That night a great storm rose. Mahony, sitting reading after everyone else had retired2, saw it coming, and lamp in hand went round the house to secure hasps and catches; then stood at the window to watch the storm’s approach. In one half of the sky the stars were still peacefully alight; the other was hidden by a dense3 cloud, which came racing4 along like a giant bat with outspread wings, devouring5 the stars in its flight. The storm broke; there was a sudden shrill6 screeching7, a grinding, piping, whistling, and the wind hurled8 itself against the house as if to level it with the ground; failing in this, it banged and battered9, making windows and doors shake like loose teeth in their sockets10. Then it swept by to wreak11 its fury elsewhere, and there was a grateful lull12 out of which burst a peal13 of thunder. And now peal followed peal, and the face of the sky, with its masses of swirling14, frothy cloud, resembled an angry sea. The lightning ripped it in fierce zigzags15, darting16 out hundreds of spectral17 fangs18. It was a magnificent sight.
Polly came running to see where he was, the child cried, Miss Tilly opened her door by a hand’s-breadth, and thrust a red, puffy face, framed in curl-twists, through the crack. Nobody thought of sleep while the commotion19 lasted, for fear of fire: once alight, these exposed little wooden houses blazed up like heaps of shavings. The clock-hands pointed20 to one before the storm showed signs of abating21. Now, the rain was pouring down, making an ear-splitting din1 on the iron roof and leaping from every gutter22 and spout23. It had turned very cold. Mahony shivered as he got into bed.
He seemed hardly to have closed an eye when he was wakened by a loud knocking; at the same time the wire of the night-bell was almost wrenched24 in two. He sat up and looked at his watch. It wanted a few minutes to three; the rain was still falling in torrents25, the wind sighed and moaned. Wild horses should not drag him out on such a night! Thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his dressing26-gown, he threw up the parlour window. “Who’s there?” The hiss27 of the rain cut his words through.
A figure on the doorstep turned at the sound. “Is this a doctor’s? I wuz sent here. Doctor! for God’s sake . . .”
“What is it? Stop a minute! I’ll open the door.”
He did so, letting in a blast of wind and a rush of rain that flooded the oilcloth. The intruder, off whom the water streamed, had to shout to make himself audible.
“It’s me — Mat Doyle’s me name! It’s me wife, doctor; she’s dying. I’ve bin29 all night on the road. Ah, for the love of —”
“Where is it?” Mahony put his hand to the side of his mouth, to keep his words from flying adrift in the wind.
“Paddy’s Rest. You’re the third I’ve bin to. Not one of the dirty dogs’ull stir a leg! Me girl may die like a rabbit for all they care.”— The man’s voice broke, as he halloed particulars.
“Paddy’s Rest? On a night like this? Why, the creek30 will be out.”
“Doctor! you’re from th’ ould country, I can hear it in your lip. Haven’t you a wife, too, doctor? Then show a bit o’ mercy to mine!”
“Tut, tut, man, none of that!” said Mahony curtly31. “You should have bespoken32 me at the proper time to attend your wife.— Besides, there’ll be no getting along the road to-night.”
The other caught the note of yielding. “Sure an’ you’d go out, doctor dear, without thinkin’, to save your dog if he was drownin’. I’ve got me buggy down there; I’ll take you safe. And you shan’t regret it; I’ll make it worth your while, by the Lord Harry34 I will!”
“Pshaw!”— Mahony opened the door of the surgery and struck a match. It was a rough grizzled fellow — a “cocky,” on his own showing — who presented himself in the lamplight. His wife had fallen ill that afternoon. At first everything seemed to be going well; then she was seized with fits, had one fit after another, and all but bit her tongue in two. There was nobody with her but a young girl he had fetched from a mile away. He had meant, when her time came, to bring her to the District Hospital. But they had been taken unawares. While he waited he sat with his elbows on his knees, his face between his clenched35 fists.
