One hot morning some few days later, Polly, with Trotty at her side, stood on the doorstep shading her eyes with her hand. She was on the look-out for her “vegetable man,” who drove in daily from the Springs with his greenstuff. He was late as usual: if Richard would only let her deal with the cheaper, more punctual Ah Sing, who was at this moment coming up the track. But Devine was a reformed character: after, as a digger, having squandered1 a fortune in a week, he had given up the drink and, backed by a hard-working, sober wife, was now trying to earn a living at market-gardening. So he had to be encouraged.
The Chinaman jog-trotted towards them, his baskets a-sway, his mouth stretched to a friendly grin. “You no want cabbagee to-day? Me got velly good cabbagee,” he said persuasively3 and lowered his pole.
“No thank you, John, not to-day. Me wait for white man.”
“Me bling pleasant for lilly missee,” said the Chow; and unknotting a dirty nosecloth, he drew from it an ancient lump of candied ginger4. “Lilly missee eatee him . . . oh, yum, yum! Velly good. My word!”
But Chinamen to Trotty were fearsome bogies, corresponding to the swart-faced, white-eyed chimney-sweeps of the English nursery. She hid behind her aunt, holding fast to the latter’s skirts, and only stealing an occasional peep from one saucer-like blue eye.
“Thank you, John. Me takee chowchow for lilly missee,” said Polly, who had experience in disposing of such savoury morsels5.
“You no buy cabbagee to-day?” repeated Ah Sing, with the catlike persistence6 of his race. And as Polly, with equal firmness and good-humour, again shook her head, he shouldered his pole and departed at a half-run, crooning as he went.
Meanwhile at the bottom of the road another figure had come into view. It was not Devine in his spring-cart; it was some one on horseback, was a lady, in a holland habit. The horse, a piebald, advanced at a sober pace, and —“Why, good gracious! I believe she’s coming here.”
At the first of the three houses the rider had dismounted, and knocked at the door with the butt7 of her whip. After a word with the woman who opened, she threw her riding-skirt over one arm, put the other through the bridle8, and was now making straight for them.
As she drew near she smiled, showing a row of white teeth. “Does Dr. Mahony live here?”
Misfortune of misfortunes!— Richard was out.
But almost instantly Polly grasped that this would tell in his favour. “He won’t be long, I know.”
“I wonder,” said the lady, “if he would come out to my house when he gets back? I am Mrs Glendinning — of Dandaloo.”
Polly flushed, with sheer satisfaction: Dandaloo was one of the largest stations in the neighbourhood of Ballarat. “Oh, I’m certain he will,” she answered quickly.
“I am so glad you think so,” said Mrs. Glendinning. “A mutual9 friend, Mr. Henry Ocock, tells me how clever he is.”
Polly’s brain leapt at the connection; on the occasion of Richard’s last visit the lawyer had again repeated the promise to put a patient in his way. Ocock was one of those people, said Richard, who only remembered your existence when he saw you.— Oh, what a blessing10 in disguise had been that troublesome old land sale!
The lady had stooped to Trotty, whom she was trying to coax11 from her lurking-place. “What a darling! How I envy you!”
“Have you no children?” Polly asked shyly, when Trotty’s relationship had been explained.
“Yes, a boy. But I should have liked a little girl of my own. Boys are so difficult,” and she sighed.
The horse nuzzling for sugar roused Polly to a sense of her remissness12. “Won’t you come in and rest a little, after your ride?” she asked; and without hesitation13 Mrs. Glendinning said she would like to, very much indeed; and tying the hone to the fence, she followed Polly into the house.
The latter felt proud this morning of its apple-pie order. She drew up the best armchair, placed a footstool before it and herself carried in a tray with refreshments14. Mrs. Glendinning had taken Trotty on her lap, and given the child her long gold chains to play with. Polly thought her the most charming creature in the world. She had a slender waist, and an abundant light brown chignon, and cheeks of a beautiful pink, in which two fascinating dimples came and went. The feather from her riding-hat lay on her neck. Her eyes were the colour of forget-me-nots, her mouth was red as any rose. She had, too, so sweet and natural a manner that Polly was soon chatting frankly15 about herself and her life, Mrs. Glendinning listening with her face pressed to the spun-glass of Trotty’s hair.
