There was a large, brilliant evening star in the early twilight1, and underfoot the earth was half frozen. It was Christmas Eve. Also the War was over, and there was a sense of relief that was almost a new menace. A man felt the violence of the nightmare released now into the general air. Also there had been another wrangle2 among the men on the pit-bank that evening.
Aaron Sisson was the last man on the little black railway-line climbing the hill home from work. He was late because he had attended a meeting of the men on the bank. He was secretary to the Miners Union for his colliery, and had heard a good deal of silly wrangling3 that left him nettled4.
He strode over a stile, crossed two fields, strode another stile, and was in the long road of colliers’ dwellings5. Just across was his own house: he had built it himself. He went through the little gate, up past the side of the house to the back. There he hung a moment, glancing down the dark, wintry garden.
“My father — my father’s come!” cried a child’s excited voice, and two little girls in white pinafores ran out in front of his legs.
“Father, shall you set the Christmas Tree?” they cried. “We’ve got one!”
“Afore I have my dinner?” he answered amiably6.
“Set it now. Set it now.— We got it through Fred Alton.”
“Where is it?”
The little girls were dragging a rough, dark object out of a corner of the passage into the light of the kitchen door.
“It’s a beauty!” exclaimed Millicent.
“Yes, it is,” said Marjory.
“I should think so,” he replied, striding over the dark bough7. He went to the back kitchen to take off his coat.
“Set it now, Father. Set it now,” clamoured the girls.
“You might as well. You’ve left your dinner so long, you might as well do it now before you have it,” came a woman’s plangent8 voice, out of the brilliant light of the middle room.
Aaron Sisson had taken off his coat and waistcoat and his cap. He stood bare-headed in his shirt and braces9, contemplating10 the tree.
“What am I to put it in?” he queried11. He picked up the tree, and held it erect12 by the topmost twig13. He felt the cold as he stood in the yard coatless, and he twitched14 his shoulders.
“Isn’t it a beauty!” repeated Millicent.
“Ay!— lop-sided though.”
“Put something on, you two!” came the woman’s high imperative16 voice, from the kitchen.
“We aren’t cold,” protested the girls from the yard.
“Come and put something on,” insisted the voice. The man started off down the path, the little girls ran grumbling17 indoors. The sky was clear, there was still a crystalline, non-luminous light in the under air.
Aaron rummaged18 in his shed at the bottom of the garden, and found a spade and a box that was suitable. Then he came out to his neat, bare, wintry garden. The girls flew towards him, putting the elastic19 of their hats under their chins as they ran. The tree and the box lay on the frozen earth. The air breathed dark, frosty, electric.
“Hold it up straight,” he said to Millicent, as he arranged the tree in the box. She stood silent and held the top bough, he filled in round the roots.
When it was done, and pressed in, he went for the wheelbarrow. The girls were hovering20 excited round the tree. He dropped the barrow and stooped to the box. The girls watched him hold back his face — the boughs21 pricked22 him.
“Is it very heavy?” asked Millicent.
“Ay!” he replied, with a little grunt23. Then the procession set off — the trundling wheel-barrow, the swinging hissing25 tree, the two excited little girls. They arrived at the door. Down went the legs of the wheel-barrow on the yard. The man looked at the box.
“Where are you going to have it?” he called.
“Put it in the back kitchen,” cried his wife.
“You’d better have it where it’s going to stop. I don’t want to hawk26 it about.”
“Put it on the floor against the dresser, Father. Put it there,” urged Millicent.
“You come and put some paper down, then,” called the mother hastily.
The two children ran indoors, the man stood contemplative in the cold, shrugging his uncovered shoulders slightly. The open inner door showed a bright linoleum27 on the floor, and the end of a brown side-board on which stood an aspidistra.
Again with a wrench28 Aaron Sisson lifted the box. The tree pricked and stung. His wife watched him as he entered staggering, with his face averted29.
“Mind where you make a lot of dirt,” she said.
He lowered the box with a little jerk on to the spread-out newspaper on the floor. Soil scattered30.
“Sweep it up,” he said to Millicent.
His ear was lingering over the sudden, clutching hiss24 of the tree- boughs.
A stark31 white incandescent32 light filled the room and made everything sharp and hard. In the open fire-place a hot fire burned red. All was scrupulously33 clean and perfect. A baby was cooing in a rocker- less wicker cradle by the hearth34. The mother, a slim, neat woman with dark hair, was sewing a child’s frock. She put this aside, rose, and began to take her husband’s dinner from the oven.
“You stopped confabbing long enough tonight,” she said.
