The hot airless night had become the hot airless day: in the garden the leaves on trees and shrubs1 drooped2 as under an invisible weight. All the stale smells of the day before persisted — that of the medicaments on the shelves, of the unwetted dust on the roads, the sickly odour of malt from a neighbouring brewery3. The blowflies buzzed about the ceiling; on the table under the lamp a dozen or more moths5 lay singed6 and dead. Now it was nearing six o’clock; clad in his thinnest driving-coat, Mahony sat and watched the man who had come to fetch him beat his horse to a lather7.
“Mercy! . . . have a little mercy on the poor brute,” he said more than once.
He had stood out for some time against obeying the summons, which meant, at lowest, a ten-mile drive. Not if he were offered a hundred pounds down, was his first impetuous refusal; for he had not seen the inside of a bed that night. But at this he trapped an odd look in the other’s eyes, and suddenly became aware that he was still dressed as for the ball. Besides, an equally impetuous answer was flung back at him: he promised no hundred pounds, said the man — hadn’t got it to offer. He appealed solely9 to the doctor’s humanity: it was a question of saving a life — that of his only son. So here they were.
“We doctors have no business with troubles of our own,” thought Mahony, as he listened to the detailed10 account of an ugly accident. On the roof of a shed the boy had missed his footing, slipped and fallen some twenty feet, landing astride a piece of quartering. Picking himself up, he had managed to crawl home, and at first they thought he would be able to get through the night without medical aid. But towards two o’clock his sufferings had grown unbearable11. God only knew if, by this time, he had not succumbed12 to them.
“My good man, one does not die of pain alone.”
They followed a flat, treeless road, the grass on either side of which was burnt to hay. Buggy and harness — the latter eked13 out with bits of string and an old bootlace — were coated with the dust of months; and the gaunt, long-backed horse shuffled14 through a reddish flour, which accompanied them as a choking cloud. A swarm15 of small black flies kept pace with the vehicle, settling on nose, eyes, neck and hands of its occupants, crawling over the horse’s belly16 and in and out of its nostrils17. The animal made no effort to shake itself free, seemed indifferent to the pests: they were only to be disturbed by the hail of blows which the driver occasionally stood up to deliver. At such moments Mahony, too, started out of the light doze4 he was continually dropping into.
Arrived at their destination — a miserable18 wooden shanty19 on a sheep-run at the foot of the ranges — he found his patient tossing on a dirty bed, with a small pulse of 120, while the right thigh20 was darkly bruised21 and swollen22. The symptoms pointed23 to serious internal injuries. He performed the necessary operation.
There was evidently no woman about the place; the coffee the father brought him was thick as mud. On leaving, he promised to return next day and to bring some one with him to attend to the lad.
For the home-journey, he got a mount on a young and fidgety mare24, whom he suspected of not long having worn the saddle. In the beginning he had his hands full with her. Then, however, she ceased her antics and consented to advance at an easy trot25.
HOW tired he felt! He would have liked to go to bed and sleep for a week on end. As it was, he could not reckon on even an hour’s rest. By the time he reached home the usual string of patients would await him; and these disposed of, and a bite of breakfast snatched, out he must set anew on his morning round. He did not feel well either: the coffee seemed to have disagreed with him. He had a slight sense of nausea26 and was giddy; the road swam before his eyes. Possibly the weather had something to do with it; though a dull, sunless morning it was hot as he had never known it. He took out a stud, letting the ends of his collar fly.
Poor little Mary, he thought inconsequently: he had hurt and frightened her by his violence. He felt ashamed of himself now. By daylight he could see her point of view. Mary was so tactful and resourceful that she might safely be trusted to hush27 up the affair, to explain away the equivocal position in which she had been found. After all, both of them were known to be decent, God-fearing people. And one had only to look at Mary to see that here was no light woman. Nobody in his senses — not even Grindle — could think evil of that broad, transparent28 brow, of those straight, kind, merry eyes.