In dressing, Mahony reassured36 Polly, and instructed her what to say to people who came inquiring after him; it was unlikely he would be back before afternoon. Most of the patients could wait till then. The one exception, a case of typhoid in its second week, a young Scotch37 surgeon, Brace38, whom he had obliged in a similar emergency, would no doubt see for him — she should send Ellen down with a note. And having poured Doyle out a nobbler and put a flask39 in his own pocket, Mahony reopened the front door to the howl of the wind.
The lantern his guide carried shed only a tiny circlet of light on the blackness; and the two men picked their steps gingerly along the flooded road. The rain ran in jets off the brim of Mahony’s hat, and down the back of his neck.
Having climbed into the buggy they advanced at a funeral pace, leaving it to the sagacity of the horse to keep the track. At the creek, sure enough, the water was out, the bridge gone. To reach the next bridge, five miles off, a crazy cross-country drive would have been necessary; and Mahony was for giving up the job. But Doyle would not acknowledge defeat. He unharnessed the horse, set Mahony on its back, and himself holding to its tail, forced the beast, by dint40 of kicking and lashing41, into the water; and not only got them safely across, but up the steep sticky clay of the opposite bank. It was six o’clock and a cloudless morning when, numb42 with cold, his clothing clinging to him like wet seaweed, Mahony entered the wooden hut where the real work he had come out to do began.
Later in the day, clad in an odd collection of baggy43 garments, he sat and warmed himself in the sun, which was fast drawing up in the form of a blankety mist the moisture from the ground. He had successfully performed, under the worst possible conditions, a ticklish44 operation; and was now so tired that, with his chin on his chest, he fell fast asleep.
Doyle wakened him by announcing the arrival of the buggy. The good man, who had more than one nobbler during the morning could not hold his tongue, but made still another wordy attempt to express his gratitude45. “Whither me girl lives or dies, it’ll not be Mat Doyle who forgits what you did for him this night, doctor! An’ if iver you want a bit o’ work done, or some one to do your lyin’ awake at night for you, just you gimme the tip. I don’t mind tellin’ you now, I’d me shootin’-iron here” — he touched his right hip46 —“an’ if you’d refused — you was the third, mind you,— I’d have drilled you where you stood, God damn me if I wouldn’t!”
Mahony eyed the speaker with derision. “Much good that would have done your wife, you fathead! Well, well, we’ll say nothing to MINE, if you please, about anything of that sort.”
“No, may all the saints bless ‘er and give ‘er health! An’ as I say, doctor. . . .” In speaking he had drawn47 a roll of bank-notes from his pocket, and now he tried to stuff them between Mahony’s fingers.
“What’s this? My good man, keep your money till it’s asked for!” and Mahony unclasped his hands, so that the notes fluttered to the ground.
“Then there let ’em lay!”
But when, in clothes dried stiff as cardboard, Mahony was rolling townwards — his coachman, a lad of some ten or twelve who handled the reins48 to the manner born — as they went he chanced to feel in his coat pocket, and there found five ten-pound notes rolled up in a neat bundle.
The main part of the road was dry and hard again; but all dips and holes were wells of liquid mud, which bespattered the two of them from top to toe as the buggy bumped carelessly in and out. Mahony diverted himself by thinking of what he could give Polly with this sum. It would serve to buy that pair of gilt49 cornices or the heavy gilt-framed pierglass on which she had set her heart. He could see her, pink with pleasure, expostulating: “Richard! What WICKED extravagance!” and hear himself reply: “And pray may my wife not have as pretty a parlour as her neighbours?” He even cast a thought, in passing, on the pianoforte with which Polly longed to crown the furnishings of her room — though, of course, at least treble this amount would be needed to cover its cost.— But a fig28 for such nonsense! He knew but one legitimate50 use to make of the unexpected little windfall, and that was, to put it by for a rainy day. “At my age, in my position, I OUGHT to have fifty pounds in the bank!”— times without number he had said this to himself, with a growing impatience51. But he had not yet managed to save a halfpenny. Thrive as the practice might, the expenses of living held even pace with it. And now, having got its cue, his brain started off again on the old treadmill52, reckoning, totting up, finding totals, or more often failing to find them, till his head was as hot as his feet were cold. To-day he could not think clearly at all.
