Thus far, Ocock had nursed his mining investments for him with a fatherly care. He himself had been free as a bird from responsibility. Every now and again he would drop in at the office, just to make sure the lawyer was on the alert; and each time he came home cheerful with confidence. That was over now. As a first result of the breach1, he missed — or so he believed — clearing four hundred pounds. Among the shares he held was one lot which till now had proved a sorry bargain. Soon after purchase something had gone wrong with the management of the claim; there had been a lawsuit2, followed by calls unending and never a dividend3. Now, when these shares unexpectedly swung up to a high level — only to drop the week after to their standing4 figure — Ocock failed to sell out in the nick of time. Called to account, he replied that it was customary in these matters for his clients to advise him; thus deepening Mahony’s sense of obligation. Stabbed in his touchiness6, he wrote for all his scrip to be handed over to him; and thereafter loss and gain depended on himself alone. It certainly brought a new element of variety into his life. The mischief7 was, he could get to his study of the money-market only with a fagged brain. And the fear lest he should do something rash or let a lucky chance slip kept him on tenter-hooks.
It was about this time that Mary, seated one evening in face of her husband, found herself reflecting: “When one comes to think of it, how seldom Richard ever smiles nowadays.”
For a wonder they were at a soiree together, at the house of one of Mahony’s colleagues. The company consisted of the inner circle of friends and acquaintances: “Always the same people — the old job lot! One knows before they open their mouths what they’ll say and how they’ll say it,” Richard had grumbled9 as he dressed. The Henry Ococks were not there though, it being common knowledge that the two men declined to meet; and a dash of fresh blood was present in the shape of a lady and gentleman just “out from home.” Richard got into talk with this couple, and Mary, watching him fondly, could not but be struck by his animation10. His eyes lit up, he laughed and chatted, made merry repartee11: she was carried back to the time when she had known him first. In those days his natural gravity was often cut through by a mood of high spirits, of boyish jollity, which, if only by way of contrast, rendered him a delightful12 companion. She grew a little wistful, as she sat comparing present with past. And loath13 though she was to dig deep, for fear of stirring up uncomfortable things, she could not escape the discovery that, in spite of all his success — and his career there had surpassed their dearest hopes — in spite of the natural gifts fortune had showered on him, Richard was not what you would call a happy man. No, nor even moderately happy. Why this should be, it went beyond her to say. He had everything he could wish for: yes, everything, except perhaps a little more time to himself, and better health. He was not as strong as she would have liked to see him. Nothing radically15 wrong, of course, but enough to fidget him. Might not this . . . this — he himself called it “want of tone”— be a reason for the scant16 pleasure he got out of life? And: “I think I’ll pop down and see Dr. Munce about him one morning, without a word to him,” was how she eased her mind and wound up her reverie.
But daylight, and the most prosaic17 hours of the twenty-four, made the plan look absurd.
Once alive though to his condition, she felt deeply sorry for him in his patent inability ever to be content. It was a thousand pities. Things might have run so smoothly18 for him, he have got so much satisfaction out of them, if only he could have braced19 himself to regard life in cheerier fashion. But at this Mary stopped . . . and wondered . . . and wondered. Was that really true? Positively20 her experiences of late led her to believe that Richard would be less happy still if he had nothing to be unhappy about.— But dear me! this was getting out of her depth altogether. She shook her head and rebuked21 herself for growing fanciful.
All the same, her new glimpse of his inmost nature made her doubly tender of thwarting22 him; hence, she did not set her face as firmly as she might otherwise have done, against a wild plan he now formed of again altering, or indeed rebuilding the house; although she could scarcely think of it with patience. She liked her house so well as it stood; and it was amply big enough: there was only the pair of them. . . and John’s child. It had the name, she knew, of being one of the most comfortable and best-kept in Ballarat. Brick for solidity, where wood prevailed, with a wide snowy verandah up the posts of which rare creepers ran, twining their tendrils one with another to form a screen against the sun. Now, what must Richard do but uproot23 the creepers and pull down the verandah, thus baring the walls to the fierce summer heat; plaster over the brick; and, more outlandish still, add a top storey. When she came back from Melbourne, where she had gone a-visiting to escape the upset — Richard, ordinarily so sensitive, had managed to endure it quite well, thus proving that he COULD put up with discomfort24 if he wanted to — when she saw it again, Mary hardly recognised her home. Personally she thought it ugly, for all its grandeur25; changed wholly for the worse. Nor did time ever reconcile her to the upper storey. Domestic worries bred from it: the servant went off in a huff because of the stairs; they were at once obliged to double their staff. To cap it all, with its flat front unbroken by bay or porch, the house looked like no other in the town. Now, instead of passing admiring remarks, people stood stock-still before the gate to laugh at its droll26 appearance.
