Thus, at length, was Sir Robert the younger informed of the history of his inheritance. Thus, also, was it an aggravation1 of that wounding recital2 that, to all appearance, he might have earlier induced Mr. Creel to it—at a period when he himself was less bound to the conduct of a responsibility which he now knew he had undertaken upon terms that seemed to him unnecessarily humiliating, and which he could not but think he would surely otherwise have declined. For, if any love had dictated3 the gift—the new chance to a repentant4 prodigal—it was harder than Roman in its expression.
So he thought, smarting under the lash5 of his father’s prejudgment; and it was only by and by, in one of those elastic6 rebounds7 that were characteristic of the man and constitutional, that he came to consider that it was a prejudgment, and that, had his father lived to see it verified, he might have modified at least the asperity8 of his language.
This was little comfort; but it was some.
At first he had had a wild temptation to reject, at the eleventh hour, a gift which only his ignorance had accepted. It passed, however, in the reflection that, whatever the pre-history of “Delsrop” (with which he had no concern), the property was indubitably his at the present moment to do with as he chose; that he had already incurred9, in his management of it, responsibilities that he could not with honour repudiate10; and that the manliness11 to assert himself in the world should be altogether independent of adventitious12 moral support.
Still, he was something depressed13 and unhappy; and was become, perhaps, an essentially14 graver man than he had been before his interview with the lawyer.
This interview had taken place on the day after his arrival in London. On his way to it, he had left a message at the “Golden Cross,” conveying his respects and his hopes that the travellers had rested well. But the travellers themselves he had no intention to intrude15 himself on, until convinced, if possible, that the nature of his inheritance offered no bar to his suit with Miss Royston.
Satisfied on this point, he had desired and obtained Mr. Creel’s consent to his using his new knowledge, if necessary, for the furtherance of his addresses—but to how great a degree must be left to his own discretion16.
This matter he pondered on his way home; and, pondering it, he must acknowledge to himself that his position with the lady was scarcely improved on; for, whatever its extenuation17, the fact of the case remained that he was a distitled beneficiary, whose tenure18 of his property must be held to rather justify19 the contempt that secured it to him.
So circumstanced, it was a relief to him, upon calling at the “Golden Cross,” in the dusk of the afternoon, to find that his fellow-travellers were gone visiting. But Sir David had left a message that they were to be at the Haymarket Theatre in the evening, to witness a performance of a new musical piece—in which the celebrated20 Mr. Fawcett was to appear in a popular part; together with the beautiful Miss De Camp, and Mrs. Mountain of Vauxhall Gardens fame—and that he hoped Mr. Tuke would make it his pleasure to join their party.
Mr. Tuke would make it his pleasure—or his duty. He felt that possibly the somewhat dramatic character of the explanation he was bidden to, would find its appropriate background more in “wings” and “flats” than in the walls of a drabby inn-parlour; that hautboys and fiddles22—if he could seized an opportunity to speak out under cover of their harmonious23 gossip—might play a fitter accompaniment to the tale of his raptures24 than would the clank of dishes and bawling25 of ubiquitous waiters.
As to that risk he must run of recognition by old associates—why, he momently invited such a contretemps; and he could really not bother his head with idle speculations26 as to what he should do in so likely an eventuality. Truly, the main condition under which he held his estate made no provision for such accidents, and his sole concern was, not to escape identification, but to save himself the worry of being questioned as to the why and wherefore. Moreover, it must be confessed, he would claim a little malicious27 pleasure in denying Miss Angela that knowledge of his real position which would serve as a better argument to her favour, he shrewdly suspected, than any personal merit of his could advance; and he was resolved, if possible, to be taken—if taken he should be—for himself alone.
Therefore, with the determination to that very evening put his fortunes to the proof, he addressed himself to his careful toilet, dined daintily and deliberately29, at the “Bedford” Coffee-house in Covent Garden, off “a little lobster30, an apricot-puff or so, and some burnt champagne,” and in due time summoned a coach and was driven to the theatre.
In the vestibule he was treated to a brief scene of temper that was like a lever de rideau to usher31 in the serious business of the evening. An arrogant-looking lady of a very vain and truculent32 expression of countenance33, accompanied by a youth some eleven or twelve years of age, had entered the theatre at the same time as himself. This boy, a plump-faced, kimbo-eyed youngster, with well-oiled chestnut34 curls and a pugnacious35 mouth, limped slightly as he walked a little in advance of his companion.
