SILAS LINDEN, prizefighter and fake-medium, had had some great days in his life—days crowded with incidents for good or evil. There was the time when he had backed Rosalind at 100 to 1 in the Oaks and had spent twenty-four hours of brutal1 debauchery on the strength of it. There was the day also when his favourite right upper-cut had connected in most accurate and rhythmical2 fashion with the protruded3 chin of Bull Wardell of Whitechapel, whereby Silas put himself in the way of a Lonsdale Cup and a try for the championship. But never in all his varied4 career had he such a day as this supreme5 one, so it is worth our while to follow him to the end of it. Fanatical believers have urged that it is dangerous to cross the path of spiritual things when the heart is not clean. Silas Linden’s name might be added to their list of examples, but his cup of sin was full and overflowing6 before the judgment7 fell.
He emerged from the room of Algernon Mailey with every reason to know that Lord Roxton’s grip was as muscular as ever. In the excitement of the struggle he had hardly realised his injuries, but now he stood outside the door with his hand to his bruised8 throat and a hoarse9 stream of oaths pouring through it. His breast was aching also where Malone had planted his knee, and even the successful blow which had struck Mailey down had brought retribution, for{185} it had jarred that injured hand of which he had complained to his brother. Altogether, if Silas Linden was in a most cursed temper, there was a very good reason for his mood.
“I’ll get you one at a time,” he growled10, looking back with his angry pig’s eyes at the outer door of the flats. “You wait, my lads, and see!” Then with sudden purpose he swung off down the street.
It was to the Bardsley Square Police Station that he made his way, and he found the jovial11, rubicund12, black-moustached Inspector13 Murphy seated at his desk.
“Well, what do you want?” asked the Inspector in no very friendly voice.
“I hear you got that medium right and proper.”
“Yes, we did. I learn he was your brother.”
“That’s neither here nor there. I don’t hold with such things in any man. But you got your conviction. What is there for me in it?”
“Not a shilling!”
“What? Wasn’t it I that gave the information? Where would you have been if I had not given you the office?”
“If there had been a fine we might have allowed you something. We would have got something, too, Mr. Melrose sent him to gaol14. There is nothing for anybody.”
“So you say. I’m damned sure you and those two women got something out of it. Why the hell should I give away my own brother for the sake of the likes of you? You’ll find your own bird next time.”
Murphy was a choleric15 man with a sense of his own importance. He was not to be bearded thus in his own seat of office. He rose with a very red face.
“I’ll tell you what, Silas Linden, I could find my{186} own bird and never move out of this room. You had best get out of this quick, or you may chance to stay here longer than you like. We’ve had complaints of your treatment of those two children of yours, and the children’s protection folk are taking an interest. Look out that we don’t take an interest, too.”
Silas Linden flung out of the room with his temper hotter than ever, and a couple of rum-and-waters on his way home did not help to appease16 him. On the contrary, he had always been a man who grew more dangerous in his cups. There were many of his trade who refused to drink with him.
Silas lived in one of a row of small brick houses named Bolton’s Court, lying at the back of Tottenham Court Road. His was the end house of a cul-de-sac, with the side wall of a huge brewery17 beyond. These dwellings18 were very small, which was probably the reason why the inhabitants, both adults and children, spent most of their time in the street. Several of the elders were out now, and as Silas passed under the solitary19 lamp-post, they scowled20 at his thick-set figure, for though the morality of Bolton’s Court was of no high order, it was none the less graduated and Silas was at zero. A tall Jewish woman, Rebecca Levi, thin, aquiline22 and fierce-eyed, lived next to the prizefighter. She was standing23 at her door now, with a child holding her apron24.
“Mr. Linden,” she said as he passed, “them children of yours want more care than they get. Little Margaret was in here to-day. That child don’t get enough to eat.”
“You mind your own business, curse you!” growled Silas. “I’ve told you before now not to push that long, sheeny beak25 of yours into my affairs. If you was a man I’d know better how to speak to you.{187}”
“If I was a man maybe you wouldn’t dare to speak to me so. I says it’s a shame, Silas Linden, the way them children is treated. If it’s a police-court case, I’ll know what to say.”