Yet, she would gladly have made the best of this, had Richard been the happier for it. He was not — or only for the briefest of intervals27. Then his restlessness broke out afresh.
There came days when nothing suited him; not his fine consulting room, or the improved furnishings of the house, or even her cookery of which he had once been so fond. He grew dainty to a degree; she searched her cookery-book for piquant28 recipes. Next he fell to imagining it was unhealthy to sleep on feathers, and went to the expense of having a hard horsehair mattress29 made to fit the bed. Accustomed to the softest down, he naturally tossed and turned all night long, and rose in the morning declaring he felt as though he had been beaten with sticks. The mattress was stowed away in a lean-to behind the kitchen, and there it remained. It was not alone. Mary sometimes stood and considered, with a rueful eye, the many discarded objects that bore it company. Richard — oddly enough he was ever able to poke31 fun at himself — had christened this outhouse “the cemetery32 of dead fads33.” Here was a set of Indian clubs he had been going to harden his muscles with every morning, and had used for a week; together with an india-rubber gymnastic apparatus34 bought for the same purpose. Here stood a patent shower-bath, that was to have dashed energy over him after a bad night, and had only succeeded in giving him acute neuralgia; a standing-desk he had broken his back at for a couple of days; a homoeopathic medicine-chest and a phrenological head — both subjects he had meant to satisfy his curiosity by looking into, had time not failed him. Mary sighed, when she thought of the waste of good money these and similar articles stood for. (Some day he would just have them privately35 carted away to auction36!) But if Richard set his heart on a thing he wanted it so badly, so much more than other people did, that he knew no peace till he had it.
Mahony read in his wife’s eyes the disapproval37 she was too wise to utter. At any other time her silent criticism would have galled38 him; in this case, he took shelter behind it. Let her only go on setting him down for lax and spendthrift, incapable39 of knowing his own mind. He would be sorry, indeed, for her to guess how matters really stood with him. The truth was, he had fallen a prey40 to utter despondency, was become so spiritless that it puzzled even himself. He thought he could trace some of the mischief back to the professional knocks and jars Ocock’s action had brought down on him: to hear one’s opinion doubted, one’s skill questioned, was the tyro’s portion; he was too old to treat such insolence41 with the scorn it deserved. Of course he had lived the affair down; but the result of it would seem to be a bottomless ENNUI42, a TEDIUM43 VITAE that had something pathological about it. Under its influence the homeliest trifles swelled44 to feats45 beyond his strength. There was, for instance, the putting on and off one’s clothing: this infinite boredom46 of straps47 and buttons — and all for what? For a day that would be an exact copy of the one that had gone before, a night as unrefreshing as the last. Did any one suspect that there were moments when he quailed48 before this job, suspect that more than once he had even reckoned the number of times he would be called on to perform it, day in, day out, till that garment was put on him that came off no more; or that he could understand and feel sympathy with those faint souls — and there were such — who laid hands on themselves rather than go on doing it: did this get abroad, he would be considered ripe for Bedlam49.
Physician, heal thyself! He swallowed doses of a tonic50 preparation, and put himself on a fatty diet.
