The August night had gathered by the time Basil Ransom1, having finished his supper, stepped out upon the piazza2 of the little hotel. It was a very little hotel and of a very slight and loose construction; the tread of a tall Mississippian made the staircase groan3 and the windows rattle4 in their frames. He was very hungry when he arrived, having not had a moment, in Boston, on his way through, to eat even the frugal5 morsel6 with which he was accustomed to sustain nature between a breakfast that consisted of a cup of coffee and a dinner that consisted of a cup of tea. He had had his cup of tea now, and very bad it was, brought him by a pale, round-backed young lady, with auburn ringlets, a fancy belt, and an expression of limited tolerance7 for a gentleman who could not choose quickly between fried fish, fried steak, and baked beans. The train for Marmion left Boston at four o’clock in the afternoon, and rambled8 fitfully toward the southern cape9, while the shadows grew long in the stony10 pastures and the slanting11 light gilded12 the straggling, shabby woods, and painted the ponds and marshes13 with yellow gleams. The ripeness of summer lay upon the land, and yet there was nothing in the country Basil Ransom traversed that seemed susceptible14 of maturity15; nothing but the apples in the little tough, dense16 orchards17, which gave a suggestion of sour fruition here and there, and the tall, bright goldenrod at the bottom of the bare stone dykes18. There were no fields of yellow grain; only here and there a crop of brown hay. But there was a kind of soft scrubbiness in the landscape, and a sweetness begotten19 of low horizons, of mild air, with a possibility of summer haze20, of unregarded inlets where on August mornings the water must be brightly blue. Ransom had heard that the Cape was the Italy, so to speak, of Massachusetts; it had been described to him as the drowsy21 Cape, the languid Cape, the Cape not of storms, but of eternal peace. He knew that the Bostonians had been drawn22 thither23, for the hot weeks, by its sedative24 influence, by the conviction that its toneless air would minister to perfect rest. In a career in which there was so much nervous excitement as in theirs they had no wish to be wound up when they went out of town; they were sufficiently25 wound up at all times by the sense of all their sex had been through. They wanted to live idly, to unbend and lie in hammocks, and also to keep out of the crowd, the rush of the watering-place. Ransom could see there was no crowd at Marmion, as soon as he got there, though indeed there was a rush, which directed itself to the only vehicle in waiting outside of the small, lonely, hut-like station, so distant from the village that, as far as one looked along the sandy, sketchy26 road which was supposed to lead to it, one saw only an empty land on either side. Six or eight men in “dusters,” carrying parcels and handbags, projected themselves upon the solitary27, rickety carry-all, so that Ransom could read his own fate, while the ruminating28 conductor of the vehicle, a lean, shambling citizen, with a long neck and a tuft on his chin, guessed that if he wanted to get to the hotel before dusk he would have to strike out. His valise was attached in a precarious29 manner to the rear of the carry-all. “Well, I’ll chance it,” the driver remarked sadly, when Ransom protested against its insecure position. He recognised the southern quality of that picturesque30 fatalism — judged that Miss Chancellor31 and Verena Tarrant must be pretty thoroughly32 relaxed if they had given themselves up to the genius of the place. This was what he hoped for and counted on, as he took his way, the sole pedestrian in the group that had quitted the train, in the wake of the overladen carry-all. It helped him to enjoy the first country walk he had had for many months, for more than months, for years, that the reflexion was forced upon him as he went (the mild, vague scenery, just beginning to be dim with twilight33, suggested it at every step) that the two young women who constituted, at Marmion, his whole prefigurement of a social circle, must, in such a locality as that, be taking a regular holiday. The sense of all the wrongs they had still to redress34 must be lighter35 there than it was in Boston; the ardent36 young man had, for the hour, an ingenuous37 hope that they had left their opinions in the city. He liked the very smell of the soil as he wandered along; cool, soft whiffs of evening met him at bends of the road which disclosed very little more — unless it might be a band of straight-stemmed woodland, keeping, a little, the red glow from the west, or (as he went further) an old house, shingled38 all over, grey and slightly collapsing39, which looked down at him from a steep bank, at the top of wooden steps. He was already refreshed; he had tasted the breath of nature, measured his long grind in New York, without a vacation, with the repetition of the daily movement up and down the long, straight, maddening city, like a bucket in a well or a shuttle in a loom40.
