One afternoon there landed from an American liner, at a Liverpool wharf1, a tall, bony, haggard-looking man, roughly and shabbily dressed, with a long, tangled2, grey beard, and dark, wide-open, wistful eyes; he had lost his left arm. He had been a steerage passenger of the poorest class, and had been moody3 and silent on the voyage, giving no offence, but making no friends or acquaintances, and saying nothing of whence he came or of whither he was bound; others talked of the little village they were going to return to, of the old parents who were longing4 to welcome them, of the graves left behind them or the health and youth lost for ever, of their cheated hopes and broken fortunes or their modest gains and longed-for rest; but he said nothing whatever; he had interested no one as he had offended no one; no one noticed or cared where he went when he landed.
He did not stop to eat or drink, but took his third-class ticket for London, and when that was paid had only two dollars remaining in his pocket as his share of the goods of this earth.
He was wedged up between rough navvies in an overfilled compartment5, and had a slow, tedious, uncomfortable journey in the parliamentary train. But he did not heed6 these minor7 troubles; his mind was engrossed8 in one overwhelming, all-engrossing thought which sat on his breast and gnawed9 at his vitals like a vampire10.
“I guess I’ll find him soon, even in that great city, if he’s as big a man as they say,” he muttered to himself as he got out of the train and passed into the mirk and noise and hurry of the London streets.
He looked at his little bit of money, hesitated, walked through several streets, then entered a modest eating-house, which proclaimed its calling by eggs and cheese and rounds of beef ticketed with their prices in the window.
He ordered a cup of coffee and a fried rasher of bacon,[369] and when he had drunken and eaten these paid his small reckoning and said to the person who had served him:
“Can you tell me where a rich man called William Massarene, who came over from the States some years ago, lives in this city of yours?”
“No, I can’t,” said the woman. “There’s no rich folks in these here parts. But next door at the wine shop they’ve got a ‘Directory’; I’ll go and get it for you.”
In a few minutes she returned with the huge red volume under her arm and laid it open on the table.
“What trade’s your Ameriky man?” she asked.
Airley smiled grimly.
“A gentleman. Money makes gentlefolks.”
“Here you are, then,” she said, turning over the leaves to the West-end division of the book. “You can look out the name yourself.”
“No, I can’t,” he answered. “I can’t read.”
“Lord, man, you are behind the time o’ day!” said the woman. “Well, tell me the name agen and I’ll look it out for you.”
He repeated it slowly three times over:
“Massarene—Massarene—William Massarene.”
She whirled the leaves about for a few minutes, and then she said triumphantly11:
“Here you are!
“William Massarene, M. P.; Harrenden House, Gloucester Gate; Carlton Club; Vale Royal, South Woldshire Cottesdale Grange, Salop; Blair Airon, Caithness, N. B.
“Which of all them places is in this city?” asked the man.
“Why, Carlton Club and Gloucester Gate, of course, you gaby!”
She told him how to get to it. He bade her good-day, murmured a hoarse14 and tardy15 “thank ye,” and went out of her doorway16.
She was tempted19 for the moment to go and tell the policeman at the corner to keep an eye on this stranger, but there were no serious grounds for doing so, and the police were not beloved by those who work for their living in great cities.
So Robert Airley went on his way unnoticed, one of the many ill-fed, ill-clad, gaunt, and weary-looking men who may be counted by tens of thousands in the London streets, and who sometimes are ill-bred and disrespectful enough to die on their pavements. He was not an anarchist, but had been always a strictly20 law-abiding and long-suffering man, and was by nature very patient and tender-hearted. But a direful purpose had entered into him now, and worked havoc21 in his gentle breast, and changed his very nature. He walked on through the maze22 of many streets which divided the humble23 eating-house from the precincts of Hyde Park. It was four in the afternoon, and the traffic was great and the carriages were countless24. But he scarcely noticed them except to get out of their way, and he went on steadily25 down Piccadilly with its close-packed throngs26, and onward27 past Apsley House and the French Embassy, until he approached what a cabman standing28 on the curbstone told him were Gloucester Gate and Harrenden House. When he saw its magnificent frontage, its gilded29 gates, its stately portals, he looked up at them all, and a bitter fleeting30 smile crossed his face for an instant.
He rang in his ignorance at the grand gateway’s bell. A magnificent functionary32 bade him begone without even deigning33 to ask why he had come. He realized that those gilded gates did not open to the like of him. He did not insist or entreat34; he shrank away like a starved dog which is refused admittance and dreads35 a kick, and went into the opposite Park and mingled36 with the pedestrians37, feeling giddy for a moment as the great stream of horses and[371] carriages and persons swept past him in the pale London sunset light.