Thereafter he tried to take a philosophic51 view of his case. He had now, he told himself, reached an age when such a state of mind gave cause neither for astonishment52 nor alarm. How often had it not fallen to him, in his role of medical adviser53, to reassure54 a patient on this score. The arrival of middle age brought about a certain lowness of spirits in even the most robust55: along with a more or less marked bodily languor56 went an uneasy sense of coming loss: the time was at hand to bid farewell to much that had hitherto made life agreeable; and for most this was a bitter pill. Meanwhile, one held a kind of mental stocktaking. As often as not by the light of a complete disillusionment. Of the many glorious things one had hoped to do — or to be — nothing was accomplished57: the great realisation, in youth breathlessly chased but never grasped, was now seen to be a mist-wraith, which could wear a thousand forms, but invariably turned to air as one came up with it. In nine instances out of ten there was nothing to put in its place; and you began to ask yourself in a kind of horrific amaze: “Can this be all? . . . THIS? For this the pother of growth, the struggles, and the sufferings?” The soul’s climacteric, if you would, from which a mortal came forth58 dulled to resignation; or greedy for the few physical pleasures left him; or prone59 to that tragic60 clinging to youth’s skirts, which made the later years of many women and not a few men ridiculous. In each case the motive61 power was the same: the haunting fear that one had squeezed life dry; worse still, that it had not been worth the squeezing.
Thus his reason. But, like a tongue of flame, his instinct leapt up to give combat. By the gods, this cap did NOT fit him! Squeezed life try? . . . found it not worth while? Why, he had never got within measurable distance of what he called life, at all! There could be no question of him resigning himself: deep down in him, he knew, was an enormous residue62 of vitality63, of untouched mental energy that only waited to be drawn64 on. It was like a buried treasure, jealously kept for the event of his one day catching65 up with life: not the bare scramble66 for a living that here went by that name, but Life with a capital L, the existence he had once confidently counted on as his — a tourney of spiritual adventuring, of intellectual excitement, in which the prize striven for was not money or anything to do with money. Far away, thousands of miles off, luckier men than he were in the thick of it. He, of his own free will, had cut himself adrift, and now it was too late.
But was it? Had the time irretrievably gone by? The ancient idea of escape, long dormant67, suddenly reawoke in him with a new force. And, once stirring, it was not to be silenced, but went on sounding like a ground-tone through all he did. At first he shut his ears to it, to dally68 with side issues. For example, he worried the question why the breaking-point should only now have been reached and not six months, a year ago. It was quibbling to lay the whole blame on Ocock’s shoulders. The real cause went deeper, was of older growth. And driving his mind back over the past, he believed he could pin his present loss of grip to that fatal day on which he learnt that his best friend had betrayed him. Things like that gave you a crack that would not mend. He had been rendered suspicious where he had once been credulous69; prone to see evil where no evil was. For, deceived by Purdy, in whom could he trust? Of a surety not in the pushful set of jobbers70 and tricksters he was condemned71 to live amongst. No discoveries he might make about them would surprise him.— And once more the old impotent anger with himself broke forth, that he should ever have let himself take root in such detestable surroundings.
Why not shake the dust of the country off his feet?— From this direct attack he recoiled72, casting up his hands as if against the evil eye. What next? But exclaim as he might, now that the idea had put on words, it was by no means so simple to fend73 it off as when it had been a mere74 vague humming at the back of his mind. It seized him; swept his brain bare of other thoughts. He began to look worn. And never more so than when he imagined himself taking the bull by the horns and asking Mary’s approval of his wild-goose scheme. He could picture her face, when she heard that he planned throwing up his fine position and decamping on nothing a year. The vision was a cold douche to his folly75. No, no! it would not do. You could not accustom30 a woman to ease and luxury and then, when you felt YOU had had enough and would welcome a return to Spartan76 simplicity77, to an austere78 clarity of living, expect her to be prepared, at the word, to step back into poverty. One was bound . . . bound . . . and by just those silken threads which, in premarital days, had seemed sheerly desirable. He wondered now what it would be like to stand free as the wind, answerable only to himself. The bare thought of it filled him as with the rushing of wings.
Once he had been within an ace8 of cutting and running. That was in the early days, soon after his marriage. Trade had petered out; and there would have been as little to leave behind as to carry with him. But, even so, circumstances had proved too strong for him: what with Mary’s persuasions79 and John’s intermeddling, his scheme had come to nothing. And if, with so much in his favour, he had not managed to carry it out, how in all the world could he hope to now, when every thing conspired80 against him. It was, besides, excusable in youth to challenge fortune; a very different matter for one of his age.