Nor the next day either. By the time he reached home he was conscious of feeling very ill: he had lancinating pains in his limbs, a chill down his spine53, an outrageous54 temperature. To set out again on a round of visits was impossible. He had just to tumble into bed.
He got between the sheets with that sense of utter well-being55, of almost sensual satisfaction, which only one who is shivering with fever knows. And at first very small things were enough to fill him with content: the smoothness of the pillow’s sleek57 linen58; the shadowy light of the room after long days spent in the dusty glare outside; the possibility of resting, the knowledge that it was his duty to rest; Polly’s soft, firm hands, which were always of the right temperature — warm in the cold stage, cool when the fever scorched59 him, and neither hot nor cold when the dripping sweats came on. But as the fever declined, these slight pleasures lost their hold. Then he was ridden to death by black thoughts. Not only was day being added to day, he meanwhile not turning over a penny; but ideas which he knew to be preposterous60 insinuated61 themselves in his brain. Thus, for hours on end he writhed62 under the belief that his present illness was due solely63 to the proximity64 of the Great Swamp, and lay and cursed his folly65 in having chosen just this neighbourhood to build in. Again, there was the case of typhoid he had been anxious about, prior to his own breakdown67: under his LOCUM, peritonitis had set in and carried off the patient. At the time he had accepted the news from Polly’s lips with indifference68 — too ill to care. But a little later the knowledge of what it meant broke over him, and he suffered the tortures of the damned. Not Brace; he alone would be held responsible for the death; and perhaps not altogether unjustly. Lying there, a prey69 to morbid70 apprehensions71, he rebuilt the case in memory, struggling to recall each slight variation in temperature, each swift change for better or worse; but as fast as he captured one such detail, his drowsy72 brain let the last but one go, and he had to beat it up anew. During the night he grew confident that the relatives of the dead woman intended to take action against him, for negligence73 or improper74 attendance.
An attempt to speak of these devilish imaginings to wife and friend was a failure. He undertook it in a fit of desperation, when it seemed as if only a strong and well grounded opposition75 would save his reason. But this was just what he could not get. Purdy, whom he tried first, held the crude notion that a sick person should never be gainsaid76; and soothingly77 sympathised and agreed, till Mahony could have cried aloud at such blundering stupidity. Polly did better; she contradicted him. But not in the right way. She certainly pooh-poohed his idea of the nearness of Yuille’s Swamp making the house unhealthy; but she did not argue the matter, step by step, and CONVINCE him that he was wrong. She just laughed at him as at a foolish child, and kissed him, and tucked him in anew. And when it came to the typhoid’s fatal issue, she had not the knowledge needed to combat him with any chance of success. She heard him anxiously out, and allowed herself to be made quite nervous over a possible fault on his part, so jealous was she for his growing reputation.
So that in the end it was he who had to comfort her.
“Don’t take any notice of what I say to-day, wife. It’s this blessed fever. . . . I’m light-headed, I think.”
But he could hear her uneasily consulting with Purdy in the passage.
It was not till his pulse beat normally again that he could smile at his exaggerated fears. Now, too, reviving health brought back a wholesome78 interest in everyday affairs. He listened with amusement to Polly’s account of the shifts Purdy was reduced to, to enter the house unseen by Miss Tilly. On his faithful daily call, the young man would creep round by the back door, and Tilly was growing more and more irate79 at her inability to waylay80 him. Yes, Polly was rather redly forced to admit, she HAD abetted81 him in his evasions82. (“You know, Poll, I might just as well tie myself up to old Mother B. herself and be done with it!”) Out of sheer pique83 Tilly had twice now accepted old Mr. Ocock’s invitation to drive with him. Once, she had returned with a huge bag of lollies; and once, with a face like a turkey-cock. Polly couldn’t help thinking . . . no, really, Richard, she could not! . . . that perhaps something might COME of it. He should not laugh; just wait and see.