The boy took no notice; but he flushed up, for there was other company present. Thereupon the lady called louder, as if to advertise her authority over him:
Now the boy turned round, with a scarlet37 face; and cried he—and we must not hold him excused: “D—n Mr. Lavender for a hav’rel quack38!”
At that the lady came after him in a fury; and immediately he flung up his hand, with a lorgnette in it, and says he: “If ye touch me, I’ll hwhang this on to the floor!”
He got no profit of his question, however; for, while the boy only stared at him with an angry scowl40, the dame41 spoke42 up with a fine contempt of his interference.
“We’re beholden to ye, sir,” said she. “But the Lord Byron will have his schooling43 in manners from better than a pouther’d fribble”—and, catching44 at the boy’s arm, the two passed on together, making common cause against the enemy.
There were many empty boxes round the middle tier, and some with liveried fellows sitting back in them to keep the seats against their masters’ coming. Once and again a man of them, his attention caught by some new arrival, would incautiously project his head, with the result that a storm of nuts and orange-peel, flying from the gallery, would send it jerking in again, to the huge merriment of the house. Amongst these “retainers” was one who wore the Dunlone livery of blue and silver. Mr. Tuke recognized it from where he stood, and a sudden thought, half-comical, twitched46 at his risibilities.
The fiddles had squeaked48 and the curtain gone up while he waited; and at this moment he saw the very party he was in search of enter my lord’s box in company with that gentleman.
Miss Royston came to the front, sparkling and radiant as a post-prandial Hebe. She glanced round the house (it was a tribute to her attractiveness that the self-important boy-lord who sat opposite forgot the play a minute while he plied49 her with his lorgnette); caught sight of Mr. Tuke, and, treating that gentleman to a little cold bow, turned and addressed her witchery to the nobleman behind her, who was taking his seat with an insolence50 of clatter51 and chatter52 that greatly disturbed the audience.
Not in the least desiring, under the circumstances, to obtrude53 himself on her further notice—and that for many reasons—Tuke retired54 into the background and gave his most suave55 attention to the play. Of this he was afterwards conscious of having a very hazy56 recollection; and only its title, “What a Blunder!” seemed to stick in his memory from a certain impression it had conveyed of appropriateness with his own condition of mind. The scene had lain in Valencia—he remembered that, as also the presence thereon of a dashing English officer, whose complete mufti of white satin tights, trunk hose slashed57 with purple, spencer of violet velvet58, diamond shoe-buckles, and a grey brigand’s hat with three enormous ostrich59 plumes60 in it, had presented such a coup61 de théâtre as ought to have fully62 compensated63 him for the wasteful64 hour, he might have been otherwise inclined to think, he had spent in the house.
Somewhat in a dream, he heard the glorious Miss De Camp expound65 her melodious66 grievances67 to a baneful68 chorus of banditti, and withdraw into a cavern69, the hostage of their most basso-profundo cupidity70. He was, indeed, forming his plans the while; and when the curtain fell on the first act, he made his way determinedly71 to a certain box—the prominent occupants of which had had, for the last half-hour, his particular attention—fully resolved to end one way or the other his period of suspense72.
He tapped on the baize door, and was bidden gruffly by the nobleman to enter—which he did. My lord and Sir David were risen at the moment—the former to fetch a bag of oranges out of his laced surtout—and the baronet came at his friend with a genial73 greeting and his finest London manner.
“Where have you been?” quoth he. “My Lord Dunlone would insist to honour us with his invitation, or I would have acquainted you of our number, Tuke.”
“Tuke!” exclaimed the viscount. He stood staring, with his hand in the pocket.
“At your service, sir,” said the other gravely.
Miss Angela was turned, her face observant and a little flushed.
“My name,” said Mr. Tuke quickly, seeing the cub’s perplexity, “can be a matter of little importance in your lordship’s recollection. But we have been known to one another in the past, as you will doubtless remember.”
“Oh! very well, sir. ’Tis no concern of mine, as you observe,” said the lord; “and it is not every title that is worth the preserving. We came to a settlement at our last meeting, I believe, and I owe you small thanks for the terms of it; but I’m cursed if I knew the sale of your good name was included in the bargain.”