“Oh, go to hell!” said Silas, and kicked open his own unlatched door. A big, frowsy woman with a shock of dyed hair and some remains26 of a florid beauty, now long over-ripe, looked out from the sitting-room27 door.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said she.
“Who did you think it was? The Dook of Wellington?”
“I thought it was a mad bullock maybe got strayin’ down the lane, and buttin’ down our door.”
“Funny, ain’t you?”
“Maybe I am, but I hain’t got much to be funny about. Not a shillin’ in the ’ouse, nor so much as a pint28 o’ beer, and these damned children of yours for ever upsettin’ me.”
“What have they been a-doin’ of?” asked Silas with a scowl21. When this worthy29 pair could get no change out of each other, they usually united their forces against the children. He had entered the sitting-room and flung himself down in the wooden armchair.
“They’ve been seein’ Number One again.”
“How d’ye know that?”
“I ’eard ’im say somethin’ to ’er about it. ‘Mother was there,’ ’e says. Then afterwards ’e ’ad one o’ them sleepy fits.”
“It’s in the family.”
“Yes, it is,” retorted the woman. “If you ’adn’t sleepy fits you’d get some work to do, like other men.”
“Oh, shut it, woman! What I mean is, that my brother Tom gets them fits, and this lad o’ mine is{188} said to be the livin’ image of his uncle. So he had a trance, had he? What did you do?”
The woman gave an evil grin.
“I did what you did.”
“What, the sealin’-wax again?”
“Not much of it. Just enough to wake ’im. It’s the only way to break ’im of it.”
“’Ave a care, my lass! There is talk of the p’lice, and if they see those burns, you and I may be in the dock together.”
“Silas Linden, you are a fool! Can’t a parent c’rect ’is own child?”
“Yes, but it ain’t your own child, and stepmothers has a bad name, see? There’s that Jew woman next door. She saw you when you took the clothes’ rope to little Margery last washin’-day. She spoke31 to me about it and again to-day about the food.”
“What’s the matter with the food? The greedy little bastards32! They had a ’unch of bread each when I ’ad my dinner. A bit of real starvin’ would do them no ’arm, and I would ’ave less sauce.”
“What, has Willie sauced you?”
“Yes, when ’e woke up.”
“After you’d dropped the hot sealin’-wax on him?”
“Well, I did it for ’is good, didn’t I? It was to cure ’im of a bad ’abit.”
“Wot did he say?”
“Cursed me good and proper, ’e did. All about his mother—wot ’is mother would do to me. I’m dam’ well sick of ’is mother!”
“Don’t say too much about Amy. She was a good woman.”
“So you say now, Silas Linden, but by all accounts you ’ad a queer way of showin’ it when she was alive.{189}”
“Hold your jaw33, woman! I’ve had enough to vex34 me to-day without you startin’ your tantrums. You’re jealous of the grave. That’s wot’s the matter with you.”
“No, I didn’t say that. If he insulted you, it’s up to me to deal with him. Where’s that strap36? Go, fetch him in!”
The woman came across and kissed him.
“I’ve only you, Silas.”
“Oh hell! don’t muck me about. I’m not in the mood. Go and fetch Willie in. You can bring Margery also. It takes the sauce out of her also, for I think she feels it more than he does.”
The woman left the room, but was back in a moment.
“’E’s off again!” said she. “It fair gets on my nerves to see him. Come ’ere, Silas! ’Ave a look!”
They went together into the back kitchen. A small fire was smouldering in the grate. Beside it, huddled37 up in a chair, sat a fair-haired boy of ten. His delicate face was upturned to the ceiling. His eyes were half-closed, and only the whites visible. There was a look of great peace upon his thin, spiritual features. In the corner a poor little cowed mite38 of a girl, a year or two younger, was gazing with sad, frightened eyes at her brother.