Many inquiries84 had been made after him. People had missed their doctor, it seemed, and wanted him back. It was a real red-letter day when he could snap to the catches of his gloves again, and mount the step of a buggy.
He had instructed Purdy to arrange for the hire of this vehicle, saddle-work being out of the question for him in the meantime. And on his first long journey — it led him past Doyle’s hut, now, he was sorry to see, in the hands of strangers; for the wife, on the way to making a fair recovery, had got up too soon, overtaxed her strength and died, and the broken-hearted husband was gone off no one knew where — on this drive, as mile after mile slid from under the wheels, Mahony felt how grateful was the screen of a hood66 between him and the sun.
While he was laid up, the eternal question of how to live on his income had left him, relatively85 speaking, in peace. He had of late adopted the habit of doing his scraping and saving at the outset of each quarter, so as to get the money due to Ocock put by betimes. His illness had naturally made a hole in this; and now the living from hand to mouth must begin anew.
With what remained of Doyle’s money he proposed to settle his account at the livery-stable. Then the unexpected happened. His reappearance — he looked very thin and washed-out — evidently jogged a couple of sleepy memories. Simultaneously86 two big bills were paid, one of which he had entirely87 given up. In consequence, he again found himself fifty pounds to the good. And driving to Ocock’s office, on term day, he resolved to go on afterwards to the Bank of Australasia and there deposit this sum.
Grindle, set off by a pair of flaming “sideboards,” himself ushered88 Mahony into the sanctum, and the affair was disposed of in a trice. Ocock was one of the busiest of men nowadays — he no longer needed to invent sham89 clients and fictitious90 interviews — and he utilised the few odd minutes it took to procure91 a signature, jot92 down a note, open a drawer, unlock a tin box to remark abstractedly on the weather and put a polite inquiry93: “And your good lady? In the best of health, I trust?”
On emerging from the inner room, Mahony saw that the places formerly94 filled by Tom and Johnny were occupied by strangers; and he was wondering whether it would be indiscreet to ask what had become of the brothers, when Ocock cut across his intention. “By the way, Jenkins, has that memorandum95 I spoke33 of been drawn up?” he turned to a clerk.
With a sheet of foolscap in his hand, he invited Mahony with a beck of the chin to re-enter his room. “Half a moment! Now, doctor, if you happen to have a little money lying idle, I can put you on to a good thing — a very good thing indeed. I don’t know, I’m sure, whether you keep an eye on the fluctuations96 of the share-market. If so, you’ll no doubt have noticed the . . . let me say the extreme instability of ‘Porepunkahs.’ After making an excellent start, they have dropped till they are now to be had at one-twentieth of their original value.”
He did not take much interest in mining matters was Mahony’s reply. However he knew something of the claim in question, if only because several of his acquaintances had abandoned their shares, in disgust at the repeated calls and the lack of dividends97.
“Exactly. Well now, doctor, I’m in a position to inform you that ‘Porepunkahs’ will very shortly be prime favourites on the market, selling at many times their original figure — their ORIGINAL figure, sir! No one with a few hundreds to spare could find a better investment. Now is the time to buy.”
A few hundreds! . . . what does he take me for? thought Mahony; and declined the transaction off-hand. It was very good of Mr. Ocock to think of him; but he preferred to keep clear of that kind of thing.
“Quite so, quite so!” returned Ocock suavely98, and dry-washed his hands with the smile Mahony had never learnt to fathom99. “Just as you please, of course.— I’ll only ask you, doctor, to treat the matter as strictly100 confidential101.”
“I suppose he says the same to everyone he tells,” was Mahony’s comment as he flicked102 up his horse; and he wondered what the extent might be of the lawyer’s personal interest in the “Porepunkah Company.” Probably the number of shareholders103 was not large enough to rake up the capital.
Still, the incident gave him food for thought, and only after closing time did he remember his intention of driving home by way of the Bank.
