The Lone1 Wolf had lost his “medicine,” and that was a most serious disaster. To lose one’s “medicine” among the Indians is equivalent to losing one’s money among the Whites, and means just as bad a mess in one’s social and business affairs. One’s smell-feast friends of the day before go by one with averted2 or unseeing eye, while everything and everybody give evidence that one is beneath the notice of a self-respecting world.
Thus it was with the Lone Wolf when now his “medicine” had left him. Bear Shield, his chief, looked over him or through him without sign or word that might be construed3 into an admission of his existence. Fellow Cheyennes who had sat with him in the council or rode knee to knee with him in the charge no longer knew him by mark of face or sound of name. His squaws moped over the camp-fire with bowed heads; his pappooses whimpered with the shame of what they felt but did not understand; his dogs, cowed and dispirited, crept about with craven tails clewed close between their legs; even his ponies5 made a disgraced band by themselves, cropping dejected grass apart, as though unfit to mingle7 with the reputable mustangs of mankind.
This situation was all the more a jolt8 to the sensibilities of the Lone Wolf, since he had been a personage of eminence9 and place. His voice had been high in tribal10 powwow, his strong hand resistless in war. He was rich in robes and ponies, in pappooses and dogs and wives. The records of the “medicine” lodge11 showed him entitled to sing of the conquest of four scalps—one Pawnee, two Sioux, and one the former headwear of a drunken teamster of Sun City—which four topknots were drying on his tepee pole. By these one may know how to measure the heights from which the melancholy12 Lone Wolf had been hurled13.
The Lone Wolf had lost his “medicine” without fault, that is fault from the standpoint of a paleface. He came down to the ford14 at the Beaver15, when storms to the west had rendered it boiling and bank full. By reason of the boil and swirl16, and the shifting quicksands under hoof17, his pony18 lost its foothold and went down. In the splash and water-scramble that ensued, the Lone Wolf and his half-choked pony reached the shore; but his “medicine,” torn from his neck in the struggle, was swept away. There was no argument for a search. In the turbid19 toss of that ten-mile current the “medicine” was as hopelessly lost as though it had exhaled20.
And yet, while the Lone Wolf could relate this blameless story of his vanished “medicine,” it availed him naught22. There is no such word as accident where one’s “medicine” is concerned. One’s separation from it, no matter by what means brought about, is neither to be honourably23 accounted for nor condoned24. One has lost one’s “medicine”; and one is thereby25 and therefore destroyed. It would be a stain, as even the half-opened paleface eye may see, were it taken from one by the conquering arm of a foe26. It is as deep a stain to part with it, as the Lone Wolf parted with his. Such manner of loss makes plain that, because of crimes or cowardices unknown, the justice-loving ghosts have interfered27 to strip a villain28 of this basic requisite29 of a warrior30 and an honest man. Only in this way can the ghosts of good Cheyennes gone before, having the honour of their tribe in dearest mind, furnish word to their children of him in their midst, so flagrantly vile31 that a least association with him provides disgrace, while bordering narrowly on actual sin itself.
In a far day a leper cloaked his head and hung a tinkling33 bell at his girdle, so that hale men might have warning of his evil case and hold aloof34. For kindred reasons the Lone Wolf, when now his “medicine” was lost, killed his pony, broke his pipe-stem, and blackened his face. In this sorrowful guise35 he went afoot the long journey to his home village on the Cimarron, and all who met him by the way knew him at sight and turned their backs upon him, for that thing below a caste, a man who has lost his “medicine.”
The Lone Wolf’s “medicine” had been an exceeding strong “medicine,” and this served to give his loss an emphasis. He had worn it through a dozen battles, and it so cunningly protected him that, while others fell about him knocked over like ninepins, nothing save and except one bullet from a Gatling was able to leave its mark upon him. The Gatling had nicked him; and the furrow36 it turned was visible on the cheek of Lone Wolf. This untoward37 scratch was solvable only upon a theory that the “medicine” of what paleface fired the shot must likewise have possessed38 uncommon39 potentialities.
When boyhood ceased for the Lone Wolf and he trembled on the threshold of existence as a full-blown buck40, in deference41 to Cheyenne custom he had wandered abroad and alone upon the blizzard-whipped plains, and frozen and starved and prayed and mourned for seven nights and days. In the end, cold and hunger and self-hypnotism did their work, and the Lone Wolf began to see shapes and hear voices. These told him how to compound his “medicine,” so that thereafter he should be wise as the owl32 in peace, fierce as the eagle in strife42.
The “medicine” bag was to be sewed from the skin of an otter44, dressed with claws and tail and head and teeth as though filled with grinning life. Inside the otter-pelt “medicine” bag were to be hidden charmed tobacco, slips of sacred cedar45, a handful of periwinkle shells, as well as twenty other occult odds46 and ends, the recondite47 whole, together with the otter-skin pouch48, to be and remain his “medicine” forevermore.
The Lone Wolf followed, religiously, the ghostly directions. He caught and skinned and tanned and sewed his otter, and then invested the precious bag with those chronicled weird49 fragments of matter. To these latter, as all must admit, the lip of bat, and toe of toad50, and eye of newt—so valuable in witchcraft—or the negro necromancer’s dried snake’s head, and left hind51 foot of a graveyard52 rabbit killed in the dark of the moon, are as children’s toys; and so thought the Lone Wolf. When complete, he hung his “medicine” about his neck, and felt himself a proud, big warrior and a man. He had never been parted from it, were it day or night, or war or peace. He had even worn it during his school days at Carlisle, saving it from curious professors, who might have decried53 it as some heathen fetish, by wearing it under his calico shirt. Now it was gone, eaten up by the hungry Beaver, and the name of the Lone Wolf had been dropped from all the aboriginal54 roll calls of good repute. Not alone among the Cheyennes, but in the estimation of every Indian that yelped55 between the Yellowstone and the Rio Grande, the unlucky Lone Wolf, with a lost “medicine” bag to his discredit56, was utterly57 abandoned and undone58.
And the worst feature of the case was that the Lone Wolf could not make a new “medicine.” Since the Great Spirit invented the institution of “medicine” and placed it upon earth, all men have known that one may create his “medicine” but once. Any second attempt serves only to introduce one to a covey of malevolent59 spirits, whose power will be exercised to wet one’s bowstring, blunt one’s arrow, lame21 one’s pony, and break one’s lance. No, the Lone Wolf could not make another “medicine.”
Was there no hope for the Lone Wolf?
About an even century before the Lone Wolf slumped60 into that quicksand crossing of the Beaver, and was robbed by the waters of his otter-skin “medicine,” Mr. Goldsmith wrote a three act oratorio61, called it “The Captivity” and sold it to Dodsley for ten guineas. Among other tuneful commodities in said oratorio contained, Mr. Goldsmith penned the following:
Still, still on hope relies;
Bids expectation rise.
Hope, like the gleaming taper’s light,
And still as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.