“Looks awful, don’t ’e?” said the woman. “Don’t seem to belong to this world. I wish to God ’e’d make a move for the other. ’E don’t do much good ’ere.”
“Here, wake up!” cried Silas. “None of your foxin’! Wake up! D’ye hear?” He shook him roughly by the shoulder, but the boy still slumbered{190} on. The backs of his hands, which lay upon his lap, were covered with bright scarlet39 blotches40.
“My word, you’ve dropped enough hot wax on him. D’you mean to tell me, Sarah, it took all that to wake him?”
“Maybe I dropped one or two extra for luck. ’E does aggravate41 me so that I can ’ardly ’old myself. But you wouldn’t believe ’ow little ’e can feel when ’e’s like that. You can ’owl in ’is ear. It’s all lost on ’im. See ’ere!”
She caught the lad by the hair and shook him violently. He groaned42 and shivered. Then he sank back into his serene43 trance.
“Say!” cried Silas, stroking his stubbled chin as he looked thoughtfully at his son, “I think there is money in this if it is handled to rights. Wot about a turn on the halls, eh? ’The Boy Wonder or How is it Done?’ There’s a name for the bills. Then folk know his uncle’s name, so they will be able to take him on trust.”
“I thought you was goin’ into the business yourself.”
“Been caught out already?”
“I tell you not to talk about it, woman!” the man shouted. “I’m just in the mood to give you the hidin’ of your life, so don’t you get my goat, or you’ll be sorry.” He stepped across and pinched the boy’s arm with all his force. “By Cripes, he’s a wonder! Let us see how far it will go.”
He turned to the sinking fire and with the tongs45 he picked out a half-red ember. This he placed on the boy’s head. There was a smell of burning hair, then{191} of roasting flesh, and suddenly, with a scream of pain, the boy came back to his senses.
“Mother! Mother!” he cried. The girl in the corner took up the cry. They were like two lambs bleating46 together.
“Damn your mother!” cried the woman, shaking Margery by the collar of her frail47 black dress. “Stop squallin’, you little stinker!” She struck the child with her open hand across the face. Little Willie ran at her and kicked her shins until a blow from Silas knocked him into the corner. The brute48 picked up a stick and lashed49 the two cowering50 children, while they screamed for mercy, and tried to cover their little bodies from the cruel blows.
“You stop that!” cried a voice in the passage.
“It’s that blasted Jewess!” said the woman. She went to the kitchen door. “What the ’ell are you doing in our ’ouse? ’Op it, quick, or it will be the worse for you!”
“If I hear them children cry out once more, I’m off for the police.”
“Get out of it! ’Op it, I tell you!” The frowsy stepmother bore down in full sail, but the lean, lank51 Jewess stood her ground. Next instant they met. Mrs. Silas Linden screamed, and staggered back with blood running down her face where four nails had left as many red furrows52. Silas, with an oath, pushed his wife out of the way, seized the intruder round the waist, and slung53 her bodily through the door. She lay in the roadway with her long gaunt limbs sprawling54 about like some half-slain fowl55. Without rising, she shook her clenched56 hands in the air and screamed curses at Silas, who slammed the door and left her, while neighbours ran from all sides to hear particulars of the fray57. Mrs. Linden, staring through the front{192} blind, saw with some relief that her enemy was able to rise and to limp back to her own door, whence she could be heard delivering a long shrill58 harangue59 as to her wrongs. The wrongs of a Jew are not lightly forgotten, for the race can both love and hate.
“She’s all right, Silas. I thought maybe you ’ad killed ’er.”
“It’s what she wants, the damned canting sheeny. It’s bad enough to have her in the street without her daring to set foot inside my door. I’ll cut the hide off that young Willie. He’s the cause of it all. Where is he?”
“They ran up to their room. I heard them lock the door.”
“A lot of good that will do them.”
“I wouldn’t touch ’em now, Silas. The neighbours is all up and about and we needn’t ask for trouble.”
“Where are you goin’?”