He lit his cigar in the office of the hotel — a small room on the right of the door, where a “register,” meagrely inscribed41, led a terribly public life on the little bare desk, and got its pages dogs’-eared before they were covered. Local worthies42, of a vague identity, used to lounge there, as Ransom perceived the next day, by the hour. They tipped back their chairs against the wall, seldom spoke43, and might have been supposed, with their converging44 vision, to be watching something out of the window, if there had been anything at Marmion to watch. Sometimes one of them got up and went to the desk, on which he leaned his elbows, hunching45 a pair of sloping shoulders to an uncollared neck. For the fiftieth time he perused46 the fly-blown page of the recording47 volume, where the names followed each other with such jumps of date. The others watched him while he did so — or contemplated48 in silence some “guest” of the hostelry, when such a personage entered the place with an air of appealing from the general irresponsibility of the establishment and found no one but the village-philosophers to address himself to. It was an establishment conducted by invisible, elusive50 agencies; they had a kind of stronghold in the dining-room, which was kept locked at all but sacramental hours. There was a tradition that a “boy” exercised some tutelary51 function as regards the crumpled52 register; but when he was inquired about, it was usually elicited54 from the impartial55 circle in the office either that he was somewhere round or that he had gone a-fishing. Except the haughty56 waitress who has just been mentioned as giving Ransom his supper, and who only emerged at meal-times from her mystic seclusion57, this impalpable youth was the single person on the premises58 who represented domestic service. Anxious lady-boarders, wrapped in shawls, were seen waiting for him, as if he had been the doctor, on horse-hair rocking-chairs, in the little public parlour; others peered vaguely59 out of back doors and windows, thinking that if he were somewhere round they might see him. Sometimes people went to the door of the dining-room and tried it, shaking it a little, timidly, to see if it would yield; then, finding it fast, came away, looking, if they had been observed, shy and snubbed, at their fellows. Some of them went so far as to say that they didn’t think it was a very good hotel.
Ransom, however, didn’t much care whether it were good or not; he hadn’t come to Marmion for the love of the hotel. Now that he had got there, however, he didn’t know exactly what to do; his course seemed rather less easy than it had done when, suddenly, the night before, tired, sick of the city-air, and hungry for a holiday, he decided60 to take the next morning’s train to Boston, and there take another to the shores of Buzzard’s Bay. The hotel itself offered few resources; the inmates61 were not numerous; they moved about a little outside, on the small piazza and in the rough yard which interposed between the house and the road, and then they dropped off into the unmitigated dusk. This element, touched only in two or three places by a far-away dim glimmer62, presented itself to Ransom as his sole entertainment. Though it was pervaded63 by that curious, pure, earthy smell which in New England, in summer, hangs in the nocturnal air, Ransom bethought himself that the place might be a little dull for persons who had not come to it, as he had, to take possession of Verena Tarrant. The unfriendly inn, which suggested dreadfully to Ransom (he despised the practice) an early bed-time, seemed to have no relation to anything, not even to itself; but a fellow-tenant of whom he made an inquiry64 told him the village was sprinkled round. Basil presently walked along the road in search of it, under the stars, smoking one of the good cigars which constituted his only tribute to luxury. He reflected that it would hardly do to begin his attack that night; he ought to give the Bostonians a certain amount of notice of his appearance on the scene. He thought it very possible, indeed, that they might be addicted65 to the vile66 habit of “retiring” with the cocks and hens. He was sure that was one of the things Olive Chancellor would do so long as he should stay — on purpose to spite him; she would make Verena Tarrant go to bed at unnatural67 hours, just to deprive him of his evenings. He walked some distance without encountering a creature or discerning an habitation; but he enjoyed the splendid starlight, the stillness, the shrill68 melancholy69 of the crickets, which seemed to make all the vague forms of the country pulsate70 around him; the whole impression was a bath of freshness after the long strain of the preceding two years and his recent sweltering weeks in New York. At the end of ten minutes (his stroll had been slow) a figure drew near him, at first indistinct, but presently defining itself as that of a woman. She was walking apparently71 without purpose, like himself, or without other purpose than that of looking at the stars, which she paused for an instant, throwing back her head, to contemplate49, as he drew nearer to her. In a moment he was very close; he saw her look at him, through the clear gloom, as they passed each other. She was small and slim; he made out her head and face, saw that her hair was cropped; had an impression of having seen her before. He noticed that as she went by she turned as well as himself, and that there was a sort of recognition in her movement. Then he felt sure that he had seen her elsewhere, and before she had added to the distance that separated them he stopped short, looking after her. She noticed his halt, paused equally, and for a moment they stood there face to face, at a certain interval72, in the darkness.