“Yes,” he answered, going to the back kitchen to wash his hands.
In a few minutes he came and sat down to his dinner. The doors were shut close, but there was a draught35, because the settling of the mines under the house made the doors not fit. Aaron moved his chair, to get out of the draught. But he still sat in his shirt and trousers.
He was a good-looking man, fair, and pleasant, about thirty-two years old. He did not talk much, but seemed to think about something. His wife resumed her sewing. She was acutely aware of her husband, but he seemed not very much aware of her.
“What were they on about today, then?” she said.
“About the throw-in.”
“And did they settle anything?”
“They’re going to try it — and they’ll come out if it isn’t satisfactory.”
“The butties won’t have it, I know,” she said. He gave a short laugh, and went on with his meal.
The two children were squatted36 on the floor by the tree. They had a wooden box, from which they had taken many little newspaper packets, which they were spreading out like wares37.
“Don’t open any. We won’t open any of them till we’ve taken them all out — and then we’ll undo38 one in our turns. Then we s’ll both undo equal,” Millicent was saying.
“Yes, we’ll take them ALL out first,” re-echoed Marjory.
“And what are they going to do about Job Arthur Freer? Do they want him?” A faint smile came on her husband’s face.
“Nay, I don’t know what they want.— Some of ’em want him — whether they’re a majority, I don’t know.”
She watched him closely.
“Majority! I’d give ’em majority. They want to get rid of you, and make a fool of you, and you want to break your heart over it. Strikes me you need something to break your heart over.”
He laughed silently.
“Nay,” he said. “I s’ll never break my heart.”
“You’ll go nearer to it over that, than over anything else: just because a lot of ignorant monkeys want a monkey of their own sort to do the Union work, and jabber39 to them, they want to get rid of you, and you eat your heart out about it. More fool you, that’s all I say — more fool you. If you cared for your wife and children half what you care about your Union, you’d be a lot better pleased in the end. But you care about nothing but a lot of ignorant colliers, who don’t know what they want except it’s more money just for themselves. Self, self, self — that’s all it is with them — and ignorance.”
“You’d rather have self without ignorance?” he said, smiling finely.
“I would, if I’ve got to have it. But what I should like to see is a man that has thought for others, and isn’t all self and politics.”
Her color had risen, her hand trembled with anger as she sewed. A blank look had come over the man’s face, as if he did not hear or heed41 any more. He drank his tea in a long draught, wiped his moustache with two fingers, and sat looking abstractedly at the children.
They had laid all the little packets on the floor, and Millicent was saying:
“Now I’ll undo the first, and you can have the second. I’ll take this —”
She unwrapped the bit of newspaper and disclosed a silvery ornament42 for a Christmas tree: a frail43 thing like a silver plum, with deep rosy44 indentations on each side.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it LOVELY!” Her fingers cautiously held the long bubble of silver and glowing rose, cleaving45 to it with a curious, irritating possession. The man’s eyes moved away from her. The lesser46 child was fumbling47 with one of the little packets.
“Oh!”— a wail48 went up from Millicent. “You’ve taken one!— You didn’t wait.” Then her voice changed to a motherly admonition, and she began to interfere49. “This is the way to do it, look! Let me help you.”
But Marjory drew back with resentment50.
“Don’t, Millicent!— Don’t!” came the childish cry. But Millicent’s fingers itched15.
At length Marjory had got out her treasure — a little silvery bell with a glass top hanging inside. The bell was made of frail glassy substance, light as air.
“Oh, the bell!” rang out Millicent’s clanging voice. “The bell! It’s my bell. My bell! It’s mine! Don’t break it, Marjory. Don’t break it, will you?”
Marjory was shaking the bell against her ear. But it was dumb, it made no sound.
“You’ll break it, I know you will.— You’ll break it. Give it ME—” cried Millicent, and she began to take away the bell. Marjory set up an expostulation.
“LET HER ALONE,” said the father.
Millicent let go as if she had been stung, but still her brassy, impudent52 voice persisted:
“She’ll break it. She’ll break it. It’s mine —”
“You undo another,” said the mother, politic40.
Millicent began with hasty, itching53 fingers to unclose another package.
“Aw — aw Mother, my peacock — aw, my peacock, my green peacock!” Lavishly54 she hovered55 over a sinuous56 greenish bird, with wings and tail of spun57 glass, pearly, and body of deep electric green.
“It’s mine — my green peacock! It’s mine, because Marjory’s had one wing off, and mine hadn’t. My green peacock that I love! I love it!” She swung it softly from the little ring on its back. Then she went to her mother.