Since he knew neither the one nor the other, it is fair to assume that when Mr. Goldsmith wrote the above he was thinking as deeply on the Lone Wolf as on you. Certainly the habit of hope therein set forth68 is as prevalently sweeping69 among savages71 as among civilised folk. The Indian does not hope for the same things, but to what extent and in what direction his anticipations72 stray he hopes as industriously73 as ever hoped any white man of you all. And so it was with the unhappy Lone Wolf. In this, his darkest hour, there remained the glimmer74 of a hope.
When the Great Spirit fixed75 his commands against making a second “medicine,” a fiat76 necessary lest a “medicine” easily replaced degenerate77 to be a trivial gewgaw creature of small moment, he left open, should one lose one’s “medicine,” a single gateway78 of relief. One might conquer, in such pinch, an enemy, strip him of his personal “medicine,” and thus redeem79 one’s self. The “medicine” of that dead foe would take the place of the lost “medicine,” and by its virtues80 rehabilitate81 the victor and restore him unto what tribal place was his before his own original “medicine” had disappeared.
In this black hour of his fortunes, the Lone Wolf upheld his heart with this. He might go north, and knock over some casual Pawnee or inadvertent Sioux. Hundreds of these at this season would be met with among the buffaloes83. True, it would be a long, hard trail; but not so long nor so hard as the life-trail of the Lone Wolf when now he was without caste or tribal countenance84.
Stripping himself of feathers and hawk-bells and bearclaw necklace and every form of ornament85, wrapped in his raggedest blanket, with a daub of mud in his hair as one who mourns, without word or sign to any concerning his purpose, the Lone Wolf turned his back on the Cimarron and wended northward87. His face paints were black, for his heart was sad. The only matters about him that did not tell of woe88 and bankruptcy89, and warn one of an Indian without fortune or future, were his pony and his arms. These showed of the best, and this weapon-care was not without a reason. More than ever would the Lone Wolf require a pony tireless as the storm and as swift, and lance and bow and knife without flaw or fault; for now when he had lost his “medicine,” he was singularly undefended and weak. No one knew better these latter helpless truths than did the Lone Wolf. It was by no means sure that a child might not overcome him—he who, but a fortnight before with his otter-skin “medicine,” had been a thunderbolt of war. Wherefore, with his heart little, his courage water, his bow an arc of weakness, his arrows no better than windle-straws, and his lance as forceless as a cornstalk—for losing one’s “medicine” means all these grievous conditions of undefence and inability to smite—it behooved90 the Lone Wolf to provide as much as he might, with prudence91 and farsighted care, in favour of a possible success.
The Lone Wolf would have no help from the good ghosts, for these had left him with the lost “medicine.” What ghosts might still be riding in his disgraceful company, were bad ghosts. So far as they did anything they would do harm, not good, and the best he might look for at their hands was a sort of ghostly non-interference.
There was a least slant92 ray to encourage the latter hope. If the Lone Wolf had the luck to cross up with a Pawnee or a Sioux as contemptible93 as himself, the ghosts would not choose between them. In such miserable94 coil of coyote-snap-coyote, the disgusted ghosts would stand afar off. They would be content with the outcome, whatever it was, and refuse to contaminate their vapourish hands by mixing in the business.
That was the one favouring chance that lay before the Lone Wolf. To have full advantage of it, he wore his best weapons and rode his best war pony. If he happened upon a Pawnee or Sioux, disreputable in the eyes of gods and men, he might yet be saved from out those fires of disgrace that were consuming him. He would kill that Pawnee or Sioux, and wash himself free of stain with his victim’s “medicine.”
On the other and more likely hand—since good is more rife43 than evil—were he to encounter an Indian, tribally95 eminent96 and high, one who stood well with his people and of whose company therefore the most exactingly97 exclusive ghost need not feel ashamed, the Lone Wolf knew the upcome. His fate was written; he was no better than a dead Cheyenne. To these poor conditions the Lone Wolf tacitly agreed. And wherefore no? What death was not preferable to a life of endless ignominy—the life of one who has lost his “medicine?” Such indeed were the thoughts to skulk99 in the mind of the Lone Wolf like quails100 in corn, as he rode forward on his quest.
The Lone Wolf could not expect to find that required Pawnee or needed Sioux short of the Platte or perhaps the Yellowstone. He resolved to go thither101 by way of Dodge102. The Lone Wolf was not wanting in a kind of sapiency. Now that his own weapons were undeniably weak—he could only know how weak when he had tried them, and the news might come too late—he decided103 to purchase a rifle of the palefaces. Such a weapon would not have been sapped of its powers by any former possession of his own, and he might possibly corral that “medicine” he sought before it had been long enough in his hands to have degenerated104. With this wisdom in mind, the Lone Wolf drove before him two pack ponies, laden105 to the ears of robes and furs. This sumpter stuff would buy that rifle, with its accompanying belts and cartridges106.
The Lone Wolf knew Mr. Masterson, and liked him. They had both fought at the ’Dobe Walls and gained a deal of respect for one another. Also they had met since at sundry107 agencies; and in good truth it was the Lone Wolf who told Mr. Masterson how many of those charging savages went under in that hot fortnight of fight.
“How many of you did we blink out?” asked Mr. Masterson, who had his statistical108 side.
The Lone Wolf’s mathematics were wholly aboriginal, for all he had been to Carlisle. He opened and closed his ten fingers eight times—eighty. Then he held up one finger.
The one finger stood for that traitorous109 black bugler111, who fought for the side of the Indians and sounded rally and charge on his stolen bugle110, the property of the state. The Indians style such “buffalo soldiers” because of their woolly heads like unto the curled frontlet of a buffalo bull.
Having decided upon that rifle and its acquirement, the Lone Wolf would go seeking his new “medicine” by way of Dodge. He would inquire out Mr. Masterson and crave4 his aid in the rifle’s selection. This was highly important. Some bad paleface might otherwise sell him a gun that was bewitched. Mr. Masterson would protect him from that fearful risk. Mr. Masterson was an honest man. No one could fight as Mr. Masterson had fought, unless his heart were very pure and strong.
The only drawback to a visit to Dodge lurked112 in this that it would compel the Lone Wolf to speak English. Surely, he had learned English at Carlisle; but knowing, as know all Indians, that to speak the white man’s language brings misfortune and sickness and death, he had had the wit to discontinue the practice. Likewise and at the same time he laid aside his paleface clothes as being extremely “bad medicine.” Of course, there was also a commonsense113 side to the latter move, since anyone who sticks to coat and trousers when, without shaking his position, he may be freely comfortable in breech-clout and blanket, is an unimaginable ass6. Yes; in Dodge the Lone Wolf would be driven to speak English. However, it would not last for long, and in the desolate114 pitch of his fortune, what mattered it what he spoke115? It would mean companionship, and therefore a kind of comfort; for your Indian is as gregarious116 as a prairie dog, and the Lone Wolf—who had not spoken to buck or squaw or pappoose since he lost his “medicine”—was beginning to feel as solitary117 and as lonesome as a good man in Chicago.
Six months before the Lone Wolf lost his “medicine” in the Beaver, there had come to the Dodge Opera House that dramatic organization known as the Red Stocking Blondes. The advent118 of this talented combination was hailed with local delight, for it had ever been a favourite in Dodge.