He was a poor, unnoticeable, humble figure, with his battered38 hat pulled down to shade his eyes and his red bundle under his one arm. Every now and then he put his hand in his breast-pocket to make sure that something which he carried there was safe.
He went onward till he found a secluded39 part of the Park where he could smoke his pipe in peace, and as he smoked could meditate40 how best to do that which he had come across the Atlantic to accomplish: wild justice, of which the fascination41 held him fast in its hypnotism.
He took his pipe out of his pocket and lighted it, where he sat on a bench under a tree. His tobacco was strong and vulgar in its smell. A young lady, probably a governess, who sat on the same bench with two well-dressed small children, put her handkerchief to her nostrils42 and looked appealingly at a constable43 who stood near. The policeman touched him on the shoulder.
“We can’t have that stench ’ere, my good man. Leddies don’t like it!”
“Aren’t this a public park?” said Airley.
Airley put out his pipe. His mind was filled with one memory, one intention, one desire; these left no room in it for resentment45 at petty annoyances46. He got up and moved away amongst the well-dressed sauntering people. “Thanks,” said the pretty governess who sat beside the children, with a smile to the constable.
Robert Airley walked along slowly with his felt hat drawn47 down over his eyes. The policeman looked after him suspiciously.
“One of the unemployed48?” said the governess, with another smile.
“Calls himself so, mum, I dessay,” replied the policeman with impatient contempt. “Them wagabonds ought to be took up like dawgs,” he added; he had just beaten a little terrier to death with his truncheon.
Robert Airley’s mind was filled with one memory—that of the day on which he had first showed William[372] Massarene the shining bits of “sparkles” at the roots of the long grass. “It’s silver, ain’t it?” he had said to the keeper of that house of entertainment where Margaret Massarene fried sausages for the rough men who drank her husband’s strong waters and hot brews49.
William Massarene had looked at the shining particles on the grass-roots and had known immediately what it was. “’Tis a rubbishy slate51 there is in these parts,” he said, with great presence of mind. “Where that slate’s found ground’s always poor and no good for man or beasts.”
Robert Airley had believed him; he was a young man of good faith and weak brain.
In the winter which followed on that conversation all things went ill with him: his cow died, his two pigs strayed into the scrub and were never recovered, his young wife was pregnant and ill; the violent blasts of those parts unroofed his shingle52 house and terrified her almost out of her wits. He took her down into the township of Kerosene53 and timidly asked Massarene to lend him a little money on his ground.
“I won’t lend on it,” said Massarene. “I told you ’tis all shale54 and slate. I’ll buy it for thirty dollars. Not a cent more nor less. The slate’s the only good thing on it, and that must be quarried55, and you haven’t means to quarry56.”
Robert Airley knew that this was the truth as regarded his fortunes, he had not a cent in his pocket; he had nothing to get food or lodging57; his young wife in her first labor58 pains was moaning that she would never go back to that wilderness59. He was so tormented60 and worried and out of heart that he closed with Massarene’s offer and sold his claim to the bit of land out and out, and settled in the township as a mechanic, which he had been at home.
Three years later he heard that mining had been begun on his old claim and that a fine vein61 of tin had been found.
“You cheated me,” he said to William Massarene.
“Not I,” said the fortunate speculator. “I bought your waste land on spec.; I’ve a right to what I find[373] there. And,” he added, with his blackest scowl62, stepping close to Airley’s ear, “if you dare say a word o’ that sort ever again in all your years, I’ll put two bullets in your numskull of a noddle sure as my name’s Massarene. I aren’t a good un to rouse.”
Robert Airley was not a coward, but he was miserably63 poor, and poverty is apt to be cowardice64 when it is not desperation.
He held his tongue while the ore of the Penamunic mine was being brought to the surface. He loved his young wife, who was miserable65 away from the friendly faces and merry little shops of her native town, and he adored the rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, noisy boy to whom she had given birth; life was sweet to him despite his poverty; he did not dare provoke William Massarene, who was already lord of Kerosene township and of much else besides. It was bitter to him to think that had he only possessed66 enough wit to know what that shining dust on the grass-roots had meant he would have been a rich and fortunate man. But he could not retrieve67 his foolish unhappy error; and when William Massarene made the Main Trunk Line from Kerosene by way of Issouri to Chicago, over four thousand miles of swamp and scrub, he meekly68 accepted the place of platelayer on the new railway which was offered him at the great man’s instigation.
But for his wife and his little boy at home dependent on himself for their bread, Robert Airley would have killed him then and there.
