and again to thread his way among the cattle in a field beyond. Presently he crossed the track to St Just close behind a train of mules61 bearing tin ore, set foot on Balleswidden common, and soon saw the hills of his first home right ahead of him.
Cheered by the sight he sped bravely on across the waste of furze and heather to the foothills, and bounded up the slope with a vigour62 that showed little sign of fatigue63. He was making for the form. There he believed he would be safe when shielded by a ruse64, for he meant after going nearly to the foot of Chapel Carn Brea to return on his line and leap aside into his seat.
His mind was full of his purpose as he skirted the Liddens, and a little way beyond them he stopped to satisfy himself that he had time to carry out his plan before the hounds came up. Though he listened intently, he heard nothing; his pursuers had been delayed in the ploughed field as he expected: he had ample opportunity for his manœuvre.
Yet the whole plan came to nought65. On reaching the chantry he suddenly leapt aside as if from an ambuscade, for he found himself in the presence of man. There on a rock sat an antiquary sketching66 the ruin, and so engrossed67 by his task that he never saw the hare. Even if he had he would not have raised a finger to scare it, much less betray its refuge to the hounds. But the hare’s faith in man was gone. He fled down the hill towards Brea Farm, save for the thud of the flail68 in the barn silent as in winter, and from thence to the moor, over which he rather loped than galloped69, for he was getting exhausted70.
Meanwhile Sir Tudor had reached the chantry. Despite the excitement of the chase he reined71 in his mare, and looked for the first time on Cornwall’s fairest scene.
“Fine subject for a canvas,” he said, addressing the antiquary.
“Perhaps you are right,” said the squire, riding on again after the hounds, now streaming over the boundary wall.
The mare took him over the wall with the greatest ease, and soon was cantering along the bridle-track, watched by Andrew, whom the music of the hounds had drawn73 to the barn steps.
“Have you seen her?” asked Sir Tudor, when he reached the farmyard.
“Seed what, sir?”
“The hare?”
“No, sir, theere ed’n such a crittur in the country.”
Later the fiddler came running past. “Where are they, Andrew?” he asked breathlessly.
“Gone right over the ‘curley’ moor straight for Hayl Kimbra Pool. But what’s the hurry? Stop and have a bit of croust,[10] a bit o’ heavy cake.”[11]
“Lor’ bless the boy, ’tes no time for feasting nor fiddling74. Did ’ee ever hear such pretty music as they little dogs give out?”
And without waiting for an answer the fiddler went off as if his life depended on being in at the finish.
Andrew had directed him well, for the hare had gone to the pool where he had his first swim. The hounds following, crossed it as if nothing could live before them; but on the far side of the moor, where beyond Trevescan it slopes gently to the sea, they were in difficulties. The hare had run along a stone wall, returned a score yards on his trail, leapt into the track it bordered, and gone off in the direction of his cliff retreat, now his goal.
There for the first time the squire came to their aid. He solved the mystery of the wall in vain, for the track held no scent, and he was face to face with defeat.
Hearing a shout, he looked up and saw a man on a bank waving his hat.
“Did you see her, my man?” said he, riding up to him.
“I did, sir, and flinged this pollack at her, and turned her.”
“Was she done up?”
“Not a bit, for when I heaved the fish, she took down along over they rocks there, like a ball of fire. But if you’re going down to the point, you’d better leave hoss and hounds behind. ’Tes no place for they.”
Taking the hint, Sir Tudor left his mare and the hounds in charge of the whipper-in, and casting his eyes right and left as he went in the hope of seeing the hare, made his way to the extremity75 of the headland.
“What do you call this point?”
“Why, bless thee, I thought every grown man knowed that!”
“’Tes the Land’s End.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Sir Tudor reflectively. He was moved at learning that he stood at the uttermost verge76 of the land; for a moment he forgot all about the hare, but only for a moment.
“I hope she’s not gone over,” said he, as he looked down at the seething77 waters. Then after a pause, he added with much feeling—“She was as stout78 a hare as ever stood before hounds.”
He quite believed that the jack had leaped over rather than be taken; but he was wrong. The distressed79 creature had found a sanctuary80 amongst the rocks, where the hounds would never have found him even had they been allowed to search.
There we will leave him, for though his after years were marked by hairbreadth escapes, his adventures do not exceed in interest those that have been chronicled.
One incident, however, must be mentioned.
Within four days of the chase he returned to Hannibal’s Carn, where he found a mate worthy81 of his fine qualities, and for a time his happiness was complete.
All his days he remained true to his native hill; in the end he crept beneath the ruins of the chantry, and there the toad82 guarded the portal of his death-chamber.