The first violin of the Red Stocking Blondes, on this particular occasion, was not the individual whom Mr. Wagner roped on a former memorable119 evening. This first violin was thoroughly120 the artist. What he couldn’t coax121 from a fiddle122 in the way of melody would have to be developed by an Ole Bull.
Once, Cimarron Bill, after listening to several of the first violin’s most unstudied performances, had asked:
“Can you play the Bootiful Bloo Danyoob? I hears it ’leven years ago in St. Looey, an’ have been honin’ for it ever since.”
The artist, thus appealed to, played that swelling123 piece of waltz music, and when he finished, the emotional Cimarron, eyes a-swim with tears of ecstasy124, grasped his hand.
“Pard!” exclaimed the worthy125 Cimarron, in a gush126 of hyperbole, “you could play a fiddle with your feet!” However, this is in advance of the story.
The first violin of the Red Stocking Blondes was named Algernon Pepin, albeit127 this may have been a nom de theâtre. Mr. Pepin was small, lean, shy, silent, timid, with a long, sad, defeated face. His back was humped, as were the backs of Aesop, Richard of Gloster, the poet Pope, and many another gentleman of genius. He had rakehandle arms, and skinny fingers like the claws of a great bird.
Of all who marched with the banners of the Red Stocking Blondes, Mr. Pepin, when they came into Dodge, was the only one troubled of spirit. The rest showed as gay as larks128; for the troupe129 was on the road to Broadway, and six weeks more would find its members in Rector’s, Shanley’s, Brown’s and Lüchow’s, relating their adventures to guileless ones who had never crossed the Hudson. It was that thought of Broadway to pale the sallow, anxious cheek of Mr. Pepin. And the reason of the terror which tugged130 at his soul was this:
Two years rearward Mr. Pepin, by several fortunate strokes and the aid of a legacy131, had made himself master of an opera company. It was one of those terrible opera companies that sing Wagner and are both fashionable and awful to hear.
The contralto of the opera company was a large, powerful woman whose name ended in “ski.” Her upper lip was distinctly mustached, and her voice sounded like a man in a cistern132. There are, in divers133 parts of Europe, just such beings as this contralto who, yoked134 with cattle, assist in agriculture by pulling plows135. This happy condition, however, is confined to Europe; here they sing in Wagner.
Any lady of the theaters will tell you there is advantage in being the wife of the owner of the show. It means spotlights136, music, three-sheets, puffs137; in short the center of the stage. The contralto in question was wholly aware of these advantages. Acting98 on that knowledge, this formidable woman arose one New York morning, conveyed Mr. Pepin to the Little Church Around the Corner, almost with force and arms, and married him to her for better or for worse. It turned out to be the latter alternative in the dismal138 case of Mr. Pepin.
There came a time when the opera company fell upon poor days. Then the days went from poor to bad and bad to worse. Lastly, came the crash. At the close of a losing week the treasurer139 fled with the receipts, and a host of creditors140, the sheriff at their hungry head, tore Mr. Pepin into insolvent141 bits. When the dust of that last fierce struggle had subsided142, Mr. Pepin crawled from the wreck143 with two fiddles144 and the necessity of beginning life anew.
Mr. Pepin, at that time, would have said that he had nothing further to fear from fate. Ill-fortune, he would have argued, had shot its bolt and done its worst. Most folk, after an unbiased review, would have coincided with Mr. Pepin. Also, most folk, like Mr. Pepin, would be wrong, since they would have overlooked that fell contralto.
When the opera company went to grief, and with it her position, the contralto scrupled145 not to revile146 Mr. Pepin. She even taunted147 him with his misshapen back. Then she beat him. When he ran from her and concealed148 himself, she charged him with abandonment and cruelty, and the police dragged Mr. Pepin from his place of hiding.
One day by some masterly sleight149, Mr. Pepin escaped, and went fiddling150 forth into the land. He was not after position; salary was no object; the one purpose of Mr. Pepin was to keep out of New York and thereby out of the clutches of his contralto, for whom—since she never left that metropolis—New York had become the dread151 synonym152. You who read may now consider how far Mr. Pepin was justified153 of his shudders154 at the mention of Broadway.
Two days prior to the coming of those Red Stocking Blondes, Mr. Peacock’s Dance Hall had suffered an orchestral setback156. In the midst of the evening’s gayety five couples presented themselves in the formation of one quadrille—a manifest solecism!
Mr. Peacock, alive to the dangerous impropriety described, warned the musicians, by a repressive gesture of his hand, not to strike up. Had Mr. Peacock’s signals been heeded157 there would have been no trouble in the Dance Hall, for the gentlemen concerned would have either adjusted their differences by tossing a copper158 or gone outside to shoot.
But the signals of Mr. Peacock were not obeyed. The violinist of the Dance Hall was one of your ill-conditioned natures that dislike a quiet life. Observing those five couple where only four should be, and careless of the pantomime of Mr. Peacock, with a brief exultant159 remark to the pianist that he thought he saw in the snarl160 the rudiments161 of trouble, the violinist went ranting162 off into the “Arkansas Traveler” and dragged the pianist along.
Somewhere it has been put forth—and the assertion has had solemn acceptance to this day—that the man was a public benefactor163 who made two blades of grass grow where but one had grown before. However much this may be of value as a statement concerning grass, it fails when one attempts its application to quadrilles. Instead of benefiting the public, he who sought to make two couples dance where but one had danced before, would simply be laying the foundations of civil war. And this in particular were the scene of his operations Mr. Peacock’s Dance Hall in the hour borne in mind.
And so the sequel showed. That malignant164 violinist, when he plowed165 off into the “Arkansas Traveler”—to which music, be it known, more men have perished than to the “British Grenadier”—he gave the fatal call:
“First four forward and back!”
The “First Four” on this overloaded166 occasion, carrying as it did that extra couple and being not four but six, fell at once into a general knot. Upon the knot growing worse instead of better, those therein involved attempted to untie167 it with their guns.
It was over in a moment, with a gratifying count of one killed and none wounded. The word “gratifying” is used, because the one killed was that troublemongering violinist who, with his “Arkansas Traveler,” had shoved the row from shore. Justice is blind, and now and then an accident may be counted upon to do an equity168.
While every right-thinking soul in Dodge felt glad that the malignant violinist was killed, his blotting169 out none the less became a common injury. There was no one to put in his place; which, it may be said in passing, furnished the precise reason why he had not been shot before.
Now a violinist was a highly important personage in Dodge. Your cowboy, after the sixth drink, is a being of mood and romance—a dreamy sentimentalist! He requires the violin, as the Jewish king required the harp171, and nothing else will soothe172 him. Wherefore, while Mr. Peacock’s pianist—he had lived through that overstocked quadrille untouched—might hammer out a dance tune62, the atmosphere was sorely lacking in those calmative elements which only a violin could give. It offered a state of affairs especially hectic173 and explosive, one which the cooler spirits must watch in order to preserve a peace.