From that day he had never been able to get away from that vile70 city of Kerosene, which spread and spread in its brick and mortar71 hideousness72 between him and the country, which multiplied its churches and its counting-houses, which had its gambling73 hells next door to its Methodist chapels74, which was black and stinking75 and smoke-befouled, and filled all day and all night with the oaths of men and the cries of beasts, the throbbing76 of engines, the shrieking77 of steam, the bleating78 of sheep, the screaming of women, the lowing of tortured oxen, the[374] howling of kidnapped dogs—that thrice-accursed cancer on the once fair breast of the dear earth!
What he would have given that he had never pulled up that grass with those shining atoms in the earth at its roots, but had lived, ever so hardly, on his own ground, at Penamunic, under the rough winds and the torrid suns and the driving snows, toiling79 like the oxen, hungering like the swine, chased by forest fires, pursued by rolling floods, but free at least in the untainted air, and away from that infernal curse which men dare to call civilization.
Absorbed in his own thoughts, he walked on now along the footpath80 which runs parallel with the Ladies’ Mile; jostling the smart people he passed, who drew away from his contact as though he had been a leper. He was wondering if he could trust his nerve, and rely on his hand, to do what he had come to do.
William Massarene was at that moment in the lobby of the House of Commons conversing81 with the Conservative Whip.
He was beginning to be appreciated by the unionist, and he had always been feared. Of course they still ridiculed82 him to themselves for his accent, his ambitions, his antecedents, and his snobbism83, but they knew that he was valuable to them, and he had a hard sound grip of certain practical questions which made members, and ministers too, listen when he was on his legs. In public life of any kind he showed always a certain rude power in him which enabled him to hold his own with the men who surrounded him, whoever they might be.
He was grievous and terrible to the patricians84 of the Party, but the patricians have learned in the last twenty years that they must pocket their pride to keep their heads above water; politically and socially, Tory democracy has to lie down with strange bed-fellows.
They knew, too, very well that he would exact his full price, that they would have to give him office in some small way at some future time, that they would have to put him on the next batch85 of new baronets, and that eventually he would have to be hoisted86 into the Lords in company with the brewers and iron-masters, and wool-staplers[375] and chemists, who now adorn87 the Upper Chamber88.
They knew that if they did not please him to the fullest measure of his demands, he would rat without scruple89; and there are so many questions in this immediate50 day about which it is so easy for a man to have a sudden awakening90 of conscience if he is not obtaining all he wants in the shape he wishes. They knew that, and they hated the thought of it, but they could not afford to alienate91 and offend him. He had not only money, he had a sledge-hammer power in him, and in a marvellously short time had got his grasp on the attention of the House. He was a common man, a vulgar man, an uneducated man; but he was a man of great ability and absolute unscrupulousness such as no government or opposition92 can afford in these days to despise.
All the ambitions which he had brought with him from the Northwest were certain of fruition if he lived.
Of death he had no fear; his physician told him that his heart was sound, his lungs were sound, and that he had no tendency to gout or any other malady93.
At eight o’clock as he drove home to dinner he felt very content with himself as he rested his short squab figure and massive shoulders against the soft cushions of his brougham. The Whip had consulted him, the Premier94 had complimented him; the great person who headed a committee of which he was a member had thanked him for his industry and assistance. On the whole, he was on excellent terms with himself. He had done what he had come home to do. He had made himself a power in the land. Even with that merciless rodent95 who had eaten so far into his fortune he was even now; he was her master now. She was horribly, cruelly, unspeakably afraid of him. He kept her nose to the grindstone, in his own phraseology, mercilessly and with brutal96 relish97. He paid her off for every one of her insults, for every one of her jests, for every one of the moments in which she had called him Billy. He had no feeling for her left except delight in her humiliation98, he gloried in her shrinking hatred99 of him, in her abject100 fear. If she wanted to marry again—ah!—he chuckled101 in his grimmest mirth when he[376] thought of the pull-up he would give to this thoroughbred mare102 if she tried to cut any capers103. She should die in a garret abroad, and whistle for her fine friends and her lovers in vain!
Yes, all went well with him. Everybody was afraid of him all round. It was the triumph which he had always craved104. They might hate him as much as they liked provided only they feared him, and let him go step by step, step by step, over their silly heads up his golden ladder.
“I said I’d do it and I’ve done it,” he said to himself, with his hands clasped on his broad belly105 and his long tight lips puffed106 out with a smile of content.
