House and practice sold for a good round sum; the brass1 plates were removed from gate and door, leaving dirty squares flanked by screw-holes; carpets came up and curtains down; and, like rats from a doomed2 ship, men and women servants fled to other situations. One fine day the auctioneer’s bell was rung through the main streets of the town; and both on this and the next, when the red flag flew in front of the house, a troop of intending purchasers, together with an even larger number of the merely curious, streamed in at the gate and overran the premises5. At noon the auctioneer mounted his perch6, gathered the crowd round him, and soon had the sale in full swing, catching7 head-bobs, or wheedling8 and insisting with, when persuasion9 could do no more, his monotonous10 parrot-cry of: “Going. . . going . . . gone!”
It would have been in bad taste for either husband or wife to be visible while the auction3 was in progress; and, the night before, Mary and the child had moved to Tilly’s, where they would stay for the rest of the time. But Mahony was still hard at work. The job of winding11 up and getting in the money owed him was no light one. For the report had somehow got abroad that he was retiring from practice because he had made his fortune; and only too many people took this as a tacit permission to leave their bills unpaid12.
He had locked himself and his account-books into a small back room, where stood the few articles they had picked out to carry with them: Mary’s sewing-table, his first gift to her after marriage; their modest stock of silver; his medical library. But he had been forced to lower the blind, to hinder impertinent noses flattening13 themselves against the window, and thus could scarcely see to put pen to paper; while the auctioneer’s grating voice was a constant source of distraction14 — not to mention the rude comments made by the crowd on house and furniture, the ceaseless trying of the handle of the locked door.
When it came to the point, this tearing up of one’s roots was a murderous business — nothing for a man of his temperament15. Mary was a good deal better able to stand it than he. Violently as she had opposed the move in the beginning, she was now, dear soul, putting a cheery face on it. But then Mary belonged to that happy class of mortals who could set up their Lares and Penates inside any four walls. Whereas he was a very slave to associations. Did she regret parting with a pretty table and a comfortable chair, it was soley because of the prettiness and convenience: as long as she could replace them by other articles of the same kind, she was content. But to him each familiar object was bound by a thousand memories. And it was the loss of these which could never be replaced that cut him to the quick.
Meanwhile this was the kind of thing he had to listen to.
“‘Ere now, ladies and gents, we ‘ave a very fine pier16 glass — a very chaste17 and tasty pier glass indeed — a red addition to any lady’s drawin’room.— Mrs. Rupp? Do I understand you aright, Mrs. Rupp? Mrs. Rupp offers twelve bob for this very ‘andsome article. Twelve bob ... going twelve.... Fifteen? Thank you, Mrs. Bromby! Going fifteen . . . going — going — Eighteen? Right you are, my dear!” and so on.
It had a history had that pier glass; its purchase dated from a time in their lives when they had been forced to turn each shilling in the palm. Mary had espied18 it one day in Plaistows’ Stores, and had set her heart on buying it. How she had schemed to scrape the money together!— saving so much on a new gown, so much on bonnet19 and mantle20. He remembered, as if it were yesterday, the morning on which she had burst in, eyes and cheeks aglow21, to tell him that she had managed it at last, and how they had gone off arm in arm to secure the prize. Yes, for all their poverty, those had been happy days. Little extravagances such as this, or the trifling22 gifts they had contrived23 to make each other had given far more pleasure than the costlier24 presents of later years.
“The next article I draw your attention to is a sofer,” went on the voice, sounding suddenly closer; and with a great trampling25 and shuffling26 the crowd trooped after it to the adjoining room. “And a very easy and comfortable piece o’ furniture it is, too. A bit shabby and worn ’ere and there, but not any the worse of that. You don’t need to worry if the kids play puff-puffs on it; and it fits the shape o’ the body all the better.— Any one like to try it? Jest the very thing for a tired gent ‘ome from biz, or ‘andy to pop your lady on when she faints — as the best of ladies will! Any h’offers? Mr. de la Plastrier”— he said “Deelay plastreer”—“a guinea? Thank you, mister. One guinea! Going a guinea!— Now, COME on, ladies and gen’elmen! D’ye think I’ve got a notion to make you a present of it? What’s that? Two-and-twenty? Gawd! Is this a tiddlin’ match?”
How proud he had been of that sofa! In his first surgery he had had nowhere to lay an aching head. Well worn? Small wonder! He would like to know how many hundreds of times he had flung himself down on it, utterly27 played out. He had been used to lie there of an evening, too, when Mary came in to chat about household affairs, or report on her day’s doings. And he remembered another time, when he had spent the last hours of a distracted night on it . . . and how, between sleeping and waking, he had strained his ears for footsteps that never came.
The sofa was knocked down to his butcher for a couple of pounds, and the crying — or decrying28 — of his bookcases began. He could stand no more of it. Sweeping29 his papers into a bag, he guiltily unlocked the door and stole out by way of kitchen and back gate.
But once outside he did not know where to go or what to do. Leaving the town behind him he made for the Lake, and roved aimlessly and disconsolately30 about, choosing sheltered paths and remote roads where he would be unlikely to run the gauntlet of acquaintances. For he shrank from recognition on this particular day, when all his domestic privacies were being bared to the public view. But altogether of late he had fought shy of meeting people. Their hard, matter-of-fact faces showed him only too plainly what they thought of him. At first he had been fool enough to scan them eagerly, in the hope of finding one saving touch of sympathy or comprehension. But he might as well have looked for grief in the eyes of an undertaker’s mute. And so he had shrunk back into himself, wearing his stiffest air as a shield and leaving it to Mary to parry colonial inquisitiveness32.
When he reckoned that he had allowed time enough for the disposal of the last pots and pans, he rose and made his way — well, the word “home” was by now become a mere4 figure of speech. He entered a scene of the wildest confusion. The actual sale was over, but the work of stripping the house only begun, and successful bidders33 were dragging off their spoils. His glass-fronted bookcase had been got as far as the surgery-door. There it had stuck fast; and an angry altercation34 was going on, how best to set it free. A woman passed him bearing Mary’s girandoles; another had the dining-room clock under her arm; a third trailed a whatnot after her. To the palings of the fence several carts and buggies had been hitched35, and the horses were eating down his neatly36 clipped hedge — it was all he could do not to rush out and call their owners to account. The level sunrays flooded the rooms, showing up hitherto unnoticed smudges and scratches on the wall-papers; showing the prints of hundreds of dusty feet on the carpetless floors. Voices echoed in hollow fashion through the naked rooms; men shouted and spat37 as they tugged38 heavy articles along the hall, or bumped them down the stairs. It was pandemonium39. The death of a loved human being could not, he thought, have been more painful to witness. Thus a home went to pieces; thus was a page of one’s life turned.— He hastened away to rejoin Mary.
There followed a week of Mrs. Tilly’s somewhat stifling40 hospitality, when one was forced three times a day to over-eat oneself for fear of giving offence; followed formal presentations of silver and plate from Masonic Lodge41 and District Hospital, as well as a couple of public testimonials got up by his medical brethren. But at length all was over: the last visit had been paid and received, the last evening party in their honour sat through; and Mahony breathed again. He had felt stiff and unnatural42 under this overdose of demonstrativeness. Now — as always on sighting relief from a state of things that irked him — he underwent a sudden change, turned hearty43 and spontaneous, thus innocently succeeding in leaving a good impression behind him. He kept his temper, too, in all the fuss and ado of departure: the running to and fro after missing articles, the sitting on the lids of overflowing44 trunks, the strapping45 of carpet-bags, affixing46 of labels. Their luggage hoisted47 into a spring-cart, they themselves took their seats in the buggy and were driven to the railway station; and to himself Mahony murmured an all’s-well — that-ends-well. On alighting, however, he found that his greatcoat had been forgotten. He had to re-seat himself in the buggy and gallop48 back to the house, arriving at the station only just in time to leap into the train.
“A close shave that!” he ejaculated as he sank on the cushions and wiped his face. “And in more senses than one, my dear. In tearing round a corner we nearly had a nasty spill. Had I pitched out and broken my neck, this hole would have got my bones after all.— Not that I was sorry to miss that cock-and-hen-show, Mary. It was really too much of a good thing altogether.”
For a large and noisy crowd had gathered round the door of the carriage to wish the travellers god-speed, among them people to whom Mahony could not even put a name, whose very existence he had forgotten. And it had fairly snowed last gifts and keepsakes. Drying her eyes, Mary now set to collecting and arranging these. “Just fancy so many turning up, dear. The railway people must have wondered what was the matter.— Oh, by the way, did you notice — I don’t think you did, you were in such a rush — who I was speaking to as you ran up? It was Jim, Old Jim, but so changed I hardly knew him. As spruce as could be, in a black coat and a belltopper. He’s married again, he told me, and has one of the best-paying hotels in Smythesdale. Yes, and he was at the sale, too — he came over specially49 for it — to buy the piano.”
“He did, confound him!” cried Mahony hotly.
“Oh, you can’t look at it that way, Richard. As long as he has the money to pay for it. Fancy, he told me had always admired the ‘tune’ of it so much, when I played and sang. My dear little piano!”
“You shall have another and a better one, I promise you, old girl — don’t fret50. Well, that slice of our life’s over and done with,” he added, and laid his hand on hers. “But we’ll hold together, won’t we, wife, whatever happens?”
They had passed Black Hill and its multicoloured clay and gravel51 heaps, and the train was puffing52 uphill. The last scattered53 huts and weatherboards fell behind, the worked-out holes grew fewer, wooded rises appeared. Gradually, too, the white roads round Mount Buninyong came into view, and the trees became denser54. And having climbed the shoulder, they began to fly smoothly55 and rapidly down the other side.
Mahony bent56 forward in his seat. “There goes the last of old Warrenheip. Thank the Lord, I shall never set eyes on it again. Upon my word, I believe I came to think that hill the most tiresome57 feature of the place. Whatever street one turned into, up it bobbed at the foot. Like a peep-show . . . or a bad dream . . . or a prison wall.”
In Melbourne they were the guests of John — Mahony had reluctantly resigned himself to being beholden to Mary’s relatives and Mary’s friends to the end of the chapter. At best, living in other people’s houses was for him more of a punishment than a pleasure; but for sheer discomfort58 this stay capped the climax59. Under Zara’s incompetent60 rule John’s home had degenerated61 into a lawless and slovenly62 abode63: the meals were unpalatable, the servants pert and lazy, while the children ran wild — you could hardly hear yourself speak for the racket. Whenever possible, Mahony fled the house. He lunched in town, looked up his handful of acquaintances, bought necessaries — and unnecessaries — for the voyage. He also hired a boat and had himself rowed out to the ship, where he clambered on board amid the mess of scouring64 and painting, and made himself known to the chief mate. Or he sat on the pier and gazed at the vessel65 lying straining at her anchor, while quick rain-squalls swept up and blotted66 out the Bay.
Of Mary he caught but passing glimpses; her family seemed determined67 to make unblushing use of her as long as she was within reach. A couple of days prior to their arrival, John and Zara had quarrelled violently; and for the dozenth time Zara had packed her trunks and departed for one of those miraculous68 situations, the doors of which always stood open to her.
John was for Mary going after her and forcing her to admit the error of her ways. Mary held it wiser to let well alone.
“DO be guided by me this time, John,” she urged, when she had heard her brother out: “You and Zara will never hit it off, however often you try.”
But the belief was ingrained in John that the most suitable head for his establishment was one of his own blood. He answered indignantly. “And why not pray, may I ask? Who IS to hit it off, as you put it, if not two of a family?”
“Oh, John. . . “— Mary felt quite apologetic for her brother. “Clever as Zara is, she’s not at all fitted for a post of this kind. She’s no hand with the servants, and children don’t seem to take to her — young children, I mean.”
“Not fitted? Bah!” said John. “Every woman is fitted by nature to rear children and manage a house.”
“They should be, I know,” yielded Mary in conciliatory fashion. “But with Zara it doesn’t seem to be the case.”
“Then she ought to be ashamed of herself, my dear Mary — ashamed of herself — and that’s all about it!”
Zara wept into a dainty handkerchief and was delivered of a rigmarole of complaints against her brother, the servants, the children. According to her, the last were naturally perverse69, and John indulged them so shockingly that she had been powerless to carry out reforms. Did she punish them, he cancelled the punishments; if she left their naughtiness unchecked, he accused her of indifference70. Then her housekeeping had not suited him: he reproached her with extravagance, with mismanagement, even with lining71 her own purse. “While the truth is, John is mean as dirt! I had literally72 to drag each penny out of him.”
“But what ever induced you to undertake it again, Zara?”
“Yes, what indeed!” echoed Zara bitterly. “However, once bitten, Mary, twice shy. NEVER again!”
But remembering the bites Zara had already received, Mary was silent.
Even Zara’s amateurish73 hand thus finally withdrawn74, it became Mary’s task to find some worthy75 and capable person to act as mistress. Taking her obligations seriously, she devoted76 her last days in Australia to conning77 and penning advertisements, and interviewing applicants78.
“Now no one too attractive, if you please, Mrs. Mahony!— if you don’t want him to fall a victim,” teased Richard. “Remember our good John’s inflammability. He’s a very Leyden jar again at present.”
“No, indeed I don’t,” said Mary with emphasis. “But the children are the first consideration. Oh, dear! it does seem a shame that Tilly shouldn’t have them to look after. And it would relieve John of so much responsibility. As it is, he’s even asked me to make it plain to Tilly that he wishes Trotty to spend her holidays at school.”
The forsaking79 of the poor little motherless flock cut Mary to the heart. Trotty had dung to her, inconsolable. “Oh, Auntie, TAKE me with you! Oh, what shall I do without you?”
“It’s not possible, darling. Your papa would never agree. But I tell you what, Trotty: you must be a good girl and make haste and learn all you can. For soon, I’m sure, he’ll want you to come and be his little housekeeper80, and look after the other children.”
Sounded on this subject, however, John said dryly: “Emma’s influence would be undesirable81 for the little ones.” His prejudice in favour of his second wife’s children was an eternal riddle82 to his sister. He dandled even the youngest, whom he had not seen since its birth, with visible pleasure.
“It must be the black eyes,” said Mary to herself; and shook her head at men’s irrationality83. For Jinny’s offspring had none of the grace and beauty that marked the two elder children.
And now the last night had come; and they were gathered, a family party, round John’s mahogany. The cloth had been removed; nuts and port were passing. As it was a unique occasion the ladies had been excused from withdrawing, and the gentlemen left their cigars unlighted. Mary’s eyes roved fondly from one face to another. There was Tilly, come over from her hotel —(“Nothing would induce me to spend a night under his roof, Mary”)— Tilly sat hugging one of the children, who had run in for the almonds and raisins84 of dessert. “What a mother lost in her!” sighed Mary once more. There was Zara, so far reconciled to her brother as to consent to be present; but only speaking at him, not to him. And dear Jerry, eager and alert, taking so intelligent a share in what was said. Poor Ned alone was wanting, neither Richard nor John having offered to pay his fare to town. Young Johnny’s seat was vacant, too, for the boy had vanished directly dinner was over.
In the harmony of the evening there was just one jarring note for Mary; and at moments she grew very thoughtful. For the first time Mrs. Kelly, the motherly widow on whom her choice had fallen, sat opposite John at the head of the table; and already Mary was the prey85 of a nagging86 doubt. For this person had doffed87 the neat mourning-garb she had worn when being engaged, and come forth88 in a cap trimmed with cherry coloured ribbons. Not only this, she smiled in sugary fashion and far too readily; while the extreme humility89 with which she deferred90 to John’s opinion, and hung on his lips, made another bad impression on Mary. Nor was she alone in her observations. After a particularly glaring example of the widow’s complaisance91, Tilly looked across and shut one eye, in an unmistakable wink92.
Meanwhile the men’s talk had gradually petered out: there came long pauses in which they twiddled and twirled their wine-glasses, unable to think of anything to say. At heart, both John and Mahony hailed with a certain relief the coming break. “After all I dare say such a queer faddy fellow IS out of his element here. He’ll go down better over there,” was John’s mental verdict. Mahony’s, a characteristic: “Thank God, I shall not have to put up much longer with his confounded self-importance, or suffer under his matrimonial muddles93!”
When at a question from Mary John began animatedly94 to discuss the tuition of the younger children, Mahony seized the chance to slip away. He would not be missed. He never was — here or anywhere.
On the verandah a dark form stirred and made a hasty movement. It was the boy Johnny — now grown tall as Mahony himself — and, to judge from the smell, what he tried to smuggle95 into his pocket was a briar.
“Oh well, yes, I’m smoking,” he said sullenly96, after a feeble attempt at evasion97. “Go in and blab on me, if you feel you must, Uncle Richard.”
“Nonsense. But telling fibs about a thing does no good.”
“Oh yes, it does; it saves a hiding,” retorted the boy. And added with a youthful vehemence98: “I’m hanged if I let the governor take a stick to me nowadays! I’m turned sixteen; and if he dares to touch me —”
“Come, come. You know, you’ve been something of a disappointment to your father, Johnny — that’s the root of the trouble.”
“Glad if I have! He hates me anyway. He never cared for my mother’s children,” answered Johnny with a quaint31 dignity. “I think he couldn’t have cared for her either.”
“There you’re wrong. He was devoted to her. Her death nearly broke his heart.— She was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, my boy.”
“Was she?” said Johnny civilly, but with meagre interest. This long dead mother had bequeathed him not even a memory of herself — was as unreal to him as a dream at second hand. From the chilly99 contemplation of her he turned back impatiently to his own affairs, which were burning, insistent100. And scenting101 a vague sympathy in this stranger uncle who, like himself, had drifted out from the intimacy102 of the candle-lit room, he made a clean breast of his troubles.
“I can’t stand the life here, Uncle Richard, and I’m not going to — not if father cuts me off with a shilling! I mean to see the world. THIS isn’t the world — this dead-and-alive old country! . . . though it’s got to seem like it to the governor, he’s been here so long. And HE cleared out from his before he was even as old as I am. Of course there isn’t another blessed old Australia for me to decamp to; he might be a bit sweeter about it, if there was. But America’s good enough for me, and I’m off there — yes, even if I have to work my passage out!”
Early next morning, fully103 equipped for their journey, the Mahonys stood on the William’s Town pier, the centre of the usual crowd of relatives and friends. This had been further swelled105 by the advent106 of Mrs. Devine, who came panting up followed by her husband, and by Agnes Ocock and Amelia Grindle, who had contrived to reach Melbourne the previous evening. Even John’s children were tacked107 on, clad in their Sunday best. Everybody talked at once and laughed or wept; while the children played hide-and-seek round the ladies’ crinolines. Strange eyes were bent on their party, strange ears cocked in their direction; and yet once again Mahony’s dislike to a commotion108 in public choked off his gratitude109 towards these good and kindly110 people. But his star was rising: tears and farewells and vows111 of constancy had to be cut short, a jaunt112 planned by the whole company to the ship itself abandoned; for a favourable113 wind had sprung up and the captain was impatient to weigh anchor. And so the very last kisses and handclasps exchanged, the travellers climbed down into a boat already deep in the water with other cuddy-passengers and their luggage, and were rowed out to where lay that good clipper-ship, the RED JACKET. Sitting side by side husband and wife watched, with feelings that had little in common, the receding114 quay115, Mary fluttering her damp handkerchief till the separate figures had merged116 in one dark mass, and even Tilly, planted in front, her handkerchief tied flagwise to the top of Jerry’s cane117, could no longer be distinguished118 from the rest.
Mahony’s foot met the ribbed teak of the deck with the liveliest satisfaction; his nostrils119 drank in the smell of tarred ropes and oiled brass. Having escorted Mary below, seen to the stowing away of their belongings120 and changed his town clothes for a set of comfortable baggy121 garments, he returned to the deck, where he passed the greater part of the day tirelessly pacing. They made good headway, and soon the ports and towns at the water’s edge were become mere whitey smudges. The hills in the background lasted longer. But first the Macedon group faded from sight; then the Dandenong Ranges, grown bluer and bluer, were also lost in the sky. The vessel crept round the outside of the great Bay, to clear shoals and sandbanks, and, by afternoon, with the sails close rigged in the freshening wind, they were running parallel with the Cliff —“THE Cliff!” thought Mahony with a curl of the lip. And indeed there was no other; nothing but low scrub-grown sandhills which flattened122 out till they were almost level with the sea.
The passage through the Heads was at hand. Impulsively123 he went down to fetch Mary. Threading his way through the saloon, in the middle of which grew up one of the masts, he opened a door leading off it.
“Come on deck, my dear, and take your last look at the old place. It’s not likely you’ll ever see it again.”
But Mary was already encoffined in her narrow berth124.
“Don’t ask me even to lift my head from the pillow, Richard. Besides, I’ve seen it so often before.”
He lingered to make some arrangements for her comfort, fidgeted to know where she had put his books; then mounted a locker125 and craned his neck at the porthole. “Now for the Rip, wife! By God, Mary, I little thought this time last year, that I should be crossing it to-day.”