No, this morning his hurt was a purely29 personal one. That it should just be Purdy who did him this wrong! Purdy, playmate and henchman, ally in how many a boyish enterprise, in the hardships and adventures of later life. “Mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted, which did eat of my bread!” Never had he turned a deaf ear to Purdy’s needs; he had fed him and clothed him, caring for him as for a well-loved brother. Surely few things were harder to bear than a blow in the dark from one who stood thus deeply in your debt, on whose gratitude30 you would have staked your head. It was, of course, conceivable that he had been swept off his feet by Mary’s vivid young beauty, by over-indulgence, by the glamour31 of the moment. But if a man could not restrain his impulses where the wife of his most intimate friend was concerned . . . Another thing: as long as Mary had remained an immature32 slip of a girl, Purdy had not given her a thought. When, however, under her husband’s wing she had blossomed out into a lovely womanhood, of which any man might be proud, then she had found favour in his eyes. And the slight this put on Mary’s sterling33 moral qualities, on all but her physical charms, left the worst taste of any in the mouth.
Then, not content with trying to steal her love, Purdy had also sought to poison her mind against him. How that rankled34! For until now he had hugged the belief that Purdy’s opinion of him was coloured by affection and respect, by the tradition of years. Whereas, from what Mary had let fall, he saw that the boy must have been sitting in judgment35 on him, regarding his peculiarities36 with an unloving eye, picking his motives38 to pieces: it was like seeing the child of your loins, of your hopes, your unsleeping care, turn and rend39 you with black ingratitude40. Yes, everything went to prove Purdy’s unworthiness. Only HE had not seen it, only he had been blind to the truth. And wrapped in this smug blindness he had given his false friend the run of his home, setting, after the custom of the country, no veto on his eternal presence. Disloyalty was certainly abetted41 by just the extravagant42, exaggerated hospitality of colonial life. Never must the doors of your house be shut; all you had you were expected to share with any sundowner of fortune who chanced to stop at your gate.
The mare shied with a suddenness that almost unseated him: the next moment she had the bit between her teeth and was galloping44 down the road. Clomp-clomp-clomp went her hoofs45 on the baked clay; the dust smothered46 and stung, and he was holding for all he was worth to reins47 spanned stiff as iron. On they flew; his body hammered the saddle; his breath came sobbingly49. But he kept his seat; and a couple of miles farther on he was down, soothing50 the wild-eyed, quivering, sweating beast, whose nostrils worked like a pair of bellows51. There he stood, glancing now back along the road, now up at the sky. His hat had gone flying at the first unexpected plunge52; he ought to return and look for it. But he shrank from the additional fatigue53, the delay in reaching home this would mean. The sky was still overcast54: he decided55 to risk it. Knotting his handkerchief he spread it cap-wise over his head and got back into the saddle.
Mine own familiar friend! And more than that: he could add to David’s plaint and say, my only friend. In Purdy the one person he had been intimate with passed out of his life. There was nobody to take the vacant place. He had been far too busy of late years to form new friendships: what was left of him after the day’s work was done was but a kind of shell: the work was the meaty contents. As you neared the forties, too, it grew ever harder to fit yourself to other people: your outlook had become too set, your ideas too unfluid. Hence you clung the faster to ties formed in the old, golden days, worn though these might be to the thinness of a hair. And then, there was one’s wife, of course — one’s dear, good wife. But just her very dearness and goodness served to hold possible intimates at arm’s length. The knowledge that you had such a confidante, that all your thoughts were shared with her, struck disastrously56 at a free exchange of privacies. No, he was alone. He had not so much as a dog now, to follow at heel and look up at him with the melancholy57 eyes of its race. Old Pompey had come at poison, and Mary had not wished to have a strange dog in the new house. She did not care for animals, and the main charge of it would have fallen on her. He had no time — no time even for a dog!