When she rose, she clasped both Polly’s hands in hers. “You dear little woman. . . may I kiss you? I am ever so much older than you.”
“I am eighteen,” said Polly.
“And I on the shady side of twenty-eight!”
They laughed and kissed. “I shall ask your husband to bring you out to see me. And take no refusal. AU REVOIR!” and riding off, she turned in the saddle and waved her hand.
For all her pleasurable excitement Polly did not let the grass grow under her feet. There being still no sign of Richard — he had gone to Soldiers’ Hill to extract a rusty16 nail from a child’s foot — Ellen was sent to summon him home; and when the girl returned with word that he was on the way, Polly dispatched her to the livery-barn, to order the horse to be got ready.
Richard took the news coolly. “Did she say what the matter was?”
No, she hadn’t; and Polly had not liked to ask her; it could surely be nothing very serious, or she would have mentioned it.
“H’m. Then it’s probably as I thought. Glendinning’s failing is well known. Only the other day, I heard that more than one medical man had declined to have anything further to do with the case. It’s a long way out, and fees are not always forthcoming. HE doesn’t ask for a doctor, and, womanlike, she forgets to pay the bills. I suppose they think they’ll try a greenhorn this time.”
Pressed by Polly, who was curious to learn everything about her new friend, he answered: “I should be sorry to tell you, my dear, how many bottles of brandy it is Glendinning’s boast he can empty in a week.”
“Drink? Oh, Richard, how terrible! And that pretty, pretty woman!” cried Polly, and drove her thoughts backwards17: she had seen no hint of tragedy in her caller’s lovely face. However, she did not wait to ponder, but asked, a little anxiously: “But you’ll go, dear, won’t you?”
“Go? Of course I shall! Beggars can’t be choosers.” “Besides, you know, you MIGHT be able to do something where other people have failed.”
Mahony rode out across the Flat. For a couple of miles his route was one with the Melbourne Road, on which plied18 the usual motley traffic. Then, branching off at right angles, it dived into the bush — in this case a scantly19 wooded, uneven20 plain, burnt tobacco-brown and hard as iron.
Here went no one but himself. He and the mare21 were the sole living creatures in what, for its stillness, might have been a painted landscape. Not a breath of air stirred the weeping grey-green foliage22 of the gums; nor was there any bird-life to rustle23 the leaves, or peck, or chirrup. Did he draw rein24, the silence was so intense that he could almost hear it.
On striking the outlying boundary of Dandaloo, he dismounted to slip a rail. After that he was in and out of the saddle, his way leading through numerous gateless paddocks before it brought him up to the homestead.
This, a low white wooden building, overspread by a broad verandah — from a distance it looked like an elongated25 mushroom — stood on a hill. At the end, the road had run alongside a well-stocked fruit and flower-garden; but the hillside itself, except for a gravelled walk in front of the house, was uncultivated — was given over to dead thistles and brown weeds.
Fastening his bridle to a post, Mahony unstrapped his bag of necessaries and stepped on to the verandah. A row of French windows stood open; but flexible green sun-blinds hid the rooms from view. The front door was a French window, too, differing from the rest only in its size. There was neither bell nor knocker. While he was rapping with the knuckles27 on the panel, one of the. blinds was pushed aside and Mrs. Glendinning came out.
She was still in hat and riding-habit; had herself, she said, reached home but half an hour ago. Summoning a station-hand to attend to the horse, she raised a blind and ushered28 Mahony into the dining-room, where she had been sitting at lunch, alone at the head of a large table. A Chinaman brought fresh plates, and Mahony was invited to draw up his chair. He had an appetite after his ride; the room was cool and dark; there were no flies.