“Down to the Admiral Vernon. There’s a chance of a job as sparrin’ partner to Long Davis. He goes into training on Monday and needs a man of my weight.”
“Well, I’ll expect you when I see you. I get too much of that pub of yours. I know what the Admiral Vernon means.”
“It means the only place in God’s earth where I get any peace or rest,” said Silas.
“A fat lot I get—or ever ’ave ’ad since I married you.”
“That’s right. Grouse61 away!” he growled. “If grousin’ made a man happy, you’d be the champion.” He picked up his hat and slouched off down the street,{193} his heavy tread resounding62 upon the great wooden flap which covered the cellars of the brewery.
Up in a dingy63 attic64 two little figures were seated on the side of a wretched straw-stuffed bed, their arms enlacing each other, their cheeks touching65, their tears mingling66. They had to cry in silence, for any sound might remind the ogre downstairs of their existence. Now and again one would break into an uncontrollable sob67, and the other would whisper, “Hush68! Hush! Oh hush!” Then suddenly they heard the slam of the outer door and that heavy tread booming over the wooden flap. They squeezed each other in their joy. Perhaps when he came back he might kill them, but for a few short hours at least they were safe from him. As to the woman, she was spiteful and vicious, but she did not seem so deadly as the man. In a dim way they felt that he had hunted their mother into her grave and might do as much for them.
The room was dark save for the light which came through the single dirty window. It cast a bar across the floor, but all round was black shadow. Suddenly the little boy stiffened69, clasped his sister with a tighter grip, and stared rigidly70 into the darkness.
“She’s coming!” he muttered. “She’s coming!”
Little Margery clung to him.
“Oh, Willie, is it mother?”
“It is a light—a beautiful yellow light. Can you not see it, Margery?”
But the little girl, like all the world, was without vision. To her all was darkness.
“Tell me, Willie,” she whispered, in a solemn voice. She was not really frightened, for many times before had the dead mother returned in the watches of the night to comfort her stricken children.{194}
“Yes, yes, she is coming now. Oh, mother! Mother!”
“What does she say, Willie?”
“Oh, she is beautiful. She is not crying. She is smiling. It is like the picture we saw of the angel. She looks so happy. Dear, dear mother! Now she is speaking. ‘It is over,’ she says. ‘It is all over.’ She says it again. Now she beckons71 with her hand. We are to follow. She has moved to the door.”
“Oh, Willie, I dare not.”
“Yes, yes, she nods her head. She bids us fear nothing. Now she has passed through the door. Come, Margery, come, or we shall lose her.”
The two little mites72 crept across the room and Willie unlocked the door. The mother stood at the head of the stair beckoning73 them onwards. Step by step they followed her down into the empty kitchen. The woman seemed to have gone out. All was still in the house. The phantom74 still beckoned75 them on.
“We are to go out.”
“Oh, Willie, we have no hats.”
“We must follow, Madge. She is smiling and waving.”
“Father will kill us for this.”
“She shakes her head. She says we are to fear nothing. Come!”
They threw open the door and were in the street. Down the deserted76 court they followed the gleaming, gracious presence, and through a tangle77 of low streets, and so out into the crowded rush of Tottenham Court Road. Once or twice amid all that blind torrent78 of humanity, some man or woman, blessed with the precious gift of discernment, would start and stare as they were aware of an angel presence and of two little white-faced children who followed behind, the{195} boy with fixed79, absorbed gaze, the girl glancing ever in terror over her shoulder. Down the long street they passed, then again amid the humbler dwellings, and so at last to a quiet drab line of brick houses. On the step of one the spirit had halted.
“We are to knock,” said Willie.
“Oh, Willie, what shall we say? We don’t know them.”
“It’s all right, Madge. She is clapping her hands and laughing.”
So it was that Mrs. Tom Linden, sitting lonely in her misery81 and brooding over her martyr82 in gaol, was summoned suddenly to the door, and found two little apologetic figures outside it. A few words, a rush of woman’s instinct, and her arms were round the children. These battered83 little skiffs, who had started their life’s voyage so sadly, had found a harbour of peace where no storm should vex them more.