Of his age! . . . the words gave him pause. By their light he saw why he had knuckled81 under so meekly82, at the time of his first attempt. It was because then a few years one way or another did not signify; he had them to spare. Now, each individual year was precious to him; he parted with it lingeringly, unwillingly83. Time had taken to flashing past, too; Christmas was hardly celebrated84 before it was again at the door. Another ten years or so and he would be an old man, and it would in very truth be too late. The tempter voice — in this case also the voice of reason — said: now or never!
But when he came to look the facts in the face his heart failed him anew, so heavily did the arguments against his taking such a step — and, true to his race, it was these he began by marshalling — weigh down the scales. He should have done it, if done it was to be, five . . . three . . . even a couple of years ago. Each day that dawned added to the tangle85, made the idea seem more preposterous86. Local dignities had been showered on him: he sat on the Committees of the District Hospital and the Benevolent87 Asylum88; was Honorary Medical Officer to this Society and that; a trustee of the church; one of the original founders89 of the Mechanics’ Institute; vice-president of the Botanical Society; and so on, AD INFINITUM. His practice was second to none; his visiting-book rarely shewed a blank space; people drove in from miles round to consult him. In addition, he had an extremely popular wife, a good house and garden, horses and traps, and a sure yearly income of some twelve or thirteen hundred. Of what stuff was he made, that he could lightly contemplate90 turning his back on prizes such as these?
Even as he told them off, however, the old sense of hollowness was upon him again. His life there reminded him of a gaudy91 drop-scene, let down before an empty stage; a painted sham92, with darkness and vacuity93 behind. At bottom, none of these distinctions and successes meant anything to him; not a scrap94 of mental pabulum could be got from them: rather would he have chosen to be poor and a nobody among people whose thoughts flew to meet his half-way. And there was also another side to it. Stingy though the years had been of intellectual grist, they had not scrupled95 to rob him of many an essential by which he set store. His old faculty96 — for good or evil — of swift decision, for instance. It was lost to him now; as witness his present miserable97 vacillation98. It had gone off arm-in-arm with his health; physically99 he was but a ghost of the man he had once been. But the bitterest grudge100 he bore the life was for the shipwreck101 it had made of his early ideals. He remembered the pure joy, the lofty sentiments with which he had returned to medicine. Bah!— there had been no room for any sentimental103 nonsense of that kind here. He had long since ceased to follow his profession disinterestedly104; the years had made a hack105 of him — a skilled hack, of course — but just a hack. He had had no time for study; all his strength had gone in keeping his income up to a certain figure; lest the wife should be less well dressed and equipped than her neighbours; or patients fight shy of him; or his confreres wag their tongues.— Oh! he had adapted himself supremely106 well to the standards of this Australia, so-called Felix. And he must not complain if, in so doing, he had been stripped, not only of his rosy107 dreams, but also of that spiritual force on which he could once have drawn at will. Like a fool he had believed it possible to serve mammon with impunity108, and for as long as it suited him. He knew better now. At this moment he was undergoing the sensations of one who, having taken shelter in what he thinks a light and flimsy structure, finds that it is built of the solidest stone. Worse still: that he has been walled up inside.
And even suppose he COULD pull himself together for the effort required, how justify109 his action in the eyes of the world? His motives110 would be double-dutch to the hard-headed crew around him; nor would any go to the trouble of trying to understand. There was John. All John would see was an elderly and not over-robust man deliberately111 throwing away the fruits of year-long toil112 — and for what? For the privilege of, in some remote spot, as a stranger and unknown, having his way to make all over again; of being free to shoulder once more the risks and hazards the undertaking113 involved. And little though he cared for John or any one else’s opinion, Mahony could not help feeling a trifle sore, in advance, at the ridicule114 of which he might be the object, at the zanyish figure he was going to be obliged to cut.