Throughout the meal, the lady kept up a running fire of talk — the graceful29 chitchat that sits so well on pretty lips. She spoke30 of the coming Races; of the last Government House Ball; of the untimely death of Governor Hotham. To Mahony she instinctively31 turned a different side out, from that which had captured Polly. With all her well-bred ease, there was a womanly deference32 in her manner, a readiness to be swayed, to stand corrected. The riding-dress set off her figure; and her delicate features were perfectly33 chiselled34. (“Though she’ll be florid before she’s forty.”)
Some juicy nectarines finished, she pushed back her chair. “And now, doctor, will you come and see your patient?”
Mahony followed her down a broad, bare passage. A number of rooms opened off it, but instead of entering one of these she led him out to a back verandah. Here, before a small door, she listened with bent35 head, then turned the handle and went in.
The room was so dark that Mahony could see nothing. Gradually he made out a figure lying on a stretcher-bed. A watcher sat at the bedside. The atmosphere was more than close, smelt36 rank and sour. His first request was for light and air.
It was the wreck37 of a fine man that lay there, strapped26 over the chest, bound hand and foot to the framework of the bed. The forehead, on which the hair had receded38 to a few mean grey wisps, was high and domed39, the features were straight with plenty of bone in them, the shoulders broad, the arms long. The skin of the face had gone a mahogany brown from exposure, and a score of deep wrinkles ran out fan-wise from the corners of the closed lids. Mahony untied40 the dirty towels that formed the bandages — they had cut ridges41 in the limbs they confined — and took one of the heavy wrists in his hand.
“How long has he lain like this?” he asked, as he returned the arm to its place.
“How long is it, Saunderson?” asked Mrs. Glendinning. She had sat down on a chair at the foot of the bed; her skirts overflowed42 the floor.
The watcher guessed it would be since about the same time yesterday.
“Was he unusually violent on this occasion?— for I presume such attacks are not uncommon43 with him,” continued Mahony, who had meanwhile made a superficial examination of the sick man.
“I am sorry to say they are only too common, doctor,” replied the lady. —“Was he worse than usual this time, Saunderson?” she turned again to the man; at which fresh proof of her want of knowledge Mahony mentally raised his eyebrows44.
“To say trewth, I never see’d the boss so bad before,” answered Saunderson solemnly, grating the palms of the big red hands that hung down between his knees. “And I’ve helped him through the jumps more’n once. It’s my opinion it would ha’ been a narrow squeak45 for him this time, if me and a mate hadn’t nipped in and got these bracelets46 on him. There he was, ravin’ and sweatin’ and cursin’ his head off, grey as death. Hell-gate, he called it, said he was devil’s-porter at hell-gate, and kept hollerin’ for napkins and his firesticks. Poor ol’ boss! It WAS hell for him and no mistake!”
By dint47 of questioning Mahony elicited48 the fact that Glendinning had been unseated by a young horse, three days previously49. At the time, no heed50 was paid to the trifling51 accident. Later on, however, complaining of feeling cold and unwell, he went to bed, and after lying wakeful for some hours was seized by the horrors of delirium52.
Requesting the lady to leave them, Mahony made a more detailed53 examination. His suspicions were confirmed: there was internal trouble of old standing54, rendered acute by the fall. Aided by Saunderson, he worked with restoratives for the best part of an hour. In the end he had the satisfaction of seeing the coma55 pass over into a natural repose56.
“Well, he’s through this time, but I won’t answer for the next,” he said, and looked about him for a basin in which to wash his hands. “Can’t you manage to keep the drink from him?— or at least to limit him?”
“Nay, the Almighty57 Himself couldn’t do that,” gave back Saunderson, bringing forward soap and a tin dish.
“How does it come that he lies in a place like this?” asked Mahony, as he dried his hands on a corner of the least dirty towel, and glanced curiously58 round. The room — in size it did not greatly exceed that of a ship’s-cabin — was in a state of squalid disorder59. Besides a deal table and a couple of chairs, its main contents were rows and piles of old paper-covered magazines, the thick brown dust on which showed that they had not been moved for months — or even years. The whitewashed60 walls were smoke-tanned and dotted with millions of fly-specks; the dried corpses61 of squashed spiders formed large black patches; all four corners of the ceiling were festooned with cobwebs.