Later in the day he came back on the incident, and pondered his abrupt104 refusal of Ocock’s offer. There was nothing unusual in this: he never took advice well; and, was it forced upon him, nine times out of ten a certain inborn105 contrariness drove him to do just the opposite. Besides, he had not yet learned to look with lenience106 on the rage for speculation107 that had seized the people of Ballarat; and he held that it would be culpable108 for a man of his slender means to risk money in the great game. — But was there any hint of risk in the present instance? To judge from Ocock’s manner, the investment was as safe as a house, and lucrative109 to a degree that made one’s head swim. “Many times their original figure!” An Arabian-nights fashion of growing rich, and no mistake! Very different from the laborious110 grind of HIS days, in which he had always to reckon with the chance of not being paid at all. That very afternoon had brought him a fresh example of this. He was returning from the Old Magpie111 Lead, where he had been called to a case of scarlet112 fever, and saw himself covering the same road daily for some time to come. But he had learned to adjudge his patients in a winking113; and these, he could swear to it, would prove to be non-payers; of a kind even to cut and run, once the child was out of danger. Was he really justified114, cramped115 for money as he was, in rejecting the straight tip Ocock had given him? And he debated this moot56 point — argued his need against his principles — the whole way home.
As soon as he had changed and seen his suspect clothing hung out to air, he went impetuously back to Ocock’s office. He had altered his mind. A small gift from a grateful patient: yes, fifty, please; they might bring him luck.— And he saw his name written down as the owner of half a hundred shares.
After this, he took a new interest in the mining sheet of the STAR; turned to it, indeed, first of all. For a week, a fortnight, “Porepunkahs” remained stationary116; then they made a call, and, if he did not wish to forfeit117, he had to pay out as many shillings as he held shares. A day or two later they sank a trifle, and Mahony’s hopes with them. There even came a day when they were not mentioned; and he gave up his money for lost. But of a sudden they woke to life again, took an upward bound, and within a month were quoted at five pounds — on rumour118 alone. “Very sensitive indeed,” said the STAR. Purdy, his only confidant, went about swearing at himself for having let the few he owned lapse119; and Mahony itched120 to sell. He could now have banked two hundred and fifty pounds.
But Ocock laughed him out of countenance121 — even went so far as to pat him on the shoulder. On no account was he to think of selling. “Sit tight, doctor . . . sit tight! Till I say the word.”
And Mahony reluctantly obeyed.
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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zigzags
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| n.锯齿形的线条、小径等( zigzag的名词复数 )v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的第三人称单数 ) | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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commotion
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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abating
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| 减少( abate的现在分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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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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fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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curtly
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bespoken
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| v.预定( bespeak的过去分词 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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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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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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42
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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43
baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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44
ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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45
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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46
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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47
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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48
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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49
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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50
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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51
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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52
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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53
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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54
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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55
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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56
moot
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| v.提出；adj.未决议的；n.大会；辩论会 | |
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57
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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58
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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59
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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60
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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61
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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62
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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64
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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65
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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66
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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67
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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68
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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69
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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70
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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71
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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72
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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73
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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76
gainsaid
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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79
irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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80
waylay
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| v.埋伏，伏击 | |
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81
abetted
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| v.教唆（犯罪）( abet的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；怂恿；支持 | |
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82
evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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83
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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84
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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85
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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86
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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87
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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88
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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90
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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91
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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92
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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93
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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94
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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95
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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96
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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97
dividends
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| 红利( dividend的名词复数 )； 股息； 被除数； （足球彩票的）彩金 | |
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98
suavely
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99
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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100
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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101
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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102
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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103
shareholders
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| n.股东( shareholder的名词复数 ) | |
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104
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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105
inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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106
lenience
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| n.宽大，温和 | |
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107
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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108
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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109
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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110
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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111
magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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112
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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113
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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114
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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115
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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116
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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117
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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118
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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119
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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120
itched
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| v.发痒( itch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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