But a fig5 for what people thought of him! Once away from here he would, he thanked God, never see any of them again. No, it was Mary who was the real stumbling-block, the opponent he most feared. Had he been less attached to her, the thing would have been easier; as it was, he shrank from hurting her. And hurt and confuse her he must. He knew Mary as well — nay115, better than he knew his own unreckonable self. For Mary was not a creature of moods, did not change her mental envelope a dozen times a day. And just his precise knowledge of her told him that he would never get her to see eye to eye with him. Her clear, serene116 outlook was attuned117 to the plain and the practical; she would discover a thousand drawbacks to his scheme, but nary a one of the incorporeal118 benefits he dreamed of reaping from it. There was his handling of money for one thing: she had come, he was aware, to regard him as incurably119 extravagant120; and it would be no easy task to convince her that he could learn again to fit his expenses to a light purse. She had a woman’s instinctive121 distrust, too, of leaving the beaten track. Another point made him still more dubious122. Mary’s whole heart and happiness were bound up in this place where she had spent the flower-years of her life: who knew if she would thrive as well on other soil? He found it intolerable to think that she might have to pay for his want of stability.— Yes, reduced to its essentials, it came to mean the pitting of one soul’s welfare against that of another; was a toss-up between his happiness and hers. One of them would have to yield. Who would suffer more by doing so — he or she? He believed that a sacrifice on his part would make the wreck102 of his life complete. On hers — well, thanks to her doughty123 habit of finding good everywhere, there was a chance of her coming out unscathed.
Here was his case in a nutshell.
Still he did not tackle Mary. For sometimes, after all, a disturbed doubt crept upon him whether it would not be possible to go on as he was; instead of, as she would drastically word it, cutting his throat with his own hand. And to be perfectly124 honest, he believed it would. He could now afford to pay for help in his work; to buy what books he needed or fancied; to take holidays while putting in a LOCUM; even to keep on the LOCUM, at a good salary, while he journeyed overseas to visit the land of his birth. But at this another side of him — what he thought of as spirit, in contradistinction to soul — cried out in alarm, fearful lest it was again to be betrayed. Thus far, though by rights coequal in the house of the body, it had been rigidly125 kept down. Nevertheless it had persisted, like a bright cold little spark at dead of night: his restlessness, the spiritual malaise that encumbered126 him had been its mute form of protest. Did he go on turning a deaf ear to its warnings, he might do himself irreparable harm. For time was flying, the sum of his years mounting, shrinking that roomy future to which he had thus far always postponed127 what seemed too difficult for the moment. Now he saw that he dared delay no longer in setting free the imprisoned128 elements in him, was he ever to grow to that complete whole which each mortal aspires129 to be.— That a change of environment would work this miracle he did not doubt; a congenial environment was meat and drink to him, was light and air. Here in this country, he had remained as utterly130 alien as any Jew of old who wept by the rivers of Babylon. And like a half-remembered tune14 there came floating into his mind words he had lit on somewhere, or learnt on the school-bench — Horace, he thought, but, whatever their source, words that fitted his case to a nicety. COELUM, NON ANIMUM, MUTANT, QUI TRANS MARE131 CURRUNT. “Non animum”? Ah! could he but have foreseen this — foreknown it. If not before he set sail on what was to have been but a swift adventure, then at least on that fateful day long past when, foiled by Mary’s pleadings and his own inertia132, he had let himself be bound anew.
Thus the summer dragged by; a summer to try the toughest. Mahony thought he had never gone through its like for heat and discomfort. The drought would not break, and on the great squatting-stations round Ballarat and to the north, the sheep dropped like flies at an early frost. The forest reservoirs dried up, displaying the red mud of their bottoms, and a bath became a luxury — or a penance133 — the scanty134 water running thick and red. Then the bush caught fire and burnt for three days, painting the sky a rusty135 brown, and making the air hard to breathe. Of a morning his first act on going into his surgery was to pick up the thermometer that stood on the table. Sure as fate, though the clock had not long struck nine, the mercury marked something between a hundred and a hundred and five degrees. He let it fall with a nerveless gesture. Since his sunstroke he not only hated, he feared the sun. But out into it he must, to drive through dust-clouds so opaque136 that one could only draw rein137 till they subsided138, meanwhile holloaing off collisions. Under the close leather hood139 he sat and stifled140; or, removing his green goggles141 for the fiftieth time, climbed down to enter yet another baked wooden house, where he handled prostrate142 bodies rank with sweat, or prescribed for pallid143 or fever-speckled children. Then home, to toy with the food set before him, his mind already running on the discomforts144 of the afternoon.— Two bits of ill-luck came his way this summer. Old Ocock fell, in dismounting from a vehicle, and sustained a compound fracture of the femur. Owing to his advanced age there was for a time fear of malunion of the parts, and this kept Mahony on the rack. Secondly145, a near neighbour, a common little fellow who kept a jeweller’s shop in Bridge Street, actually took the plunge146: sold off one fine day and sailed for home. And this seemed the unkindest cut of all.