Saunderson shrugged62 his shoulders. “This was his den2 when he first was manager here, in old Morrison’s time, and he’s stuck to it ever since. He shuts himself up in here, and won’t have a female cross the threshold — nor yet Madam G. herself.”
Having given final instructions, Mahony went out to rejoin the lady.
“I will not conceal63 from you that your husband is in a very precarious64 condition.”
“Do you mean, doctor, he won’t live long?” She had evidently been lying down: one side of her face was flushed and marked. Crying, too, or he was much mistaken: her lids were red-rimmed, her shapely features swollen65.
“Ah, you ask too much of me; I am only a woman; I have no influence over him,” she said sadly, and shook her head.
“What is his age?”
“He is forty-seven.”
Mahony had put him down for at least ten years older, and said so. But the lady was not listening: she fidgeted with her lace-edged handkerchief, looked uneasy, seemed to be in debate with herself. Finally she said aloud: “Yes, I will.” And to him: “Doctor, would you come with me a moment?”
This time she conducted him to a well-appointed bedchamber, off which gave a smaller room, containing a little four-poster draped in dimity. With a vague gesture in the direction of the bed, she sank on a chair beside the door.
Drawing the curtains Mahony discovered a fair-haired boy of some eight or nine years old. He lay with his head far back, his mouth wide open — apparently66 fast asleep.
But the doctor’s eye was quick to see that it was no natural sleep. “Good God! who is responsible for this?”
Mrs. Glendinning held her handkerchief to her face. “I have never told any one before,” she wept. “The shame of it, doctor . . . is more than I can bear.”
“Who is the blackguard? Come, answer me, if you please!”
“Oh, doctor, don’t scold me. . . I am so unhappy.” The pretty face puckered67 and creased68; the full bosom69 heaved. “He is all I have. And such a bright, clever little fellow! You will cure him for me, won’t you?”
“How often has it happened?”
“I don’t know . . . about five or six times, I think . . . perhaps more. There’s a place not far from here where he can get it . . . an old hut-cook my husband dismissed once, in a fit of temper — he has oh such a temper! Eddy70 saddles his pony71 and rides out there, if he’s not watched; and then . . . then, they bring him back . . . like this.”
“But who supplies him with money?”
“Money? Oh, but doctor, he can’t be kept without pocket-money! He has always had as much as he wanted.— No, it is all my husband’s doing,”— and now she broke out in one of those shameless confessions72, from which the medical adviser73 is never safe. “He hates me; he is only happy if he can hurt me and humiliate74 me. I don’t care what becomes of him. The sooner he dies the better!”
“Compose yourself, my dear lady. Later you may regret such hasty words. — And what has this to do with the child? Come, speak out. It will be a relief to you to tell me.”
“You are so kind, doctor,” she sobbed75, and drank, with hysterical76 gurglings, the glass of water Mahony poured out for her. “Yes, I will tell you everything. It began years ago — when Eddy was only a tot in jumpers. It used to amuse my husband to see him toss off a glass of wine like a grown-up person; and it WAS comical, when he sipped77 it, and smacked78 his lips. But then he grew to like it, and to ask for it, and be cross when he was refused. And then. . . then he learnt how to get it for himself. And when his father saw I was upset about it, he egged him on — gave it to him on the sly.— Oh, he is a bad man, doctor, a BAD, cruel man! He says such wicked things, too. He doesn’t believe in God, or that it is wrong to take one’s own life, and he says he never wanted children. He jeers79 at me because I am fond of Eddy, and because I go to church when I can, and says . . . oh, I know I am not clever, but I am not quite such a fool as he makes me out to be. He speaks to me as if I were the dirt under his feet. He can’t bear the sight of me. I have heard him curse the day he first saw me. And so he’s only too glad to be able to come between my boy and me . . . in any way he can.”