“Look, Mother, isn’t it a beauty?”
“Mind the ring doesn’t come out,” said her mother. “Yes, it’s lovely!” The girl passed on to her father.
“Look, Father, don’t you love it!”
“Love it?” he re-echoed, ironical58 over the word love.
She stood for some moments, trying to force his attention. Then she went back to her place.
Marjory had brought forth59 a golden apple, red on one cheek, rather garish60.
“Oh!” exclaimed Millicent feverishly61, instantly seized with desire for what she had not got, indifferent to what she had. Her eye ran quickly over the packages. She took one.
“Now!” she exclaimed loudly, to attract attention. “Now! What’s this?— What’s this? What will this beauty be?”
With finicky fingers she removed the newspaper. Marjory watched her wide-eyed. Millicent was self-important.
“The blue ball!” she cried in a climax62 of rapture63. “I’ve GOT THE BLUE BALL.”
She held it gloating in the cup of her hands. It was a little globe of hardened glass, of a magnificent full dark blue color. She rose and went to her father.
“It was your blue ball, wasn’t it, father?”
“Yes.”
“And you had it when you were a little boy, and now I have it when I’m a little girl.”
“Ay,” he replied drily.
“And it’s never been broken all those years.”
“No, not yet.”
“And perhaps it never will be broken.” To this she received no answer.
“Won’t it break?” she persisted. “Can’t you break it?”
“Yes, if you hit it with a hammer,” he said.
“Aw!” she cried. “I don’t mean that. I mean if you just drop it. It won’t break if you drop it, will it?”
“I dare say it won’t.”
“But WILL it?”
“I sh’d think not.”
“Should I try?”
She proceeded gingerly to let the blue ball drop, it bounced dully on the floor-covering.
“Oh-h-h!” she cried, catching64 it up. “I love it.”
“Let ME drop it,” cried Marjory, and there was a performance of admonition and demonstration65 from the elder sister.
But Millicent must go further. She became excited.
“It won’t break,” she said, “even if you toss it up in the air.”
She flung it up, it fell safely. But her father’s brow knitted slightly. She tossed it wildly: it fell with a little splashing explosion: it had smashed. It had fallen on the sharp edge of the tiles that protruded66 under the fender.
“NOW what have you done!” cried the mother.
The child stood with her lip between her teeth, a look, half, of pure misery67 and dismay, half of satisfaction, on her pretty sharp face.
“She wanted to break it,” said the father.
“No, she didn’t! What do you say that for!” said the mother. And Millicent burst into a flood of tears.
He rose to look at the fragments that lay splashed on the floor.
“You must mind the bits,” he said, “and pick ’em all up.”
He took one of the pieces to examine it. It was fine and thin and hard, lined with pure silver, brilliant. He looked at it closely. So — this was what it was. And this was the end of it. He felt the curious soft explosion of its breaking still in his ears. He threw his piece in the fire.
“Pick all the bits up,” he said. “Give over! give over! Don’t cry any more.” The good-natured tone of his voice quieted the child, as he intended it should.
He went away into the back kitchen to wash himself. As he was bending his head over the sink before the little mirror, lathering68 to shave, there came from outside the dissonant69 voices of boys, pouring out the dregs of carol-singing.
“While Shep-ep-ep-ep-herds watched —”
He held his soapy brush suspended for a minute. They called this singing! His mind flitted back to early carol music. Then again he heard the vocal70 violence outside.
“Aren’t you off there!” he called out, in masculine menace. The noise stopped, there was a scuffle. But the feet returned and the voices resumed. Almost immediately the door opened, boys were heard muttering among themselves. Millicent had given them a penny. Feet scraped on the yard, then went thudding along the side of the house, to the street.
To Aaron Sisson, this was home, this was Christmas: the unspeakably familiar. The war over, nothing was changed. Yet everything changed. The scullery in which he stood was painted green, quite fresh, very clean, the floor was red tiles. The wash-copper71 of red bricks was very red, the mangle72 with its put-up board was white-scrubbed, the American oil-cloth on the table had a gay pattern, there was a warm fire, the water in the boiler73 hissed74 faintly. And in front of him, beneath him as he leaned forward shaving, a drop of water fell with strange, incalculable rhythm from the bright brass51 tap into the white enamelled bowl, which was now half full of pure, quivering water. The war was over, and everything just the same. The acute familiarity of this house, which he had built for his marriage twelve years ago, the changeless pleasantness of it all seemed unthinkable. It prevented his thinking.
When he went into the middle room to comb his hair he found the Christmas tree sparkling, his wife was making pastry75 at the table, the baby was sitting up propped76 in cushions.