The dead violinist was buried on the day when the Red Stocking Blondes came to town, and it is safe to assume that those funeral doings taught Mr. Pepin, by the gossip they provoked, of the refuge for himself and fortunes which those obsequies inferred. Whether that be so or no, at the end of the week when the Red Stocking Blondes closed their brilliant engagement and on the breath of Dodge’s plaudits were wafted174 to the next stand, Mr. Pepin remained behind. He lapsed175 into that bullet-constructed vacancy176 in Mr. Peacock’s Dance Hall, while his light companions of the theater set their faces eastward177, singing:
“The sun is always shining on Broadway.”
One can imagine a war that would have obliterated178, but not one that would have conquered Dodge. Mere179 force could never have brought it to its knees; and yet within a week it had unconditionally180 surrendered to the melodious181 genius of Mr. Pepin. He enraptured182 Dodge. It took him to its heart; it would have defended him to the latest gasp183. Mr. Pepin repayed this local worship. Never had he drawn184 sweeter strains from his instrument; for never, of late at least, had his heart been more protected and at perfect ease.
Also, the musical taste of Dodge was elevated by Mr. Pepin. In this taste improvement, Mr. Pepin showed himself equipped of tact185, and a wary186 wit. He played selections from “Trovatore” and “Martha,” and rendered Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song,” and “Old Madrid.” But he renamed them—in favour of local colour, probably—“Midnight Along the Arkansas,” “Two Black Bears,” “The Fieste at Santa Fé,” and “Daybreak On the Plains.” This was a sagacious nomenclature; it plowed ’round suspicion, and avoided prejudices that otherwise might have been invoked187.
When the Red Stocking Blondes departed for the East, Mr. Pepin severally swore every member of that organisation188 to say nothing of his whereabouts to the contralto, and it is creditable to the dramatic profession that every member kept the oath. Mr. Pepin, released from bondage189 and doubly safe with distance and an address that was now suppressed, might have scraped an unscared fiddle to the ending of his days, had it not been for his own loquacity190—a loquacity that was brought about in this wise.
Mr. Pepin had dwelt in Dodge, and been the soul of those revels191 that found nightly place in Mr. Peacock’s Dance Hall, for divers months, when the town dedicated192 its first church. The event was epoch-making, and Dodge, impressed as to what onward193 and upward strides were suggested of that day, gave way to vast rejoicing. A deal of Old Jordan was destroyed, and Mr. Pepin, contrary to a usual habit, was among those overcome. Most of Mr. Pepin’s liquor was consumed in the Alhambra; for he and Mr. Kelly—who owned a musical ear—had become as brothers.
There is a proverb which says In vino veritas, and talks of truth in wine. This is manifest mistake. Intoxication194 is the very seed of mendacity, and a drunken man is always and everywhere a liar195. After the tenth drink, Mr. Pepin and Mr. Kelly communed together affectionately, and Mr. Pepin told Mr. Kelly of the contralto. He spoke of the domestic affections; said it was the one sorrow of his life that the contralto wasn’t with him in Dodge, and bewept a poverty which separated them. He explained that if Mr. Kelly could but see his heart he might then gain some glimmer of the grief that fed upon it. Mr. Pepin cried profoundly, and Mr. Kelly, who loved him, united his sobs196 to Mr. Pepin’s. Controlling his grief, Mr. Pepin averred197 that he lived only for a day when, having accumulated what treasure was necessary for the enterprise, he could bring his contralto to Dodge, and show that aggregation198 of bumpkins what a real lady was like. Then Mr. Pepin went to sleep with his head on a poker199 table, and forgot every word he had spoken to Mr. Kelly.
Mr. Kelly had a better memory; he was capable of more liquor than was Mr. Pepin. And he was Mr. Pepin’s friend. Mr. Kelly resolved upon a sentimental170 surprise. He would restore that contralto to the arms and heart of Mr. Pepin. The latter should not wait upon the painful, slow achievement of what funds were called for. Mr. Kelly had money; and to what better purpose, pray, can one’s money be put than a promotion200 of the happiness of a friend? Mr. Kelly had jotted201 down the lady’s address—being that of a dramatic agency—as furnished drunkenly by Mr. Pepin, and he now wired her to come at once. Mr. Kelly benevolently202 closed his message with:
“If you’re broke, draw on me for five hundred.”
Having accomplished203 so much, Mr. Kelly as a reward of merit bestowed205 upon himself a huge drink. Then he gave himself up to those feelings of self-approval that come blandly206 to souls engaged upon virtuous207 works.
The day next but one after sending his message, Mr. Kelly received the following from the contralto:
“Have drawn for five hundred. Will start for Dodge in a week.”
In the beginning, Mr. Kelly had planned to keep the joy in store for Mr. Pepin a secret from that virtuoso208. Mr. Pepin was to know nothing of the bliss209 that was being arranged for him. His earliest information should come when Mr. Kelly led him to the Wright House, where his contralto was awaiting him with parted lips and outstretched, loving hands.
“Which I’ll nacherally bring down heaven on him like a pan of milk from a top shelf!” quoth the excellent Mr. Kelly.
As stated, this was the plan; but after receiving the contralto’s message, Mr. Kelly decided upon amendments210. It would be safer, when all was said, to let Mr. Pepin hear of the contralto and her coming. Mr. Pepin was a frail211 man; a sudden joy might strike him dead. Mr. Kelly had heard of such cases. Not to invite any similar catastrophe212 in the fragile instance of Mr. Pepin, Mr. Kelly took him aside and told him of the happiness ahead. He was ten minutes in the telling, rolling the blessed secret beneath his tongue, until the last possible moment, like a sweet morsel213.
Mr. Pepin, rendered mute by his peril214, said never a word. He read the contralto’s message and then fell into a chair—glazed of eye and pale of cheek. Mr. Kelly poured whiskey down Mr. Pepin, laying his faintness to bliss. Mr. Pepin was at last so far recovered that he could walk. But his eyes roved wildly, like the eyes of a trapped animal, and how he fiddled215 through the night he never knew.
Nature preserves herself by equilibriums216. He who will stop and think must see that this is so. Wherever there is danger there is defence, a poison means an antidote217 and the distillery and the rattlesnake go hand in hand. The day of Mr. Kelly’s headlong breaking into the domestic affairs of Mr. Pepin, was the day upon which the Lone Wolf came into Dodge. The Lone Wolf lost no time, but sought out Mr. Masterson. His ragged86 blanket and blackened face must be explained, and the Lone Wolf told Mr. Masterson of his lost “medicine.” Moreover, he set forth his design of presently potting that Pawnee or Sioux, and sequestering218, de bene esse, the dead person’s “medicine.”
Mr. Masterson spoke against this latter scheme; to carry it out would betray the Lone Wolf into all sorts and fashions of trouble. The Lone Wolf’s Great Father in Washington objected to these unauthorized homicides, and would send the walkaheaps or the pony-soldiers from the Fort upon the trail of the Lone Wolf.