“I beg your pardon — is it Doctor Prance73?” he found himself demanding.
For a minute there was no answer; then came the voice of the little lady:
“Yes, sir; I am Doctor Prance. Any one sick at the hotel?”
“I hope not; I don’t know,” Ransom said, laughing.
Then he took a few steps, mentioned his name, recalled his having met her at Miss Birdseye’s, ever so long before (nearly two years), and expressed the hope that she had not forgotten that.
She thought it over a little — she was evidently addicted neither to empty phrases nor to unconsidered assertions. “I presume you mean that night Miss Tarrant launched out so.”
“That very night. We had a very interesting conversation.”
“Well, I remember I lost a good deal,” said Doctor Prance.
“Well, I don’t know; I have an idea you made it up in other ways,” Ransom returned, laughing still.
He saw her bright little eyes engage with his own. Staying, apparently, in the village, she had come out, bare-headed, for an evening walk, and if it had been possible to imagine Doctor Prance bored and in want of recreation, the way she lingered there as if she were quite willing to have another talk might have suggested to Basil Ransom this condition. “Why, don’t you consider her career very remarkable74?”
“Oh yes; everything is remarkable nowadays; we live in an age of wonders!” the young man replied, much amused to find himself discussing the object of his adoration75 in this casual way, in the dark, on a lonely country-road, with a short-haired female physician. It was astonishing how quickly Doctor Prance and he had made friends again. “I suppose, by the way, you know Miss Tarrant and Miss Chancellor are staying down here?” he went on.
“Well, yes, I suppose I know it. I am visiting Miss Chancellor,” the dry little woman added.
“Oh indeed? I am delighted to hear it!” Ransom exclaimed, feeling that he might have a friend in the camp. “Then you can inform me where those ladies have their house.”
“Yes, I guess I can tell it in the dark. I will show you round now, if you like.”
“I shall be glad to see it, though I am not sure I shall go in immediately. I must reconnoitre a little first. That makes me so very happy to have met you. I think it’s very wonderful — your knowing me.”
Doctor Prance did not repudiate76 this compliment, but she presently observed: “You didn’t pass out of my mind entirely77, because I have heard about you since, from Miss Birdseye.”
“Ah yes, I saw her in the spring. I hope she is in health and happiness.”
“She is always in happiness, but she can’t be said to be in health. She is very weak; she is failing.”
“I am very sorry for that.”
“She is also visiting Miss Chancellor,” Doctor Prance observed, after a pause which was an illustration of an appearance she had of thinking that certain things didn’t at all imply some others.
“Why, my cousin has got all the distinguished78 women!” Basil Ransom exclaimed.
“Is Miss Chancellor your cousin? There isn’t much family resemblance. Miss Birdseye came down for the benefit of the country air, and I came down to see if I could help her to get some good from it. She wouldn’t much, if she were left to herself. Miss Birdseye has a very fine character, but she hasn’t much idea of hygiene79.” Doctor Prance was evidently more and more disposed to be chatty. Ransom appreciated this fact, and said he hoped she, too, was getting some good from the country-air — he was afraid she was very much confined to her profession, in Boston; to which she replied —“Well, I was just taking a little exercise along the road. I presume you don’t realise what it is to be one of four ladies grouped together in a small frame-house.”
Ransom remembered how he had liked her before, and he felt that, as the phrase was, he was going to like her again. He wanted to express his good-will to her, and would greatly have enjoyed being at liberty to offer her a cigar. He didn’t know what to offer her or what to do, unless he should invite her to sit with him on a fence. He did realise perfectly80 what the situation in the small frame-house must be, and entered with instant sympathy into the feelings which had led Doctor Prance to detach herself from the circle and wander forth81 under the constellations82, all of which he was sure she knew. He asked her permission to accompany her on her walk, but she said she was not going much further in that direction; she was going to turn round. He turned round with her, and they went back together to the village, in which he at last began to discover a certain consistency83, signs of habitation, houses disposed with a rough resemblance to a plan. The road wandered among them with a kind of accommodating sinuosity, and there were even cross-streets, and an oil-lamp on a corner, and here and there the small sign of a closed shop, with an indistinctly countrified lettering. There were lights now in the windows of some of the houses, and Doctor Prance mentioned to her companion several of the inhabitants of the little town, who appeared all to rejoice in the prefix84 of captain. They were retired85 shipmasters; there was quite a little nest of these worthies, two or three of whom might be seen lingering in their dim doorways86, as if they were conscious of a want of encouragement to sit up, and yet remembered the nights in far-away waters when they would not have thought of turning in at all. Marmion called itself a town, but it was a good deal shrunken since the decline in the shipbuilding interest; it turned out a good many vessels87 every year, in the palmy days, before the war. There were shipyards still, where you could almost pick up the old shavings, the old nails and rivets88, but they were grass-grown now, and the water lapped them without anything to interfere89. There was a kind of arm of the sea put in; it went up some way, it wasn’t the real sea, but very quiet, like a river; that was more attractive to some. Doctor Prance didn’t say the place was picturesque, or quaint90, or weird91; but he could see that was what she meant when she said it was mouldering92 away. Even under the mantle93 of night he himself gathered the impression that it had had a larger life, seen better days. Doctor Prance made no remark designed to elicit53 from him an account of his motives94 in coming to Marmion; she asked him neither when he had arrived nor how long he intended to stay. His allusion95 to his cousinship with Miss Chancellor might have served to her mind as a reason; yet, on the other hand, it would have been open to her to wonder why, if he had come to see the young ladies from Charles Street, he was not in more of a hurry to present himself. It was plain Doctor Prance didn’t go into that kind of analysis. If Ransom had complained to her of a sore throat she would have inquired with precision about his symptoms; but she was incapable96 of asking him any question with a social bearing. Sociably97 enough, however, they continued to wander through the principal street of the little town, darkened in places by immense old elms, which made a blackness overhead. There was a salt smell in the air, as if they were nearer the water; Doctor Prance said that Olive’s house was at the other end.
“I shall take it as a kindness if, for this evening, you don’t mention that you have happened to meet me,” Ransom remarked, after a little. He had changed his mind about giving notice.
“Well, I wouldn’t,” his companion replied; as if she didn’t need any caution in regard to making vain statements.
“I want to keep my arrival a little surprise for tomorrow. It will be a great pleasure to me to see Miss Birdseye,” he went on, rather hypocritically, as if that at bottom had been to his mind the main attraction of Marmion.
Doctor Prance did not reveal her private comment, whatever it was, on this intimation; she only said, after some hesitation98 —“Well, I presume the old lady will take quite an interest in your being here.”
“I have no doubt she is capable even of that degree of philanthropy.”
“Well, she has charity for all, but she does — even she — prefer her own side. She regards you as quite an acquisition.”
Ransom could not but feel flattered at the idea that he had been a subject of conversation — as this implied — in the little circle at Miss Chancellor’s; but he was at a loss, for the moment, to perceive what he had done up to this time to gratify the senior member of the group. “I hope she will find me an acquisition after I have been here a few days,” he said, laughing.
“Well, she thinks you are one of the most important converts yet,” Doctor Prance replied, in a colourless way, as if she would not have pretended to explain why.
“A convert — me? Do you mean of Miss Tarrant’s?” It had come over him that Miss Birdseye, in fact, when he was parting with her after their meeting in Boston, had assented99 to his request for secrecy100 (which at first had struck her as somewhat unholy) on the ground that Verena would bring him into the fold. He wondered whether that young lady had been telling her old friend that she had succeeded with him. He thought this improbable; but it didn’t matter, and he said, gaily101, “Well, I can easily let her suppose so!”
It was evident that it would be no easier for Doctor Prance to subscribe102 to a deception103 than it had been for her venerable patient; but she went so far as to reply, “Well, I hope you won’t let her suppose you are where you were that time I conversed104 with you. I could see where you were then!”
“It was in about the same place you were, wasn’t it?”
“Well,” said Doctor Prance, with a small sigh, “I am afraid I have moved back, if anything!” Her sigh told him a good deal; it seemed a thin, self-controlled protest against the tone of Miss Chancellor’s interior, of which it was her present fortune to form a part: and the way she hovered105 round, indistinct in the gloom, as if she were rather loath106 to resume her place there, completed his impression that the little doctress had a line of her own.
“That, at least, must distress107 Miss Birdseye,” he said reproachfully.
“Not much, because I am not of importance. They think women the equals of men; but they are a great deal more pleased when a man joins than when a woman does.”
Ransom complimented Doctor Prance on the lucidity108 of her mind, and then he said: “Is Miss Birdseye really sick? Is her condition very precarious?”
“Well, she is very old, and very — very gentle,” Doctor Prance answered, hesitating a moment for her adjective. “Under those circumstances a person may flicker109 out.”