The carriage stopped at that moment before the open gates; he seldom drove through the gates when alone, for he felt some unacknowledged fear of his carriage-horses when driven by such butter-fingered fools as he considered English coachmen to be, and he preferred to alight in the street. The white brilliancy of the electric lamps of the courtyard was streaming out into the dusky misty107 night.
He got out of the brougham slowly, for he was a heavy man, his figure plainly visible in the bright light from the open portals, his footman obsequiously108 aiding him, and the wide-open entrance of the great house glowing with light in front of him. A dark figure unperceived came out of the shadow and drew close to him; there was a flash, a report, and the joys and ambitions of William Massarene were ended for ever and aye.
He fell forward on the marble steps of his great mansion109, stone dead, with a bullet through his heart.
“’Tis too good for him, the brute110! Too short and too sweet!” thought Robert Airley as he turned away, unseen by anyone, and mingled with the traffic behind the dead man’s house.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
wharf
|
|
| n.码头，停泊处 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
tangled
|
|
| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
moody
|
|
| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
longing
|
|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
compartment
|
|
| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
heed
|
|
| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
minor
|
|
| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
engrossed
|
|
| adj.全神贯注的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
gnawed
|
|
| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
vampire
|
|
| n.吸血鬼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
triumphantly
|
|
| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
swell
|
|
| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
epithet
|
|
| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
hoarse
|
|
| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
tardy
|
|
| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
doorway
|
|
| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
misgiving
|
|
| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
anarchist
|
|
| n.无政府主义者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
tempted
|
|
| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
strictly
|
|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
havoc
|
|
| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
maze
|
|
| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
humble
|
|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
countless
|
|
| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
steadily
|
|
| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
throngs
|
|
| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
onward
|
|
| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
gilded
|
|
| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
fleeting
|
|
| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
blizzard
|
|
| n.暴风雪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
functionary
|
|
| n.官员；公职人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
deigning
|
|
| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
entreat
|
|
| v.恳求，恳请 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
dreads
|
|
| 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 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
mingled
|
|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
pedestrians
|
|
| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
battered
|
|
| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
secluded
|
|
| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
meditate
|
|
| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
fascination
|
|
| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
nostrils
|
|
| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
constable
|
|
| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
guardian
|
|
| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
resentment
|
|
| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
annoyances
|
|
| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
unemployed
|
|
| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
brews
|
|
| n.（尤指某地酿造的）啤酒( brew的名词复数 )；酿造物的种类；（茶）一次的冲泡量；（不同思想、环境、事件的）交融v.调制( brew的第三人称单数 )；酝酿；沏（茶）；煮（咖啡） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
immediate
|
|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
slate
|
|
| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
shingle
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
kerosene
|
|
| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
shale
|
|
| n.页岩，泥板岩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
quarried
|
|
| v.从采石场采得( quarry的过去式和过去分词 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
quarry
|
|
| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
lodging
|
|
| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
labor
|
|
| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
wilderness
|
|
| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
tormented
|
|
| 饱受折磨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
vein
|
|
| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
scowl
|
|
| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
miserably
|
|
| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
cowardice
|
|
| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
retrieve
|
|
| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
meekly
|
|
| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
cynical
|
|
| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
vile
|
|
| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
mortar
|
|
| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
hideousness
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
gambling
|
|
| n.赌博；投机 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
chapels
|
|
| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
stinking
|
|
| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
throbbing
|
|
| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
shrieking
|
|
| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
bleating
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
toiling
|
|
| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
footpath
|
|
| n.小路，人行道 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
conversing
|
|
| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
ridiculed
|
|
| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
snobbism
|
|
| 势利 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
84
patricians
|
|
| n.（古罗马的）统治阶层成员( patrician的名词复数 )；贵族，显贵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
batch
|
|
| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
hoisted
|
|
| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
adorn
|
|
| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
chamber
|
|
| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
scruple
|
|
| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
awakening
|
|
| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
alienate
|
|
| vt.使疏远，离间；转让(财产等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
opposition
|
|
| n.反对，敌对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
malady
|
|
| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
premier
|
|
| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
rodent
|
|
| n.啮齿动物；adj.啮齿目的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
brutal
|
|
| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
relish
|
|
| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
humiliation
|
|
| n.羞辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
hatred
|
|
| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
abject
|
|
| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
chuckled
|
|
| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
mare
|
|
| n.母马，母驴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
capers
|
|
| n.开玩笑( caper的名词复数 )；刺山柑v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
craved
|
|
| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
belly
|
|
| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
puffed
|
|
| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
misty
|
|
| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
obsequiously
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
mansion
|
|
| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
brute
|
|
| n.野兽，兽性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
vengeance
|
|
| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |