Of Nature with One of Her Cultivated Daughters and a Short Excursion in Anti-Climax.
A mind that after a long season of oblivion in pain returns to wakefulness without a keen edge for the world, is much in danger of souring permanently1. Diana’s love of nature saved her from the dire2 mischance during a two months’ residence at Copsley, by stupefying her senses to a state like the barely conscious breathing on the verge3 of sleep. February blew South-west for the pairing of the birds. A broad warm wind rolled clouds of every ambiguity4 of form in magnitude over peeping azure5, or skimming upon lakes of blue and lightest green, or piling the amphitheatre for majestic6 sunset. Or sometimes those daughters of the wind flew linked and low, semi-purple, threatening the shower they retained and teaching gloom to rouse a songful nest in the bosom7 of the viewer. Sometimes they were April, variable to soar with rain-skirts and sink with sunshafts. Or they drenched8 wood and field for a day and opened on the high South-western star. Daughters of the wind, but shifty daughters of this wind of the dropping sun, they have to be watched to be loved in their transformations9.
Diana had Arthur Rhodes and her faithful Leander for walking companions. If Arthur said: ‘Such a day would be considered melancholy10 by London people,’ she thanked him in her heart, as a benefactor11 who had revealed to her things of the deepest. The simplest were her food. Thus does Nature restore us, by drugging the brain and making her creature confidingly12 animal for its new growth. She imagined herself to have lost the power to think; certainly she had not the striving or the wish. Exercise of her limbs to reach a point of prospect13, and of her ears and eyes to note what bird had piped, what flower was out on the banks, and the leaf of what tree it was that lay beneath the budding, satiated her daily desires. She gathered unknowingly a sheaf of landscapes, images, keys of dreamed horizons, that opened a world to her at any chance breath altering shape or hue14: a different world from the one of her old ambition. Her fall had brought her renovatingly to earth, and the saving naturalness of the woman recreated her childlike, with shrouded15 recollections of her strange taste of life behind her; with a tempered fresh blood to enjoy aimlessly, and what would erewhile have been a barrenness to her sensibilities.
In time the craving16 was evolved for positive knowledge, and shells and stones and weeds were deposited on the library-table at Copsley, botanical and geological books comparingly examined, Emma Dunstane always eager to assist; for the samples wafted17 her into the heart of the woods. Poor Sir Lukin tried three days of their society, and was driven away headlong to Club-life. He sent down Redworth, with whom the walks of the zealous18 inquirers were profitable, though Diana, in acknowledging it to herself, reserved a decided19 preference for her foregone ethereal mood, larger, and untroubled by the presence of a man. The suspicion Emma had sown was not excited to an alarming activity; but she began to question: could the best of men be simply—a woman’s friend?—was not long service rather less than a proof of friendship? She could be blind when her heart was on fire for another. Her passion for her liberty, however, received no ominous20 warning to look to the defences. He was the same blunt speaker, and knotted his brows as queerly as ever at Arthur, in a transparent21 calculation of how this fellow meant to gain his livelihood22. She wilfully23 put it to the credit of Arthur’s tact24 that his elder was amiable25, without denying her debt to the good man for leaving her illness and her appearance unmentioned. He forbore even to scan her features. Diana’s wan26 contemplativeness, in which the sparkle of meaning slowly rose to flash, as we see a bubble rising from the deeps of crystal waters, caught at his heart while he talked his matter-of-fact. But her instinct of a present safety was true. She and Arthur discovered—and it set her first meditating27 whether she did know the man so very accurately—that he had printed, for private circulation, when at Harrow School, a little book, a record of his observations in nature. Lady Dunstane was the casual betrayer. He shrugged28 at the nonsense of a boy’s publishing; anybody’s publishing he held for a doubtful proof of sanity29. His excuse was, that he had not published opinions. Let us observe, and assist in our small sphere; not come mouthing to the footlights!
‘We retire,’ Diana said, for herself and Arthur.
‘The wise thing, is to avoid the position that enforces publishing,’ said he, to the discomposure of his raw junior.
In the fields he was genially30 helpful; commending them to the study of the South-west wind, if they wanted to forecast the weather and understand the climate of our country. ‘We have no Seasons, or only a shuffle31 of them. Old calendars give seven months of the year to the Southwest, and that’s about the average. Count on it, you may generally reckon what to expect. When you don’t have the excess for a year or two, you are drenched the year following.’ He knew every bird by its flight and its pipe, habits, tricks, hints of sagacity homely32 with the original human; and his remarks on the sensitive life of trees and herbs were a spell to his thirsty hearers. Something of astronomy he knew; but in relation to that science, he sank his voice, touchingly33 to Diana, who felt drawn34 to kinship with him when he had a pupil’s tone. An allusion35 by Arthur to the poetical36 work of Aratus, led to a memorably38 pleasant evening’s discourse39 upon the long reading of the stars by these our mortal eyes. Altogether the mind of the practical man became distinguishable to them as that of a plain brother of the poetic37. Diana said of him to Arthur: ‘He does not supply me with similes40; he points to the source of them.’ Arthur, with envy of the man of positive knowledge, disguised an unstrung heart in agreeing.