Better it would assuredly be to have some one to fall back on: it was not good for a man to stand so alone. Did troubles come, they would strike doubly hard because of it; then was the time to rejoice in a warm, human handclasp. And moodily58 pondering the reasons for his solitariness59, he was once more inclined to lay a share of the blame on the conditions of the life. The population of the place was still in a state of flux60: he and a mere48 handful of others would soon, he believed, be the oldest residents in Ballarat. People came and went, tried their luck, failed, and flitted off again, much as in the early days. What was the use of troubling to become better acquainted with a person, when, just as you began really to know him, he was up and away? At home, in the old country, a man as often as not died in the place where he was born; and the slow, eventless years, spent shoulder to shoulder, automatically brought about a kind of intimacy61. But this was only a surface reason: there was another that went deeper. He had no talent for friendship, and he knew it; indeed, he would even invert62 the thing, and say bluntly that his nature had a twist in it which directly hindered friendship; and this, though there came moments when he longed, as your popular mortal never did, for close companionship. Sometimes he felt like a hungry man looking on at a banquet, of which no one invited him to partake, because he had already given it to be understood that he would decline. But such lapses63 were few. On nine days out of ten, he did not feel the need of either making or receiving confidences; he shrank rather, with a peculiar37 shy dread64, from personal unbosomings. Some imp8 housed in him — some wayward, wilful65, mocking Irish devil — bidding him hold back, remain cool, dry-eyed, in face of others’ joys and pains. Hence the break with Purdy was a real calamity66. The associations of some five-and-twenty years were bound up in it; measured by it, one’s marriage seemed a thing of yesterday. And even more than the friend, he would miss the friendship and all it stood for: this solid base of joint67 experience; this past of common memories into which one could dip as into a well; this handle of “Do you remember?” which opened the door to such a wealth of anecdote68. From now on, the better part of his life would be a closed book to any but himself; there were allusions69, jests without number, homely70 turns of speech, which not a soul but himself would understand. The thought of it made him feel old and empty; affected71 him like the news of a death.— But MUST it be? Was there no other way out? Slow to take hold, he was a hundred times slower to let go. Before now he had seen himself sticking by a person through misunderstandings, ingratitude, deception72, to the blank wonder of the onlookers73. Would he not be ready here, too, to forgive . . . to forget?
But he felt hot, hot to suffocation74, and his heart was pounding in uncomfortable fashion. The idea of stripping and plunging75 into ice-cold water began to make a delicious appeal to him. Nothing surpassed such a plunge after a broken night. But of late he had had to be wary76 of indulging: a bath of this kind, taken when he was over-tired, was apt to set the accursed tic a-going; and then he could pace the floor in agony. And yet. . . Good God, how hot it was! His head ached distractedly; an iron band of pain seemed to encircle it. With a sudden start of alarm he noticed that he had ceased to perspire77 — now he came to think of it, not even the wild gallop43 had induced perspiration78. Pulling up short, he fingered his pulse. It was abnormal, even for him . . . and feeble. Was it fancy, or did he really find a difficulty in breathing? He tore off his collar, threw open the neck of his shirt. He had a sensation as if all the blood in his body was flying to his head: his face must certainly be crimson79. He put both hands to this top-heavy head, to support it; and in a blind fit of vertigo80 all but lost his balance in the saddle: the trees spun81 round, the distance went black. For a second still he kept upright; then he flopped82 to the ground, falling face downwards83, his arms huddled84 under him.
The mare, all her spirit gone, stood lamb-like and waited. As he did not stir she turned and sniffed85 at him, curiously86. Still he lay prone87, and, having stretched her tired jaws88, she raised her head and uttered a whinny — an almost human cry of distress89. This, too, failing in its effect, she nosed the ground for a few yards, then set out at a gentle, mane-shaking trot for home.
* * * * *
Found, a dark conspicuous90 heap on the long bare road, and carted back to town by a passing bullock-waggon, Mahony lay, once the death-like coma91 had yielded, and tossed in fever and delirium92. By piecing his broken utterances93 together Mary learned all she needed to know about the case he had gone out to attend, and his desperate ride home. But it was Purdy’s name that was oftenest on his lips; it was Purdy he reviled94 and implored95; and when he sprang up with the idea of calling his false friend to account, it was as much as she could do to restrain him.
She had the best of advice. Old Dr. Munce himself came two and three times a day. Mary had always thought him a dear old man; and she felt surer than ever of it when he stood patting her hand and bidding her keep a good heart; for they would certainly pull her husband through.
“There aren’t so many of his kind here, Mrs. Mahony, that we can afford to lose him.”
But altogether she had never known till now how many and how faithful their friends were. Hardly, for instance, had Richard been carried in, stiff as a log and grey as death, when good Mrs. Devine was fumbling96 with the latch97 of the gate, an old sunbonnet perched crooked98 on her head: she had run down just as she was, in the midst of shelling peas for dinner. She begged to be allowed to help with the nursing. But Mary felt bound to refuse. She knew how the thought of what he might have said in his delirium would worry Richard, when he recovered his senses: few men laid such weight as he on keeping their private thoughts private.
Not to be done, Mrs. Devine installed herself in the kitchen to superintend the cooking. Less for the patient, into whom at first only liquid nourishment99 could be injected, than: “To see as your own strength is kep’ up, dearie.” Tilly swooped100 down and bore off Trotty. Delicate fruits, new-laid eggs, jellies and wines came from Agnes Ocock; while Amelia Grindle, who had no such dainties to offer arrived every day at three o’clock, to mind the house while Mary slept. Archdeacon Long was also a frequent visitor, bringing not so much spiritual as physical aid; for, as the frenzy101 reached its height and Richard was maddened by the idea that a plot was brewing102 against his life, a pair of strong arms were needed to hold him down. Over and above this, letters of sympathy flowed in; grateful patients called to ask with tears in their eyes how the doctor did; virtual strangers stopped the servant in the street with the same query103. Mary was sometimes quite overwhelmed by the kindness people showed her.
The days that preceded the crisis were days of keenest anxiety. But Mary never allowed her heart to fail her. For if, in the small things of life, she was given to building on a mortal’s good sense, how much more could she rely at such a pass on the sense of the One above all others. What she said to herself as she moved tirelessly about the sick room, damping cloths, filling the ice-bag, infiltering drops of nourishment, was: “God is good!” and these words, far from breathing a pious104 resignation, voiced a confidence so bold that it bordered on irreverence105. Their real meaning was: Richard has still ever so much work to do in the world, curing sick people and saving their lives. God must know this, and cannot now mean to be so foolish as to WASTE him, by letting him die.
And her reliance on the Almighty’s far-sighted wisdom was justified106. Richard weathered the crisis, slowly revived to life and health; and the day came when, laying a thin white hand on hers, he could whisper: “My poor little wife, what a fright I must have given you!” And added: “I think an illness of some kind was due — overdue107 — with me.”
When he was well enough to bear the journey they left home for a watering-place on the Bay. There, on an open beach facing the Heads, Mahony lay with his hat pulled forward to shade his eyes, and with nothing to do but to scoop108 up handfuls of the fine coral sand and let it flow again, like liquid silk, through his fingers. From beneath the brim he watched the water churn and froth on the brown reefs; followed the sailing-ships which, beginning as mere dots on the horizon, swelled109 to stately white waterbirds, and shrivelled again to dots; drank in, with greedy nostrils, the mixed spice of warm sea, hot seaweed and aromatic110 tea-scrub.
And his strength came back as rapidly as usual. He soon felt well enough, leaning on Mary’s arm, to stroll up and down the sandy roads of the township; to open book and newspaper; and finally to descend111 the cliffs for a dip in the transparent, turquoise112 sea. At the end of a month he was at home again, sunburnt and hearty113, eager to pick up the threads he had let fall. And soon Mary was able to make the comfortable reflection that everything was going on just as before.
In this, however, she was wrong; never, in their united lives, would things be quite the same again. Outwardly, the changes might pass unnoticed — though even here, it was true, a certain name had now to be avoided, with which they had formerly114 made free. But this was not exactly hard to do, Purdy having promptly115 disappeared: they heard at second-hand116 that he had at last accepted promotion117 and gone to Melbourne. And since Mary had suffered no inconvenience from his thoughtless conduct, they tacitly agreed to let the matter rest. That was on the surface. Inwardly, the differences were more marked. Even in the mental attitude they adopted towards what had happened, husband and wife were thoroughly118 dissimilar. Mary did not refer to it because she thought it would be foolish to re-open so disagreeable a subject. In her own mind, however, she faced it frankly119, dating back to it as the night when Purdy had been so odious120 and Richard so angry. Mahony, on the other hand, gave the affair a wide berth121 even in thought. For him it was a kind of Pandora’s box, of which, having once caught a glimpse of the contents, he did not again dare to raise the lid. Things might escape from it that would alter his whole life. But he, too, dated from it in the sense of suddenly becoming aware, with a throb122 of regret, that he had left his youth behind him. And such phrases as: “When I was young,” “In my younger days,” now fell instinctively123 from his lips.
Nor was this all. Deep down in Mary’s soul there slumbered124 a slight embarrassment125; one she could not get the better of: it spread and grew. This was a faint, ever so faint a doubt of Richard’s wisdom. Odd she had long known him to be, different in many small and some great ways from those they lived amongst; but hitherto this very oddness of his had seemed to her an outgrowth on the side of superiority — fairer judgment, higher motives. Just as she had always looked up to him as rectitude in person, so she had thought him the embodiment of a fine, though somewhat unworldly wisdom. Now her faith in his discernment was shaken. His treatment of her on the night of the ball had shocked, confused her. She was ready to make allowance for him: she had told her story clumsily, and had afterwards been both cross and obstinate126; while part of his violence was certainly to be ascribed to his coming breakdown127. But this did not cover everything; and the ungenerous spirit in which he had met her frankness, his doubt of her word, of her good faith — his utter unreasonableness128 in short — had left a cold patch of astonishment129 in her, which would not yield. She lit on it at unexpected moments. Meanwhile, she groped for an epithet130 that would fit his behaviour. Beginning with some rather vague and high-flown terms she gradually came down, until with the sense of having found the right thing at last, she fixed131 on the adjective “silly”— a word which, for the rest, was in common use with Mary, had she to describe anything that struck her as queer or extravagant. And sitting over her fancywork, into which, being what Richard called “safe as the grave,” she sewed more thoughts than most women: sitting thus, she would say to herself with a half smile and an incredulous shake of the head: “SO silly!”
But hers was one of those inconvenient132 natures which trust blindly or not at all: once worked on by a doubt or a suspicion, they are never able to shake themselves free of it again. As time went on, she suffered strange uncertainties133 where some of Richard’s decisions were concerned. In his good intentions she retained an implicit134 belief; but she was not always satisfied that he acted in the wisest way. Occasionally it struck her that he did not see as clearly as she did; at other times, that he let a passing whim135 run away with him and override136 his common sense. And, her eyes thus opened, it was not in Mary to stand dumbly by and watch him make what she held to be mistakes. Openly to interfere137, however, would also have gone against the grain in her; she had bowed for too long to his greater age and experience. So, seeing no other way out, she fell back on indirect methods. To her regret. For, in watching other women “manage” their husbands, she had felt proud to think that nothing of this kind was necessary between Richard and her. Now she, too, began to lay little schemes by which, without his being aware of it, she might influence his judgment, divert or modify his plans.
Her enforced use of such tactics did not lessen138 the admiring affection she bore him: that was framed to withstand harder tests. Indeed, she was even aware of an added tenderness towards him, now she saw that it behoved her to have forethought for them both. But into the wife’s love for her husband there crept something of a mother’s love for her child; for a wayward and impulsive139, yet gifted creature, whose welfare and happiness depended on her alone. And it is open to question whether the mother dormant140 in Mary did not fall with a kind of hungry joy on this late-found task. The work of her hands done, she had known empty hours. That was over now. With quickened faculties141, all her senses on the alert, she watched, guided, hindered, foresaw.
收听单词发音 |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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singed
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| v.浅表烧焦( singe的过去式和过去分词 )；（毛发）燎，烧焦尖端[边儿] | |
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lather
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| n.(肥皂水的)泡沫，激动 | |
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imp
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solely
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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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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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eked
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| v.（靠节省用量）使…的供应持久( eke的过去式和过去分词 )；节约使用；竭力维持生计；勉强度日 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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nostrils
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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shanty
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thigh
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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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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pointed
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mare
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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purely
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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glamour
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immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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peculiarities
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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39
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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40
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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41
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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42
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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43
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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44
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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45
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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46
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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47
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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48
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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49
sobbingly
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| 啜泣地，呜咽地，抽抽噎噎地 | |
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50
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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51
bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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52
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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53
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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54
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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55
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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56
disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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57
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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58
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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59
solitariness
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| n.隐居；单独 | |
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60
flux
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| n.流动；不断的改变 | |
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61
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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62
invert
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| vt.使反转，使颠倒，使转化 | |
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63
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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64
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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65
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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66
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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67
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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68
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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69
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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70
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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71
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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72
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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73
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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74
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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75
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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76
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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77
perspire
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| vi.出汗，流汗 | |
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78
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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79
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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80
vertigo
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| n.眩晕 | |
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81
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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82
flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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83
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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84
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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85
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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86
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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87
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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88
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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89
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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90
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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91
coma
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| n.昏迷，昏迷状态 | |
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92
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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93
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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94
reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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97
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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98
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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99
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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100
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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102
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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103
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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104
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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105
irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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106
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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107
overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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108
scoop
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| n.铲子，舀取，独家新闻；v.汲取，舀取，抢先登出 | |
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109
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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110
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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111
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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112
turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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113
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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114
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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115
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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116
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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117
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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118
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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119
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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120
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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121
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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122
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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123
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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124
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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125
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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126
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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127
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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128
unreasonableness
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| 无理性； 横逆 | |
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129
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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130
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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131
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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132
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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133
uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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134
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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135
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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136
override
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| vt.不顾，不理睬，否决；压倒，优先于 | |
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137
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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138
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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139
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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140
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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141
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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