As against this, the Lone Wolf showed that he was even then in all sorts and fashions of trouble by reason of his lost “medicine,” and nothing the Great Father did could add to it. What was he, the Lone Wolf, to do? He must have a “medicine.” He could not make a new one, for the Great Spirit had passed commands against it. He could not buy one, for every Indian urgently needed his “medicine” in his own affairs, and when he died it must be buried with him since he would then need it more than ever. There was no other solution. He must knock out the brains of that Pawnee or Sioux of whom he was in pursuit. There would then be an extra “medicine” on earth, and he might claim it.
Mr. Masterson owned a fertile intelligence; a bright thought came to him. He told the Lone Wolf that he knew one who was the chief of all medicine men, and master of the mightiest219 “medicines.” This personage, by a most marvellous chance, had an extra “medicine.” Mr. Masterson was sure that if the need were properly presented, his friend the Lone Wolf could buy this “medicine.” The Lone Wolf would then, in that matter of a “medicine,” to quote from Mr. Masterson, “have every other Cheyenne too dead to skin.”
Mr. Masterson conveyed the Lone Wolf to Mr. Peacock’s Dance Hall, and called his attention to Mr. Pepin, who, made desperate by the peep into a contralto-filled future which the kindness of Mr. Kelly had afforded him, was fiddling as he n’er fiddled before. The Lone Wolf gazed planet-smitten. Even without the spotless word of Mr. Masterson, he would have known by the hump on his shoulders—that especial mark of the Great Spirit’s favour!—how Mr. Pepin was a most tremendous medicine man. Neither was it needed that Mr. Masterson instruct him as to the prodigious220 qualities of the resounding221 “medicine” which Mr. Pepin fondled. The Lone Wolf could hear the wailing222 and sobbing223 and singing of the scores of ghosts—as many as four screaming at once!—that dwelt therein, and whose sensibilities Mr. Pepin worked upon with the wand in his right hand.
Between dances, that gentleman being at leisure, Mr. Masterson made Mr. Pepin acquainted with the Lone Wolf, and set forth—winking instructively the while—the sore dilemma224 of his Cheyenne friend. Mr. Masterson explained that he had told the Lone Wolf about an extra “medicine” whereof he, Mr. Pepin, was endowed. Would Mr. Pepin, from his charity and goodness, sell this priceless “medicine” to the Lone Wolf, and lift him out of that abyss into which he had fallen?
Mr. Pepin owned an extra violin, that was not a good violin and therefore out of commission. It abode225 in a black, oblong box, like a little coffin226. Being the kindest of souls, he declined the thought of sale, and said that he would give it to Mr. Masterson’s friend, the Lone Wolf. He took it from its case, which on being opened displayed an advantageous227 lining228 of red. The Lone Wolf received it reverently229, smelled to it, peered through the slashes230 in its bosom231, placed it to his ear, and then with a kind of awe232 turned to Mr. Pepin. Was this “medicine” also full of ghosts? Mr. Pepin took it and bowfully showed him that it was a very hive of ghosts.
The Lone Wolf declared that he would receive this inestimable “medicine” from Mr. Pepin. To simply handle it had given him a good heart. Its mere touch, to say nothing of the voices of those ghosts imprisoned233 in its cherry coloured belly234, cheered him and thrilled him as had no other “medicine.” He would return to his people, and scowl235 in every man’s face. His squaws should again hold up their heads, his pappooses cease their crying. His dogs’ tails should proudly curl aloft, and his ponies snort contempt for the broncos of feebler folk. Altogether the Lone Wolf pictured for himself a balmy future. In conclusion, the grateful Lone Wolf set forth that, while he was proud to take this wondrous236 “medicine” as a gift, he must still bestow204 those pack ponies, with their cargoes237 of robes and furs, upon Mr. Pepin, who was his heart’s brother.
The Lone Wolf told Mr. Masterson that he would put in the balance of the evening in Mr. Peacock’s Dance Hall. He desired to sit by the side of his heart’s brother and listen to the talk of his “medicine.” Mr. Pepin instructed the Lone Wolf how he might bind238 that precious fiddle-case to his shoulders with straps239, and wear it like a knapsack. The Lone Wolf, being thus adorned240, gave himself a new title. He was no more the Lone Wolf; he had lost that name in the Beaver with his old “medicine.” He had become “The-Man-who-packs-his-medicine-on-his-back.”
After the Dance Hall revels were done, being alone together, the Lone Wolf and Mr. Pepin fell into closer talk. Two days later, no one could have found Mr. Pepin with a search warrant. The Lone Wolf, too, had disappeared.
When Dodge realised the spiriting away of Mr. Pepin, a howl, not to say a hue241 and cry, went up. In the woeful midst of the excitement, Mr. Kelly informed the world of his negotiations242 with the contralto. This news created the utmost consternation243.
“It was that which run him out o’ camp,” said Cimarron Bill, referring to the departed Mr. Pepin. “You’ve stampeded him by sendin’ for his wife.”
Dodge could not but look coldly upon Mr. Kelly for his foolish header into the household affairs of Mr. Pepin. And there was a serious side: the contralto had said she would start for Dodge in a week. When she arrived, and Mr. Kelly could not produce Mr. Pepin, what would be her course? Dodge could not guess; it could only shudder155. In her resentment244 the contralto might marry Mr. Kelly. Cimarron Bill expressed a hope that she would. He said that such an upcome would punish Mr. Kelly as well as offer safety to Dodge.
“For that lady’s disapp’intment,” said Cimarron Bill, “is goin’ to be frightful245; an’ if ever she turns loose once, thar’ll be nothin’ for Dodge to do but adjourn246 sine die.”
Mr. Kelly had lived long on the border and was a resourceful man. He saw the dangers that surrounded him, and appreciated, as he phrased it, that he “was out on a limb.” He must act without delay, or there was no measuring the calamities247 that might overtake him. Thank heaven! the contralto would not start for three full days. There was still time, if Mr. Kelly moved rapidly. Mr. Kelly wired the contralto:
“Your husband dropped dead with joy on hearing you were coming.
You may keep the money.”
Mr. Masterson, to whom he read this message, approved it, and said that it did Mr. Kelly credit. At Mr. Masterson’s suggestion, Mr. Kelly added the inquiry248,
“Shall I ship body to New York?”
Both Mr. Kelly and Dodge breathed more freely when the contralto replied, expressed her tearful thanks, and said that, as to shipment suggested, Mr. Kelly needn’t mind.
“An’ you can gamble, Bat,” observed Mr. Kelly, solemnly, “it’s the last time I’ll open a correspondence, that a-way, with another gent’s wife.”
It was during the frosts of a next autumn that Mr. Masterson, in his official character, was over on the Cimarron looking for stolen horses. He decided upon a visit to Bear Shield’s band, since stolen horses among the Cheyennes were not without a precedent250.
In the earlier hours of an evening full of moonlight and natural peace, Mr. Masterson came into Bear Shield’s village through a yelping251 skirmish line of dogs. As he rode leisurely252 forward, he could hear above the howling of the dogs the “Tunk, tunk!” of a native drum, which is not a drum but a tomtom. As he drew slowly nearer, the “Hy yah! hy yah! hy!” of savage70 singing taught an experienced intelligence that the Cheyennes were holding a dance. This was not surprising; the Cheyennes, when not hunting nor robbing nor scalping, are generally holding a dance.