There were some strange happenings in Bolton’s Court that night. Some folk thought they had no relation to each other. One or two thought they had. The British Law saw nothing and had nothing to say.
In the second last house, a keen, hawklike84 face peered from behind a window-blind into the darkened street. A shaded candle was behind that fearful face, dark as death, remorseless as the tomb. Behind Rebecca Levi stood a young man whose features showed that he sprang from the same Oriental race. For an hour—for a second hour—the woman had sat without a word, watching, watching.... At the entrance to the court there was a hanging lamp which cast a circle of yellow light. It was on this pool of radiance that her brooding eyes were fixed.{196}
Then suddenly she saw what she had waited for. She started and hissed85 out a word. The young man rushed from the room and into the street. He vanished through a side door into the brewery.
Drunken Silas Linden was coming home. He was in a gloomy, sulken state of befuddlement86. A sense of injury filled his mind. He had not gained the billet he sought. His injured hand had been against him. He had hung about the bar waiting for drinks and had got some, but not enough. Now he was in a dangerous mood. Woe87 to the man, woman or child who crossed his path! He thought savagely88 of the Jewess who lived in that darkened house. He thought savagely of all his neighbours. They would stand between him and his children, would they? He would show them. The very next morning he would take them both out into the street and strap them within an inch of their lives. That would show them all what Silas Linden thought of their opinion. Why should he not do it now? If he were to waken the neighbours up with the shrieks89 of his children, it would show them once for all that they could not defy him with impunity90. The idea pleased him. He stepped more briskly out. He was almost at his door when....
It was never quite clear how it was that the cellar-flap was not securely fastened that night. The jury were inclined to blame the brewery, but the coroner pointed91 out that Linden was a heavy man, that he might have fallen on it if he were drunk, and that all reasonable care had been taken. It was an eighteen-foot fall upon jagged stones, and his back was broken. They did not find him till next morning, for, curiously92 enough, his neighbour, the Jewess, never heard the sound of the accident. The doctor seemed to think that death had not come quickly. There were hor{197}rible signs that he had lingered. Down in the darkness, vomiting93 blood and beer, the man ended his filthy94 life with a filthy death.
One need not waste words or pity over the woman whom he had left. Relieved from her terrible mate, she returned to that music-hall stage from which he, by force of his virility95 and bull-like strength, had lured96 her. She tried to regain97 her place with:
“Hi! Hi! Hi! I’m the dernier cri,
The girl with the cart-wheel hat,”
which was the ditty which had won her her name. But it became too painfully evident that she was anything but the dernier cri, and that she could never get back. Slowly she sank from big halls to small halls, from small halls to pubs, and so ever deeper and deeper, sucked into the awful, silent quicksands of life which drew her down and down until that vacuous98 painted face and frowsy head were seen no more.
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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rhythmical
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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rubicund
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| adj.(脸色)红润的 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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choleric
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| adj.易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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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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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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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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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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bastards
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| 私生子( bastard的名词复数 )； 坏蛋； 讨厌的事物； 麻烦事 （认为别人走运或不幸时说）家伙 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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blotches
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| n.（皮肤上的）红斑，疹块( blotch的名词复数 )；大滴 [大片]（墨水或颜色的）污渍 | |
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41
aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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45
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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46
bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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47
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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49
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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50
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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51
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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52
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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53
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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54
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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58
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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59
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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60
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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61
grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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63
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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66
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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67
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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68
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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69
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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71
beckons
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mites
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| n.（尤指令人怜悯的）小孩( mite的名词复数 )；一点点；一文钱；螨 | |
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73
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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75
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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79
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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80
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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81
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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82
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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83
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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84
hawklike
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85
hissed
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| 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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86
befuddlement
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| 迷惘，昏迷，失常 | |
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87
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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89
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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90
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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92
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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93
vomiting
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| 吐 | |
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94
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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95
virility
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| n.雄劲，丈夫气 | |
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96
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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97
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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98
vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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