“Father,” said Millicent, approaching him with a flat blue-and-white angel of cotton-wool, and two ends of cotton —“tie the angel at the top.”
“Tie it at the top?” he said, looking down.
“Yes. At the very top — because it’s just come down from the sky.”
“Ay my word!” he laughed. And he tied the angel.
Coming downstairs after changing he went into the icy cold parlour, and took his music and a small handbag. With this he retreated again to the back kitchen. He was still in trousers and shirt and slippers77: but now it was a clean white shirt, and his best black trousers, and new pink and white braces. He sat under the gas-jet of the back kitchen, looking through his music. Then he opened the bag, in which were sections of a flute78 and a piccolo. He took out the flute, and adjusted it. As he sat he was physically79 aware of the sounds of the night: the bubbling of water in the boiler, the faint sound of the gas, the sudden crying of the baby in the next room, then noises outside, distant boys shouting, distant rags of carols, fragments of voices of men. The whole country was roused and excited.
The little room was hot. Aaron rose and opened a square ventilator over the copper, letting in a stream of cold air, which was grateful to him. Then he cocked his eye over the sheet of music spread out on the table before him. He tried his flute. And then at last, with the odd gesture of a diver taking a plunge80, he swung his head and began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms with slight, intense movements, as the delicate music poured out. It was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid81 and delicate.
The pure, mindless, exquisite82 motion and fluidity of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation83. There was something tense, exasperated84 to the point of intolerable anger, in his good-humored breast, as he played the finely-spun peace-music. The more exquisite the music, the more perfectly85 he produced it, in sheer bliss86; and at the same time, the more intense was the maddened exasperation within him.
Millicent appeared in the room. She fidgetted at the sink. The music was a bugbear to her, because it prevented her from saying what was on her own mind. At length it ended, her father was turning over the various books and sheets. She looked at him quickly, seizing her opportunity.
“Are you going out, Father?” she said.
“Eh?”
“Are you going out?” She twisted nervously87.
“What do you want to know for?”
He made no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet — then over it again — then more closely over it again.
“Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot.
He looked at her, and his eyes were angry under knitted brows.
“What are you bothering about?” he said.
“I’m not bothering — I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted88, quivering to cry.
“I expect I am,” he said quietly.
She recovered at once, but still with timidity asked:
“We haven’t got any candles for the Christmas tree — shall you buy some, because mother isn’t going out?”
“Candles!” he repeated, settling his music and taking up the piccolo.
“Yes — shall you buy us some, Father? Shall you?”
“Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo to his mouth and blowing a few piercing, preparatory notes.
“Yes, little Christmas-tree candles — blue ones and red ones, in boxes — Shall you, Father?”
“We’ll see — if I see any —”
“But SHALL you?” she insisted desperately89. She wisely mistrusted his vagueness.
But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, shrill90, brilliant. He was playing Mozart. The child’s face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise.
The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music seemed to possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man went on playing to himself, measured and insistent91. In the frosty evening the sound carried. People passing down the street hesitated, listening. The neighbours knew it was Aaron practising his piccolo. He was esteemed92 a good player: was in request at concerts and dances, also at swell93 balls. So the vivid piping sound tickled94 the darkness.
He played on till about seven o’clock; he did not want to go out too soon, in spite of the early closing of the public houses. He never went with the stream, but made a side current of his own. His wife said he was contrary. When he went into the middle room to put on his collar and tie, the two little girls were having their hair brushed, the baby was in bed, there was a hot smell of mince-pies baking in the oven.
“You won’t forget our candles, will you, Father?” asked Millicent, with assurance now.
“I’ll see,” he answered.
His wife watched him as he put on his overcoat and hat. He was well- dressed, handsome-looking. She felt there was a curious glamour95 about him. It made her feel bitter. He had an unfair advantage — he was free to go off, while she must stay at home with the children.
“There’s no knowing what time you’ll be home,” she said.
“I shan’t be late,” he answered.
“It’s easy to say so,” she retorted, with some contempt. He took his stick, and turned towards the door.
“Bring the children some candles for their tree, and don’t be so selfish,” she said.
“All right,” he said, going out.
“Don’t say ALL RIGHT if you never mean to do it,” she cried, with sudden anger, following him to the door.
His figure stood large and shadowy in the darkness.
“How many do you want?” he said.
“A dozen,” she said. “And holders96 too, if you can get them,” she added, with barren bitterness.
“Yes — all right,” he turned and melted into the darkness. She went indoors, worn with a strange and bitter flame.