And yet the situation was not lacking in elements of amazement253. The “Tunk! tunk!” and the “Hy yah! hy yah! hy!” Mr. Masterson could explain, for he had heard them many times. But over and under and through them all ran a thin, wailing note which would have been understandable in a hurdy-gurdy, but fell strangely not to say fantastically upon the ear when heard in an Indian village among the cottonwoods, with the whispering soft rush of the Cimarron to bear it company.
Full of curiosity, and yet with a half guess, Mr. Masterson threw himself from the saddle and made his way through the circle of spectators that were as a frame for the dance. There, in good sooth! sat Mr. Pepin, flourishing a tuneful bow. He was giving them the “Gypsy Chorus,” while an Indian drummer beat out the time on his tomtom. Back of Mr. Pepin were squatted254 a half dozen young squaws, who furnished the “Hy yah! hy!” It cannot be said that these fair vocalists closely followed the score as written by Mr. Balfe; but they struck all about him, and since time was perfect the dancers skated and crouched255 and towered and leaped and crept thereunto with the utmost éclat.
Mr. Masterson moved into a position where he might have the moonlight full upon Mr. Pepin. That lost genius was indeed a splendid spectacle! His hair exhibited a plumy bristle256 of feathers, while the paints on his face offered a colour scheme by the dazzling side of which the most brilliant among the Cheyennes dwindled257 into dreary258 failure.
After the dance, Mr. Masterson talked with Mr. Pepin. It was as Mr. Masterson had surmised259; in his despair at the threatened coming of the contralto, and having advantage of the Lone Wolf’s new friendship, Mr. Pepin had thrown himself upon the Cheyennes. They received him most decorously, for the Lone Wolf made a speech that opened their eyes. The Lone Wolf had exhibited his new “medicine,” and requested Mr. Pepin to make the ghosts talk, which he did. The hunch260 on Mr. Pepin’s back was also a mighty261 endorsement262. It was as the signature of the Great Spirit, and bespoke263 for him an instant Cheyenne vogue264. Bear Shield became his friend; the Lone Wolf continued to be his heart’s brother. He was given a lodge. Then Bear Shield bestowed upon him his daughter Red Bud to be his wife.
Mr. Pepin confessed that he might have hesitated at this final honour, but the thoroughgoing Bear Shield accompanied the gift of the blooming Red Bud with a fine elm club. The two went ever together, Bear Shield said, and explained the marital265 possibilities of the elm club. Mr. Pepin had always heard how there was a per cent. of good among every sort and sept of men. He could now bear witness that the Cheyennes nourished views concerning matrimony, and the rights of husband and wife, for which much might be said.
Mr. Pepin did not wish to return to the whites; the Indians were devoid266 of contraltos. The Lone Wolf filled his lodge with buffalo beef and robes. By way of receiving return, he came once a week, and asked his heart’s brother to make the ghosts in his “medicine” tell him their impressions. Under Mr. Pepin’s spell the ghosts were sure to talk hopefully and with courageous267 optimism. Their usual discourse268 took the form of “Johnny Comes Marching Home,” or “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” These never failed to make the Lone Wolf’s heart both bold and good.
Mr. Masterson presently met the Lone Wolf. That warrior was wearing his fiddle-case “medicine” on his back, after the manner of a squaw carrying her pappoose. The Lone Wolf had a prideful look which he held was one of the beneficent effects of his “medicine.” He confided269 to Mr. Masterson that Mr. Pepin’s Cheyenne name was a rumbling270 procession of gutturals that, translated, meant “The-toad-that-sings-like-a-thrush.”
点击收听单词发音
1 lone | |
adj.孤寂的,单独的;唯一的 | |
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2 averted | |
防止,避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 ); 转移 | |
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3 construed | |
v.解释(陈述、行为等)( construe的过去式和过去分词 );翻译,作句法分析 | |
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4 crave | |
vt.渴望得到,迫切需要,恳求,请求 | |
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5 ponies | |
矮种马,小型马( pony的名词复数 ); £25 25 英镑 | |
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6 ass | |
n.驴;傻瓜,蠢笨的人 | |
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7 mingle | |
vt.使混合,使相混;vi.混合起来;相交往 | |
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8 jolt | |
v.(使)摇动,(使)震动,(使)颠簸 | |
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9 eminence | |
n.卓越,显赫;高地,高处;名家 | |
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10 tribal | |
adj.部族的,种族的 | |
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11 lodge | |
v.临时住宿,寄宿,寄存,容纳;n.传达室,小旅馆 | |
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12 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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13 hurled | |
v.猛投,用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 );大声叫骂 | |
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14 Ford | |
n.浅滩,水浅可涉处;v.涉水,涉过 | |
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15 beaver | |
n.海狸,河狸 | |
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16 swirl | |
v.(使)打漩,(使)涡卷;n.漩涡,螺旋形 | |
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17 hoof | |
n.(马,牛等的)蹄 | |
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18 pony | |
adj.小型的;n.小马 | |
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19 turbid | |
adj.混浊的,泥水的,浓的 | |
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20 exhaled | |
v.呼出,发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 );吐出(肺中的空气、烟等),呼气 | |
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21 lame | |
adj.跛的,(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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22 naught | |
n.无,零 [=nought] | |
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23 honourably | |
adv.可尊敬地,光荣地,体面地 | |
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24 condoned | |
v.容忍,宽恕,原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25 thereby | |
adv.因此,从而 | |
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26 foe | |
n.敌人,仇敌 | |
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27 interfered | |
v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 );调停;妨碍;干涉 | |
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28 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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29 requisite | |
adj.需要的,必不可少的;n.必需品 | |
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30 warrior | |
n.勇士,武士,斗士 | |
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31 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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32 owl | |
n.猫头鹰,枭 | |
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33 tinkling | |
n.丁当作响声 | |
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34 aloof | |
adj.远离的;冷淡的,漠不关心的 | |
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35 guise | |
n.外表,伪装的姿态 | |
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36 furrow | |
n.沟;垄沟;轨迹;车辙;皱纹 | |
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37 untoward | |
adj.不利的,不幸的,困难重重的 | |
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38 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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39 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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40 buck | |
n.雄鹿,雄兔;v.马离地跳跃 | |
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41 deference | |
n.尊重,顺从;敬意 | |
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42 strife | |
n.争吵,冲突,倾轧,竞争 | |
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43 rife | |
adj.(指坏事情)充斥的,流行的,普遍的 | |
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44 otter | |
n.水獭 | |
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45 cedar | |
n.雪松,香柏(木) | |
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46 odds | |
n.让步,机率,可能性,比率;胜败优劣之别 | |
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47 recondite | |
adj.深奥的,难解的 | |
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48 pouch | |
n.小袋,小包,囊状袋;vt.装...入袋中,用袋运输;vi.用袋送信件 | |
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49 weird | |
adj.古怪的,离奇的;怪诞的,神秘而可怕的 | |
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50 toad | |
n.蟾蜍,癞蛤蟆 | |
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51 hind | |
adj.后面的,后部的 | |
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52 graveyard | |
n.坟场 | |
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53 decried | |
v.公开反对,谴责( decry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54 aboriginal | |
adj.(指动植物)土生的,原产地的,土著的 | |
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55 yelped | |
v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56 discredit | |
vt.使不可置信;n.丧失信义;不信,怀疑 | |
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57 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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58 undone | |
a.未做完的,未完成的 | |
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59 malevolent | |
adj.有恶意的,恶毒的 | |
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60 slumped | |
大幅度下降,暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 ); 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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61 oratorio | |
n.神剧,宗教剧,清唱剧 | |
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62 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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63 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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64 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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65 pang | |
n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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66 rends | |
v.撕碎( rend的第三人称单数 );分裂;(因愤怒、痛苦等而)揪扯(衣服或头发等);(声音等)刺破 | |
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67 adorns | |
装饰,佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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68 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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69 sweeping | |