But the cabin was too dark and small to hold him. Climbing the steep companion-way he went on deck again, and resumed his flittings to and fro. He was no more able to be still than was the good ship under him; he felt himself one with her, and gloried in her growing unrest. She was now come to the narrow channel between two converging126 headlands, where the waters of Hobson’s Bay met those of the open sea. They boiled and churned, in an eternal commotion, over treacherous127 reefs which thrust far out below the surface and were betrayed by straight, white lines of foam128. Once safely out, the vessel hove to to drop the pilot. Leaning over the gunwale Mahony watched a boat come alongside, the man of oilskins climb down the rope-ladder and row away.
Here, in the open, a heavy swell104 was running, but he kept his foot on the swaying boards long after the last of his fellow-passengers had vanished — a tall, thin figure, with an eager, pointed129 face, and hair just greying at the temples. Contrary to habit, he had a word for every one who passed, from mate to cabin-boy, and he drank a glass of wine with the Captain in his cabin. Their start had been auspicious130, said the latter; seldom had he had such a fair wind to come out with.
Then the sun fell into the sea and it was night — a fine, starry131 night, clear with the hard, cold radiance of the south. Mahony looked up at the familiar constellations132 and thought of those others, long missed, that he was soon to see again.— Over! This page of his history was turned and done with; and he had every reason to feel thankful. For many and many a man, though escaping with his life, had left youth and health and hope on these difficult shores. He had got off scot-free. Still in his prime, his faculties133 green, his zest134 for living unimpaired, he was heading for the dear old mother country — for home. Alone and unaided he could never have accomplished135 it. Strength to will the enterprise, steadfastness136 in the face of obstacles had been lent him from above. And as he stood gazing down into the black and fathomless137 deep, which sent crafty138, licking tongues up the vessel’s side, he freely acknowledged his debt, gave honour where honour was due.— FROM THEE COMETH VICTORY, FROM THEE COMETH WISDOM, AND THINE IS THE GLORY AND I AM THY SERVANT.
The last spark of a coast-light went out. Buffeted139 by the rising wind, the good ship began to pitch and roll. Her canvas rattled140, her joints141 creaked and groaned142 as, lunging forward, she cut her way through the troubled seas that break on the reef-bound coasts of this old, new world.
The End
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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doomed
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auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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premises
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perch
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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persuasion
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monotonous
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winding
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unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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flattening
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bonnet
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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costlier
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| adj.昂贵的( costly的比较级 )；代价高的；引起困难的；造成损失的 | |
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25
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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26
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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27
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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28
decrying
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| v.公开反对，谴责( decry的现在分词 ) | |
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29
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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30
disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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31
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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32
inquisitiveness
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| 好奇，求知欲 | |
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33
bidders
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| n.出价者，投标人( bidder的名词复数 ) | |
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34
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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35
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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36
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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37
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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38
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
pandemonium
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| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
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40
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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41
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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42
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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43
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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44
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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45
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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46
affixing
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| v.附加( affix的现在分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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47
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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49
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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50
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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51
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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52
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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53
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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54
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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55
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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56
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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57
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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58
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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59
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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60
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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61
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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63
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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64
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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65
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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66
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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67
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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68
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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69
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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70
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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71
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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72
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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73
amateurish
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| n.业余爱好的，不熟练的 | |
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74
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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75
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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76
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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77
conning
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| v.诈骗，哄骗( con的现在分词 )；指挥操舵( conn的现在分词 ) | |
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78
applicants
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| 申请人，求职人( applicant的名词复数 ) | |
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79
forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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80
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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81
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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82
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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83
irrationality
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| n. 不合理，无理性 | |
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84
raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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85
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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86
nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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87
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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89
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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90
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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91
complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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92
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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93
muddles
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| v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的第三人称单数 )；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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94
animatedly
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| adv.栩栩如生地，活跃地 | |
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95
smuggle
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| vt.私运；vi.走私 | |
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96
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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97
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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98
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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99
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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100
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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101
scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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102
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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103
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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104
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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105
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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106
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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107
tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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108
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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109
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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110
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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111
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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112
jaunt
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| v.短程旅游；n.游览 | |
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113
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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114
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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115
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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116
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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117
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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118
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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119
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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120
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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121
baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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122
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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123
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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124
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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125
locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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126
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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127
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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128
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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129
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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130
auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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131
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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132
constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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133
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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134
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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135
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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136
steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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137
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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138
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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139
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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140
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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141
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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142
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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