“Nor was it,” said Mr. Tuke.
He took no offence at the other’s insolence; but was quite urbane74 and good-humoured in the teeth of it. He even gave the nobleman an ironical75 bow, as, withdrawing his hand empty from the pocket, that fine creature seized Sir David’s arm, and walked the astounded76 little man out of the box.
No sooner were they vanished, than the intruder addressed himself to Miss Royston with the most perfect calmness and respect.
“I return,” said he, “to ‘Delsrop’ to-morrow.”
“It is concluded.”
“To your satisfaction, I trust?”
“Assuredly. I am satisfied I came on a fool’s errand.”
“Indeed?”
She trifled with her fan. Suddenly she leaned back in the shadow of the curtains and looked up at him.
“Mr. Tuke,” she said—“were you ever my lord’s tailor?”
He could only stare his astonishment80.
“Or his tool or his creature in any way?” she said, gathering81 vehemence82 with speech. “Oh, sir! why should you wonder? And whither were his innuendoes83 directed, and what the reason that he disavowed your claim of friendship?”
“Surely he did not!”
“Not—not? And you pass under an assumed name. Will you deny it?”
“No, madam.”
She gave a great sigh, and turned her attention to the orchestra, that was beginning to tune28 up for the second act.
“You will have a cold journey,” she said. “Good-bye!”
He echoed her adieu with a composed gallantry, and stepped from the box, a man of ice. Humming (horribly out of tune, it must be said) a fragment of some late-heard melody, he lounged through his tier of the auditorium84, and even paused, before leaving the house, at a point whence he could obtain a comprehensive view of the assembly. Here, glancing down into the pit, his gaze was instantly riveted85 upon the figure of a man that sat, lolling in an ungainly manner, against the wooden partition that enclosed the orchestra.
“Now, by Heaven,” muttered the observer, “if you are not my old friend of the fishing-rod, there is no virtue86 in the name of Brander!”
As he thus spoke under his breath, the man below, moved by that telepathic force that is called sympathy, looked up, and catching the other’s eye, started violently, and immediately shifted his position so as to present nothing but a back of rusty87 broadcloth to the inquisition of the boxes.
“And so my suspicion is confirmed,” thought Tuke; and made his way to the vestibule.
Walking on the stilts88, so as to speak, of a sort of incensed89 exaltation, he issued from the theatre to find a wet sleet90 falling. The loaded flakes91 hissed92 in the torches of the link boys; the whole pavement resounded93 with the clink of pattens.
“And here is the appropriate wet blanket,” muttered our friend, “to the bed of my own making. I will e’en back to broiled94 bones and a noggin of punch by the fire.”
点击收听单词发音
1 aggravation | |
n.烦恼,恼火 | |
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2 recital | |
n.朗诵,独奏会,独唱会 | |
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3 dictated | |
v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 );口授;支配;摆布 | |
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4 repentant | |
adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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5 lash | |
v.系牢;鞭打;猛烈抨击;n.鞭打;眼睫毛 | |
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6 elastic | |
n.橡皮圈,松紧带;adj.有弹性的;灵活的 | |
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7 rebounds | |
反弹球( rebound的名词复数 ); 回弹球; 抢断篮板球; 复兴 | |
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8 asperity | |
n.粗鲁,艰苦 | |
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9 incurred | |
[医]招致的,遭受的; incur的过去式 | |
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10 repudiate | |
v.拒绝,拒付,拒绝履行 | |
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11 manliness | |
刚毅 | |
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12 adventitious | |
adj.偶然的 | |
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13 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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14 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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15 intrude | |
vi.闯入;侵入;打扰,侵扰 | |
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16 discretion | |
n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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17 extenuation | |
n.减轻罪孽的借口;酌情减轻;细 | |
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18 tenure | |
n.终身职位;任期;(土地)保有权,保有期 | |
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19 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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20 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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21 brat | |
n.孩子;顽童 | |
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22 fiddles | |
n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 );欺诈;(需要运用手指功夫的)细巧活动;当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 );篡改;骗取;修理或稍作改动 | |
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23 harmonious | |
adj.和睦的,调和的,和谐的,协调的 | |
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24 raptures | |
极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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25 bawling | |
v.大叫,大喊( bawl的现在分词 );放声大哭;大声叫出;叫卖(货物) | |
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26 speculations | |
n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 );思考;投机活动;推断 | |
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27 malicious | |
adj.有恶意的,心怀恶意的 | |
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28 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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29 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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30 lobster | |
n.龙虾,龙虾肉 | |
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31 usher | |
n.带位员,招待员;vt.引导,护送;vi.做招待,担任引座员 | |
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32 truculent | |
adj.野蛮的,粗野的 | |
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33 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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34 chestnut | |
n.栗树,栗子 | |
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35 pugnacious | |
adj.好斗的 | |
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36 peevishly | |
adv.暴躁地 | |
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37 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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38 quack | |
n.庸医;江湖医生;冒充内行的人;骗子 | |
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39 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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40 scowl | |
vi.(at)生气地皱眉,沉下脸,怒视;n.怒容 | |
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41 dame | |
n.女士 | |
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42 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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43 schooling | |
n.教育;正规学校教育 | |
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44 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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45 shrugged | |
vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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46 twitched | |
vt.& vi.(使)抽动,(使)颤动(twitch的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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47 mused | |
v.沉思,冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 );沉思自语说(某事) | |
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48 squeaked | |
v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 );吱吱叫;告密;充当告密者 | |
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49 plied | |
v.使用(工具)( ply的过去式和过去分词 );经常供应(食物、饮料);固定往来;经营生意 | |
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50 insolence | |
n.傲慢;无礼;厚颜;傲慢的态度 | |
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51 clatter | |
v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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52 chatter | |
vi./n.喋喋不休;短促尖叫;(牙齿)打战 | |
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53 obtrude | |
v.闯入;侵入;打扰 | |
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54 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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55 suave | |
adj.温和的;柔和的;文雅的 | |
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56 hazy | |
adj.有薄雾的,朦胧的;不肯定的,模糊的 | |
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57 slashed | |
v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 );鞭打;割破;削减 | |
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58 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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59 ostrich | |
n.鸵鸟 | |
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60 plumes | |
羽毛( plume的名词复数 ); 羽毛饰; 羽毛状物; 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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61 coup | |
n.政变;突然而成功的行动 | |
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62 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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63 compensated | |
补偿,报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 ); 给(某人)赔偿(或赔款) | |
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64 wasteful | |
adj.(造成)浪费的,挥霍的 | |
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65 expound | |
v.详述;解释;阐述 | |
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66 melodious | |
adj.旋律美妙的,调子优美的,音乐性的 | |
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67 grievances | |
n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 );苦衷;不满;牢骚 | |
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68 baneful | |
adj.有害的 | |
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69 cavern | |
n.洞穴,大山洞 | |
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70 cupidity | |
n.贪心,贪财 | |
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71 determinedly | |
adv.决意地;坚决地,坚定地 | |
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72 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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73 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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74 urbane | |
adj.温文尔雅的,懂礼的 | |
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75 ironical | |
adj.讽刺的,冷嘲的 | |
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76 astounded | |
v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词);愕然;愕;惊讶 | |
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77 vouchsafed | |
v.给予,赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 );允诺 | |
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78 eyebrow | |
n.眉毛,眉 | |
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79 postponed | |
vt.& vi.延期,缓办,(使)延迟vt.把…放在次要地位;[语]把…放在后面(或句尾)vi.(疟疾等)延缓发作(或复发) | |
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80 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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81 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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82 vehemence | |
n.热切;激烈;愤怒 | |
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83 innuendoes | |
n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 );讽刺的话;含沙射影;暗讽 | |
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84 auditorium | |
n.观众席,听众席;会堂,礼堂 | |
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85 riveted | |
铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 ); 把…固定住; 吸引; 引起某人的注意 | |
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86 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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87 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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88 stilts | |
n.(支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的)桩子,支柱( stilt的名词复数 );高跷 | |
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89 incensed | |
盛怒的 | |
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90 sleet | |
n.雨雪;v.下雨雪,下冰雹 | |
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91 flakes | |
小薄片( flake的名词复数 ); (尤指)碎片; 雪花; 古怪的人 | |
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92 hissed | |
发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 ); 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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93 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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94 broiled | |
a.烤过的 | |
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