点击收听单词发音
1 compensate | |
vt.补偿,赔偿;酬报 vi.弥补;补偿;抵消 | |
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2 persecuted | |
(尤指宗教或政治信仰的)迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 ); 烦扰,困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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3 immunity | |
n.优惠;免除;豁免,豁免权 | |
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4 molestation | |
n.骚扰,干扰,调戏;折磨 | |
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5 par | |
n.标准,票面价值,平均数量;adj.票面的,平常的,标准的 | |
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6 waylaid | |
v.拦截,拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7 bleak | |
adj.(天气)阴冷的;凄凉的;暗淡的 | |
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8 inclement | |
adj.严酷的,严厉的,恶劣的 | |
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9 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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10 resounded | |
v.(指声音等)回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 );产生回响;(指某处)回荡着声音 | |
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11 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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12 browse | |
vi.随意翻阅,浏览;(牛、羊等)吃草 | |
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13 moor | |
n.荒野,沼泽;vt.(使)停泊;vi.停泊 | |
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14 weird | |
adj.古怪的,离奇的;怪诞的,神秘而可怕的 | |
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15 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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16 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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17 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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18 ascend | |
vi.渐渐上升,升高;vt.攀登,登上 | |
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19 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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20 badger | |
v.一再烦扰,一再要求,纠缠 | |
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21 crests | |
v.到达山顶(或浪峰)( crest的第三人称单数 );到达洪峰,达到顶点 | |
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22 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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23 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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24 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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25 pricked | |
刺,扎,戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 ); 刺伤; 刺痛; 使剧痛 | |
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26 bleat | |
v.咩咩叫,(讲)废话,哭诉;n.咩咩叫,废话,哭诉 | |
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27 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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28 forsook | |
forsake的过去式 | |
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29 maze | |
n.迷宫,八阵图,混乱,迷惑 | |
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30 lone | |
adj.孤寂的,单独的;唯一的 | |
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31 squire | |
n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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32 mare | |
n.母马,母驴 | |
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33 attired | |
adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服,使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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35 beeches | |
n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 );山毛榉木材 | |
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36 schooner | |
n.纵帆船 | |
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37 harassing | |
v.侵扰,骚扰( harass的现在分词 );不断攻击(敌人) | |
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38 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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39 reverted | |
恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 ); 重提; 回到…上; 归还 | |
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40 followers | |
追随者( follower的名词复数 ); 用户; 契据的附面; 从动件 | |
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41 farmhouse | |
n.农场住宅(尤指主要住房) | |
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42 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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43 promiscuous | |
adj.杂乱的,随便的 | |
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44 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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45 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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46 boulders | |
n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 );巨砾;(受水或天气侵蚀而成的)巨石;漂砾 | |
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47 slant | |
v.倾斜,倾向性地编写或报道;n.斜面,倾向 | |
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48 awakening | |
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
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49 tenaciously | |
坚持地 | |
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50 unravel | |
v.弄清楚(秘密);拆开,解开,松开 | |
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51 gliding | |
v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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52 ridge | |
n.山脊;鼻梁;分水岭 | |
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53 crouching | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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54 jack | |
n.插座,千斤顶,男人;v.抬起,提醒,扛举;n.(Jake)杰克 | |
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55 gallop | |
v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔;飞速发展 | |
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56 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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57 scent | |
n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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58 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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59 pedestrians | |
n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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60 swerved | |
v.(使)改变方向,改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61 mules | |
骡( mule的名词复数 ); 拖鞋; 顽固的人; 越境运毒者 | |
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62 vigour | |
(=vigor)n.智力,体力,精力 | |
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63 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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64 ruse | |
n.诡计,计策;诡计 | |
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65 nought | |
n./adj.无,零 | |
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66 sketching | |
n.草图 | |
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67 engrossed | |
adj.全神贯注的 | |
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68 flail | |
v.用连枷打;击打;n.连枷(脱粒用的工具) | |
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69 galloped | |
(使马)飞奔,奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 ); 快速做[说]某事 | |
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70 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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71 reined | |
勒缰绳使(马)停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 ); 驾驭; 严格控制; 加强管理 | |
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72 oratory | |
n.演讲术;词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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73 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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74 fiddling | |
微小的 | |
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75 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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76 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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77 seething | |
沸腾的,火热的 | |
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79 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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80 sanctuary | |
n.圣所,圣堂,寺庙;禁猎区,保护区 | |
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81 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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82 toad | |
n.蟾蜍,癞蛤蟆 | |
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