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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70 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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71 savages | |
未开化的人,野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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72 anticipations | |
预期( anticipation的名词复数 ); 预测; (信托财产收益的)预支; 预期的事物 | |
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73 industriously | |
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74 glimmer | |
v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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75 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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76 fiat | |
n.命令,法令,批准;vt.批准,颁布 | |
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77 degenerate | |
v.退步,堕落;adj.退步的,堕落的;n.堕落者 | |
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78 gateway | |
n.大门口,出入口,途径,方法 | |
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79 redeem | |
v.买回,赎回,挽回,恢复,履行(诺言等) | |
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80 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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81 rehabilitate | |
vt.改造(罪犯),修复;vi.复兴,(罪犯)经受改造 | |
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82 buffalo | |
n.(北美)野牛;(亚洲)水牛 | |
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83 buffaloes | |
n.水牛(分非洲水牛和亚洲水牛两种)( buffalo的名词复数 );(南非或北美的)野牛;威胁;恐吓 | |
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84 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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85 ornament | |
v.装饰,美化;n.装饰,装饰物 | |
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86 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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87 northward | |
adv.向北;n.北方的地区 | |
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88 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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89 bankruptcy | |
n.破产;无偿付能力 | |
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90 behooved | |
v.适宜( behoove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91 prudence | |
n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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92 slant | |
v.倾斜,倾向性地编写或报道;n.斜面,倾向 | |
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93 contemptible | |
adj.可鄙的,可轻视的,卑劣的 | |
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94 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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95 tribally | |
部落的,部族的; 种族的 | |
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96 eminent | |
adj.显赫的,杰出的,有名的,优良的 | |
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97 exactingly | |
费劲的; 需细致小心的; (标准)严格的; (对别人)严格的 | |
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98 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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99 skulk | |
v.藏匿;潜行 | |
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100 quails | |
鹌鹑( quail的名词复数 ); 鹌鹑肉 | |
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101 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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102 dodge | |
v.闪开,躲开,避开;n.妙计,诡计 | |
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103 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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104 degenerated | |
衰退,堕落,退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105 laden | |
adj.装满了的;充满了的;负了重担的;苦恼的 | |
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106 cartridges | |
子弹( cartridge的名词复数 ); (打印机的)墨盒; 录音带盒; (唱机的)唱头 | |
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107 sundry | |
adj.各式各样的,种种的 | |
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108 statistical | |
adj.统计的,统计学的 | |
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109 traitorous | |
adj. 叛国的, 不忠的, 背信弃义的 | |
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110 bugle | |
n.军号,号角,喇叭;v.吹号,吹号召集 | |
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111 bugler | |
喇叭手; 号兵; 吹鼓手; 司号员 | |
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112 lurked | |
vi.潜伏,埋伏(lurk的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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113 commonsense | |
adj.有常识的;明白事理的;注重实际的 | |
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114 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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115 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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116 gregarious | |
adj.群居的,喜好群居的 | |
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117 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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118 advent | |
n.(重要事件等的)到来,来临 | |
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119 memorable | |
adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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120 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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121 coax | |
v.哄诱,劝诱,用诱哄得到,诱取 | |
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122 fiddle | |
n.小提琴;vi.拉提琴;不停拨弄,乱动 | |
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123 swelling | |
n.肿胀 | |
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124 ecstasy | |
n.狂喜,心醉神怡,入迷 | |
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125 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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126 gush | |
v.喷,涌;滔滔不绝(说话);n.喷,涌流;迸发 | |
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127 albeit | |
conj.即使;纵使;虽然 | |
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128 larks | |
n.百灵科鸟(尤指云雀)( lark的名词复数 );一大早就起床;鸡鸣即起;(因太费力而不想干时说)算了v.百灵科鸟(尤指云雀)( lark的第三人称单数 );一大早就起床;鸡鸣即起;(因太费力而不想干时说)算了 | |
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129 troupe | |
n.剧团,戏班;杂技团;马戏团 | |
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130 tugged | |
v.用力拉,使劲拉,猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131 legacy | |
n.遗产,遗赠;先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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132 cistern | |
n.贮水池 | |
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133 divers | |
adj.不同的;种种的 | |
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134 yoked | |
结合(yoke的过去式形式) | |
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135 plows | |
n.犁( plow的名词复数 );犁型铲雪机v.耕( plow的第三人称单数 );犁耕;费力穿过 | |
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136 spotlights | |
n.聚光灯(的光)( spotlight的名词复数 );公众注意的中心v.聚光照明( spotlight的第三人称单数 );使公众注意,使突出醒目 | |
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137 puffs | |
n.吸( puff的名词复数 );(烟斗或香烟的)一吸;一缕(烟、蒸汽等);(呼吸或风的)呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 );喷着汽(或烟)移动;吹嘘;吹捧 | |
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138 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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139 treasurer | |
n.司库,财务主管 | |
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140 creditors | |
n.债权人,债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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141 insolvent | |
adj.破产的,无偿还能力的 | |
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142 subsided | |
v.(土地)下陷(因在地下采矿)( subside的过去式和过去分词 );减弱;下降至较低或正常水平;一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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143 wreck | |
n.失事,遇难;沉船;vt.(船等)失事,遇难 | |
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144 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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145 scrupled | |
v.感到于心不安,有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146 revile | |
v.辱骂,谩骂 | |
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147 taunted | |
嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 ); 嘲弄; 辱骂; 奚落 | |
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148 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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149 sleight | |
n.技巧,花招 | |
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150 fiddling | |
微小的 | |
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151 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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152 synonym | |
n.同义词,换喻词 | |
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153 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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154 shudders | |
n.颤动,打颤,战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 );发抖;(机器、车辆等)突然震动;颤动 | |
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155 shudder | |
v.战粟,震动,剧烈地摇晃;n.战粟,抖动 | |
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156 setback | |
n.退步,挫折,挫败 | |
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157 heeded | |
v.听某人的劝告,听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 );变平,使(某物)变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158 copper | |
n.铜;铜币;铜器;adj.铜(制)的;(紫)铜色的 | |
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159 exultant | |
adj.欢腾的,狂欢的,大喜的 | |
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160 snarl | |
v.吼叫,怒骂,纠缠,混乱;n.混乱,缠结,咆哮 | |
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161 rudiments | |
n.基础知识,入门 | |
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162 ranting | |
v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 );大叫大嚷地以…说教;气愤地)大叫大嚷;不停地大声抱怨 | |
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163 benefactor | |
n. 恩人,行善的人,捐助人 | |
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164 malignant | |
adj.恶性的,致命的;恶意的,恶毒的 | |
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165 plowed | |
v.耕( plow的过去式和过去分词 );犁耕;费力穿过 | |
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166 overloaded | |
a.超载的,超负荷的 | |
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167 untie | |
vt.解开,松开;解放 | |
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168 equity | |
n.公正,公平,(无固定利息的)股票 | |
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169 blotting | |
吸墨水纸 | |
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170 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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171 harp | |
n.竖琴;天琴座 | |
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172 soothe | |
v.安慰;使平静;使减轻;缓和;奉承 | |
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173 hectic | |