Mahony led the weeping woman back to the dining-room. There he sat long, patiently listening and advising; sat, till Mrs. Glendinning had dried her eyes and was her charming self once more.
The gist80 of what he said was, the boy must be removed from home at once, and placed in strict, yet kind hands.
Here, however, he ran up against a weak maternal81 obstinacy82. “Oh, but I couldn’t part from Eddy. He is all I have. . . . And so devoted83 to his mammy.”
As Mahony insisted, she looked the picture of helplessness. “But I should have no idea how to set about it. And my husband would put every possible obstacle in the way.”
“With your permission I will arrange the matter myself.”
“Oh, how kind you are!” cried Mrs. Glendinning again. “But mind, doctor, it must be somewhere where Eddy will lack none of the comforts he is accustomed to, and where his poor mammy can see him whenever she wishes. Otherwise he will fret84 himself ill.”
Mahony promised to do his best to satisfy her, and declining, very curtly85, the wine she pressed on him, went out to mount his horse which had been brought round.
Following him on to the verandah, Mrs. Glendinning became once more the pretty woman frankly concerned for her appearance. “I don’t know how I look, I’m sure,” she said apologetically, and raised both hands to her hair. “Now I will go and rest for an hour. There is to be opossuming and a moonlight picnic to-night at Warraluen.” Catching86 Mahony’s eye fixed87 on her with a meaning emphasis, she changed colour. “I cannot sit at home and think, doctor. I MUST distract myself; or I should go mad.”
When he was in the saddle she showed him her dimples again, and her small, even teeth. “I want you to bring your wife to see me next time you come,” she sad, patting the horse’s neck. “I took a great fancy to her — a sweet little woman!”
But Mahony, jogging downhill, said to himself he would think twice before introducing Polly there. His young wife’s sunny, girlish outlook should not, with his consent, be clouded by a knowledge of the sordid88 things this material prosperity hid from view. A whited sepulchre seemed to him now the richly appointed house, the well-stocked gardens, the acres on acres of good pasture-land: a fair outside when, within, all was foul89. He called to mind what he knew by hearsay90 of the owner. Glendinning was one of the pioneer squatters of the district, had held the run for close on fifteen years. Nowadays, when the land round was entirely91 taken up, and a place like Ballarat stood within stone’s-throw, it was hard to imagine the awful solitude92 to which the early settlers had been condemned93. Then, with his next neighbour miles and miles away, Melbourne, the nearest town, a couple of days’ ride through trackless bush, a man was a veritable prisoner in this desert of paddocks, with not a soul to speak to but rough station-hands, and nothing to occupy his mind but the damage done by summer droughts and winter floods. No support or comradeship in the wife either — this poor pretty foolish little woman: “With the brains of a pigeon!” Glendinning had the name of being intelligent: was it, under these circumstances, matter for wonder that he should seek to drown doubts, memories, inevitable94 regrets; should be led on to the bitter discovery that forgetfulness alone rendered life endurable? Yes, there was something sinister95 in the dead stillness of the melancholy96 bush; in the harsh, merciless sunlight of the late afternoon.
A couple of miles out his horse cast a shoe, and it was evening before he reached home. Polly was watching for him on the doorstep, in a twitter lest some accident had happened or he had had a brush with bushrangers.
“It never rains but it pours, dear!” was her greeting: he had been twice sent for to the Flat, to attend a woman in labour.— And with barely time to wash the worst of the ride’s dust off him, he had to pick up his bag and hurry away.
收听单词发音 |
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squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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remissness
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| n.玩忽职守；马虎；怠慢；不小心 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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scantly
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| 缺乏地，仅仅 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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domed
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| adj. 圆屋顶的, 半球形的, 拱曲的 动词dome的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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45
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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coma
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| n.昏迷，昏迷状态 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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86
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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92
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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93
condemned
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| 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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94
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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95
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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96
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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