But the accident that gave the death-blow to his scruples147 was another. On the advice of a wealthy publican he was treating, whose judgment148 he trusted, Mahony had invested — heavily for him, selling off other stock to do it — in a company known as the Hodderburn Estate. This was a government affair and ought to have been beyond reproach. One day, however, it was found that the official reports of the work done by the diamond drill-bore were cooked documents; and instantly every one connected with the mine — directors, managers, engineers — lay under the suspicion of fraudulent dealings. Shares had risen as high as ten pounds odd; but when the drive reached the bore and, in place of the deep gutter-ground the public had been led to expect, hard rock was found overhead, there was a panic; shares dropped to twenty-five shillings and did not rally. Mahony was a loser by six hundred pounds, and got, besides, a moral shaking from which he could not recover. He sat and bit his little-finger nail to the quick. Was he, he savagely149 asked himself, going to linger on until the little he had managed to save was snatched from him?
He dashed off a letter to John, asking his brother-in-law to recommend a reliable broker150. And this done, he got up to look for Mary, determined151 to come to grips with her at last.
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breach
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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dividend
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| n.红利，股息；回报，效益 | |
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standing
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fig
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touchiness
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mischief
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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animation
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repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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delightful
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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radically
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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prosaic
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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braced
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positively
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rebuked
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thwarting
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uproot
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| v.连根拔起，拔除；根除，灭绝；赶出家园，被迫移开 | |
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discomfort
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grandeur
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droll
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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29
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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30
accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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31
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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32
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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33
fads
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| n.一时的流行，一时的风尚( fad的名词复数 ) | |
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34
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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35
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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36
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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37
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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38
galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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39
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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40
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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41
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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42
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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43
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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44
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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45
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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46
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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47
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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48
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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50
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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51
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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52
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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53
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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54
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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55
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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56
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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57
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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58
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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59
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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60
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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61
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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62
residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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63
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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64
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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65
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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66
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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67
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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68
dally
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| v.荒废(时日)，调情 | |
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69
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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70
jobbers
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| n.做零活的人( jobber的名词复数 )；营私舞弊者；股票经纪人；证券交易商 | |
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71
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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72
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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73
fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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74
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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75
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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76
spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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77
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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78
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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79
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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80
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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81
knuckled
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| v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的过去式和过去分词 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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82
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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83
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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84
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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85
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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86
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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87
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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88
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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89
founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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90
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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91
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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92
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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93
vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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94
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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95
scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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97
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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98
vacillation
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| n.动摇；忧柔寡断 | |
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99
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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100
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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101
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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102
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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103
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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104
disinterestedly
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105
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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106
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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107
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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108
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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109
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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110
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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111
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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112
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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113
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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114
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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115
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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116
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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117
attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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118
incorporeal
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| adj.非物质的，精神的 | |
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119
incurably
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| ad.治不好地 | |
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120
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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121
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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122
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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123
doughty
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| adj.勇猛的，坚强的 | |
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124
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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125
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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126
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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128
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
aspires
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的第三人称单数 ) | |
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130
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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131
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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132
inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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133
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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134
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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135
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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136
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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137
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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138
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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139
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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140
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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141
goggles
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| n.护目镜 | |
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142
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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143
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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144
discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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145
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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146
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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147
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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148
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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149
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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150
broker
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| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
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151
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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