He crossed the fields towards the little town, which once more fumed97 its lights under the night. The country ran away, rising on his right hand. It was no longer a great bank of darkness. Lights twinkled freely here and there, though forlornly, now that the war-time restrictions98 were removed. It was no glitter of pre-war nights, pit- heads glittering far-off with electricity. Neither was it the black gulf99 of the war darkness: instead, this forlorn sporadic100 twinkling.
Everybody seemed to be out of doors. The hollow dark countryside re-echoed like a shell with shouts and calls and excited voices. Restlessness and nervous excitement, nervous hilarity101 were in the air. There was a sense of electric surcharge everywhere, frictional, a neurasthenic haste for excitement.
Every moment Aaron Sisson was greeted with Good-night — Good-night, Aaron — Good-night, Mr. Sisson. People carrying parcels, children, women, thronged102 home on the dark paths. They were all talking loudly, declaiming loudly about what they could and could not get, and what this or the other had lost.
When he got into the main street, the only street of shops, it was crowded. There seemed to have been some violent but quiet contest, a subdued103 fight, going on all the afternoon and evening: people struggling to buy things, to get things. Money was spent like water, there was a frenzy104 of money-spending. Though the necessities of life were in abundance, still the people struggled in frenzy for cheese, sweets, raisins105, pork-stuff, even for flowers and holly106, all of which were scarce, and for toys and knick-knacks, which were sold out. There was a wild grumbling, but a deep satisfaction in the fight, the struggle. The same fight and the same satisfaction in the fight was witnessed whenever a tram-car stopped, or when it heaved its way into sight. Then the struggle to mount on board became desperate and savage107, but stimulating108. Souls surcharged with hostility109 found now some outlet110 for their feelings.
As he came near the little market-place he bethought himself of the Christmas-tree candles. He did not intend to trouble himself. And yet, when he glanced in passing into the sweet-shop window, and saw it bare as a board, the very fact that he probably could not buy the things made him hesitate, and try.
“Have you got any Christmas-tree candles?” he asked as he entered the shop.
“How many do you want?”
“A dozen.”
“Can’t let you have a dozen. You can have two boxes — four in a box — eight. Six-pence a box.”
“Got any holders?”
“Holders? Don’t ask. Haven’t seen one this year.”
“Got any toffee —?”
“Cough-drops — two-pence an ounce — nothing else left.”
“Give me four ounces.”
He watched her weighing them in the little brass scales.
“You’ve not got much of a Christmas show,” he said.
“Don’t talk about Christmas, as far as sweets is concerned. They ought to have allowed us six times the quantity — there’s plenty of sugar, why didn’t they? We s’ll have to enjoy ourselves with what we’ve got. We mean to, anyhow.”
“Ay,” he said.
“Time we had a bit of enjoyment111, THIS Christmas. They ought to have made things more plentiful112.”
“Yes,” he said, stuffing his package in his pocket.
收听单词发音 |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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plangent
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| adj.悲哀的，轰鸣的 | |
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braces
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| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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itched
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| v.发痒( itch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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25
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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26
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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27
linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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28
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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29
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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30
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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31
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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32
incandescent
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| adj.遇热发光的， 白炽的，感情强烈的 | |
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33
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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34
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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35
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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36
squatted
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| 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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37
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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38
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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39
jabber
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| v.快而不清楚地说；n.吱吱喳喳 | |
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40
politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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41
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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42
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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43
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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44
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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45
cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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46
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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47
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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50
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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51
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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52
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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53
itching
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| adj.贪得的，痒的，渴望的v.发痒( itch的现在分词 ) | |
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54
lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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57
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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58
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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60
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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62
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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63
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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64
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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lathering
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| n.痛打，怒骂v.（指肥皂）形成泡沫( lather的现在分词 )；用皂沫覆盖；狠狠地打 | |
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69
dissonant
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| adj.不和谐的；不悦耳的 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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71
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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72
mangle
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| vt.乱砍，撕裂，破坏，毁损，损坏，轧布 | |
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73
boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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74
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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75
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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76
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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78
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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79
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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80
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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81
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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82
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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83
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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84
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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85
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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86
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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87
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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88
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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90
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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91
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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92
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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93
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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94
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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95
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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96
holders
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| 支持物( holder的名词复数 )； 持有者； （支票等）持有人； 支托（或握持）…之物 | |
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97
fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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98
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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99
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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100
sporadic
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| adj.偶尔发生的 [反]regular；分散的 | |
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101
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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102
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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104
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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105
raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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106
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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107
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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108
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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109
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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110
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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111
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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112
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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