“We must trim the lamp,” said Ransom; “I will take my turn, with pleasure, in watching the sacred flame.”
“It will be a pity if she doesn’t live to hear Miss Tarrant’s great effort,” his companion went on.
“Miss Tarrant’s? What’s that?”
“Well, it’s the principal interest, in there.” And Doctor Prance now vaguely indicated, with a movement of her head, a small white house, much detached from its neighbours, which stood on their left, with its back to the water, at a little distance from the road. It exhibited more signs of animation110 than any of its fellows; several windows, notably111 those of the ground floor, were open to the warm evening, and a large shaft112 of light was projected upon the grassy113 wayside in front of it. Ransom, in his determination to be discreet114, checked the advance of his companion, who added presently, with a short, suppressed laugh —“You can see it is, from that!” He listened, to ascertain115 what she meant, and after an instant a sound came to his ear — a sound he knew already well, which carried the accents of Verena Tarrant, in ample periods and cadences116, out into the stillness of the August night.
“Murder, what a lovely voice!” he exclaimed involuntarily.
Doctor Prance’s eye gleamed towards him a moment, and she observed, humorously (she was relaxing immensely), “Perhaps Miss Birdseye is right!” Then, as he made no rejoinder, only listening to the vocal117 inflexions that floated out of the house, she went on —“She’s practising her speech.”
“Her speech? Is she going to deliver one here?”
“No, as soon as they go back to town — at the Music Hall.”
Ransom’s attention was now transferred to his companion. “Is that why you call it her great effort?”
“Well, so they think it, I believe. She practises that way every night; she reads portions of it aloud to Miss Chancellor and Miss Birdseye.”
“And that’s the time you choose for your walk?” Ransom said, smiling.
“Well, it’s the time my old lady has least need of me; she’s too absorbed.”
Doctor Prance dealt in facts; Ransom had already discovered that; and some of her facts were very interesting.
“The Music Hall — isn’t that your great building?” he asked.
“Well, it’s the biggest we’ve got; it’s pretty big, but it isn’t so big as Miss Chancellor’s ideas,” added Doctor Prance. “She has taken it to bring out Miss Tarrant before the general public — she has never appeared that way in Boston — on a great scale. She expects her to make a big sensation. It will be a great night, and they are preparing for it. They consider it her real beginning.”
“And this is the preparation?” Basil Ransom said.
“Yes; as I say, it’s their principal interest.”
Ransom listened, and while he listened he meditated118. He had thought it possible Verena’s principles might have been shaken by the profession of faith to which he treated her in New York; but this hardly looked like it. For some moments Doctor Prance and he stood together in silence.
“You don’t hear the words,” the doctor remarked, with a smile which, in the dark, looked Mephistophelean.
“Oh, I know the words!” the young man exclaimed, with rather a groan, as he offered her his hand for good-night.
收听单词发音 |
1
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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dykes
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| abbr.diagonal wire cutters 斜线切割机n.堤( dyke的名词复数 )；坝；堰；沟 | |
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begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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sketchy
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| adj.写生的，写生风格的，概略的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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36
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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37
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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38
shingled
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| adj.盖木瓦的；贴有墙面板的v.用木瓦盖(shingle的过去式和过去分词形式) | |
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39
collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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40
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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41
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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42
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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43
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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44
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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45
hunching
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| 隆起（hunch的现在分词形式） | |
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46
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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47
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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48
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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49
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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50
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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51
tutelary
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| adj.保护的；守护的 | |
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52
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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53
elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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54
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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56
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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57
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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58
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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59
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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61
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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62
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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63
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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pulsate
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| v.有规律的跳动 | |
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71
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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73
prance
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| v.（马）腾跃，(人)神气活现地走 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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75
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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76
repudiate
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| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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78
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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79
hygiene
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| n.健康法，卫生学 （a.hygienic） | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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81
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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82
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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83
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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84
prefix
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| n.前缀；vt.加…作为前缀；置于前面 | |
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85
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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86
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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87
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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88
rivets
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| 铆钉( rivet的名词复数 ) | |
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89
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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90
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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91
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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92
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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93
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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94
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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95
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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96
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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97
sociably
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| adv.成群地 | |
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98
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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99
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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101
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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102
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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103
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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104
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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105
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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106
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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107
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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108
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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109
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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110
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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111
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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112
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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113
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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114
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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115
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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116
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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117
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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118
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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