adj.肺病的;消耗热的;发热的;闹哄哄的 | |
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174 wafted | |
v.吹送,飘送,(使)浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175 lapsed | |
adj.流失的,堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 );陷入;倒退;丧失 | |
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176 vacancy | |
n.(旅馆的)空位,空房,(职务的)空缺 | |
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177 eastward | |
adv.向东;adj.向东的;n.东方,东部 | |
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178 obliterated | |
v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 );涂去;擦掉;彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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179 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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180 unconditionally | |
adv.无条件地 | |
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181 melodious | |
adj.旋律美妙的,调子优美的,音乐性的 | |
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182 enraptured | |
v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183 gasp | |
n.喘息,气喘;v.喘息;气吁吁他说 | |
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184 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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185 tact | |
n.机敏,圆滑,得体 | |
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186 wary | |
adj.谨慎的,机警的,小心的 | |
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187 invoked | |
v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 );行使(权利等);祈求救助;恳求 | |
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188 organisation | |
n.组织,安排,团体,有机休 | |
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189 bondage | |
n.奴役,束缚 | |
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190 loquacity | |
n.多话,饶舌 | |
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191 revels | |
n.作乐( revel的名词复数 );狂欢;着迷;陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 );狂欢;着迷;陶醉 | |
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192 dedicated | |
adj.一心一意的;献身的;热诚的 | |
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193 onward | |
adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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194 intoxication | |
n.wild excitement;drunkenness;poisoning | |
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195 liar | |
n.说谎的人 | |
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196 sobs | |
啜泣(声),呜咽(声)( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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197 averred | |
v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 );证实;证明…属实;作为事实提出 | |
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198 aggregation | |
n.聚合,组合;凝聚 | |
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199 poker | |
n.扑克;vt.烙制 | |
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200 promotion | |
n.提升,晋级;促销,宣传 | |
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201 jotted | |
v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 );草草记下,匆匆记下 | |
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202 benevolently | |
adv.仁慈地,行善地 | |
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203 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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204 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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205 bestowed | |
赠给,授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206 blandly | |
adv.温和地,殷勤地 | |
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207 virtuous | |
adj.有品德的,善良的,贞洁的,有效力的 | |
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208 virtuoso | |
n.精于某种艺术或乐器的专家,行家里手 | |
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209 bliss | |
n.狂喜,福佑,天赐的福 | |
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210 amendments | |
(法律、文件的)改动( amendment的名词复数 ); 修正案; 修改; (美国宪法的)修正案 | |
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211 frail | |
adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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212 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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213 morsel | |
n.一口,一点点 | |
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214 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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215 fiddled | |
v.伪造( fiddle的过去式和过去分词 );篡改;骗取;修理或稍作改动 | |
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216 equilibriums | |
n.平衡,均势(equilibrium的复数形式) | |
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217 antidote | |
n.解毒药,解毒剂 | |
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218 sequestering | |
v.使隔绝,使隔离( sequester的现在分词 );扣押 | |
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219 mightiest | |
adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 );巨大的;强有力的;浩瀚的 | |
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220 prodigious | |
adj.惊人的,奇妙的;异常的;巨大的;庞大的 | |
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221 resounding | |
adj. 响亮的 | |
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222 wailing | |
v.哭叫,哀号( wail的现在分词 );沱 | |
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223 sobbing | |
<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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224 dilemma | |
n.困境,进退两难的局面 | |
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225 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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226 coffin | |
n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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227 advantageous | |
adj.有利的;有帮助的 | |
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228 lining | |
n.衬里,衬料 | |
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229 reverently | |
adv.虔诚地 | |
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230 slashes | |
n.(用刀等)砍( slash的名词复数 );(长而窄的)伤口;斜杠;撒尿v.挥砍( slash的第三人称单数 );鞭打;割破;削减 | |
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231 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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232 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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233 imprisoned | |
下狱,监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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234 belly | |
n.肚子,腹部;(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分,膛 | |
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235 scowl | |
vi.(at)生气地皱眉,沉下脸,怒视;n.怒容 | |
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236 wondrous | |
adj.令人惊奇的,奇妙的;adv.惊人地;异乎寻常地;令人惊叹地 | |
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237 cargoes | |
n.(船或飞机装载的)货物( cargo的名词复数 );大量,重负 | |
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238 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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239 straps | |
n.带子( strap的名词复数 );挎带;肩带;背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 );用皮带抽打;包扎;给…打绷带 | |
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240 adorned | |
[计]被修饰的 | |
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241 hue | |
n.色度;色调;样子 | |
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242 negotiations | |
协商( negotiation的名词复数 ); 谈判; 完成(难事); 通过 | |
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243 consternation | |
n.大为吃惊,惊骇 | |
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244 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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245 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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246 adjourn | |
v.(使)休会,(使)休庭 | |
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247 calamities | |
n.灾祸,灾难( calamity的名词复数 );不幸之事 | |
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248 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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249 allay | |
v.消除,减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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250 precedent | |
n.先例,前例;惯例;adj.在前的,在先的 | |
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251 yelping | |
v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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252 leisurely | |
adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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253 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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254 squatted | |
v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 );非法擅自占用(土地或房屋);为获得其所有权;而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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255 crouched | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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256 bristle | |
v.(毛发)直立,气势汹汹,发怒;n.硬毛发 | |
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257 dwindled | |
v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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258 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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259 surmised | |
v.臆测,推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 );揣测;猜想 | |
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260 hunch | |
n.预感,直觉 | |
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261 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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262 endorsement | |
n.背书;赞成,认可,担保;签(注),批注 | |
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263 bespoke | |
adj.(产品)订做的;专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 );订(货);证明;预先请求 | |
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264 Vogue | |
n.时髦,时尚;adj.流行的 | |
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265 marital | |
adj.婚姻的,夫妻的 | |
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266 devoid | |
adj.全无的,缺乏的 | |
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267 courageous | |
adj.勇敢的,有胆量的 | |
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268 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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269 confided | |
v.吐露(秘密,心事等)( confide的过去式和过去分词 );(向某人)吐露(隐私、秘密等) | |
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270 rumbling | |
n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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