Redworth alluded41 passingly to the condition of public affairs. Neither of them replied. Diana was wondering how one who perused42 the eternal of nature should lend a thought to the dusty temporary of the world. Subsequently she reflected that she was asking him to confine his great male appetite to the nibble43 of bread which nourished her immediate44 sense of life. Her reflections were thin as mist, coming and going like the mist, with no direction upon her brain, if they sprang from it. When he had gone, welcome though Arthur had seen him to be, she rebounded45 to a broader and cheerfuller liveliness. Arthur was flattered by an idea of her casting off incubus—a most worthy46 gentleman, and a not perfectly47 sympathetic associate. Her eyes had their lost light in them, her step was brisker; she challenged him to former games of conversation, excursions in blank verse here and there, as the mood dictated48. They amused themselves, and Emma too. She revelled49 in seeing Tony’s younger face and hearing some of her natural outbursts. That Dacier never could have been the man for her, would have compressed and subjected her, and inflicted50 a further taste of bondage51 in marriage, she was assured. She hoped for the day when Tony would know it, and haply that another, whom she little comprehended, was her rightful mate.
March continued South-westerly and grew rainier, as Redworth had foretold52, bidding them look for gales53 and storm, and then the change of wind. It came, after wettings of a couple scorning the refuge of dainty townsfolk under umbrellas, and proud of their likeness54 to dripping wayside wildflowers. Arthur stayed at Copsley for a week of the crisp North-easter; and what was it, when he had taken his leave, that brought Tony home from her solitary55 walk in dejection? It could not be her seriously regretting the absence of the youthful companion she had parted with gaily56, appointing a time for another meeting on the heights, and recommending him to repair idle hours with strenuous57 work. The fit passed and was not explained. The winds are sharp with memory. The hard shrill58 wind crowed to her senses of an hour on the bleak59 sands of the French coast; the beginning of the curtained misery60, inscribed61 as her happiness. She was next day prepared for her term in London with Emma, who promised her to make an expedition at the end of it by way of holiday, to see The Crossways, which Mr. Redworth said was not tenanted.
‘You won’t go through it like a captive?’ said Emma.
‘I don’t like it, dear,’ Diana put up a comic mouth. ‘The debts we owe ourselves are the hardest to pay. That is the discovery of advancing age: and I used to imagine it was quite the other way. But they are the debts of honour, imperative62. I shall go through it grandly, you will see. If I am stopped at my first recreancy63 and turned directly the contrary way, I think I have courage.’
‘You will not fear to meet... any one?’ said Emma.
‘The world and all it contains! I am robust64, eager for the fray65, an Amazon, a brazen-faced hussy. Fear and I have parted. I shall not do you discredit66. Besides you intend to have me back here with you? And besides again, I burn to make a last brave appearance. I have not outraged67 the world, dear Emmy, whatever certain creatures in it may fancy.’
She had come out of her dejectedness with a shrewder view of Dacier; equally painful, for it killed her romance, and changed the garden of their companionship in imagination to a waste. Her clearing intellect prompted it, whilst her nature protested, and reviled68 her to uplift him. He had loved her. ‘I shall die knowing that a man did love me once,’ she said to her widowed heart, and set herself blushing and blanching69. But the thought grew inveterate70: ‘He could not bear much.’ And in her quick brain it shot up a crop of similitudes for the quality of that man’s love. She shuddered71, as at a swift cleaving72 of cold steel. He had not given her a chance; he had not replied to her letter written with the pen dipped in her heart’s blood; he must have gone straight away to the woman he married. This after almost justifying73 the scandalous world:—after ... She realized her sensations of that night when the house-door had closed on him; her feeling of lost sovereignty, degradation74, feminine danger, friendliness75: and she was unaware76, and never knew, nor did the world ever know, what cunning had inspired the frosty Cupid to return to her and be warmed by striking a bargain for his weighty secret. She knew too well that she was not of the snows which do not melt, however high her conceit77 of herself might place her. Happily she now stood out of the sun, in a bracing78 temperature, Polar; and her compassion79 for women was deeply sisterly in tenderness and understanding. She spoke80 of it to Emma as her gain.
‘I have not seen that you required to suffer to be considerate,’ Emma said.
‘It is on my conscience that I neglected Mary Paynham, among others—and because you did not take to her, Emmy.’
‘The reading of it appears to me, that she has neglected you.’
‘She was not in my confidence, and so I construe81 it as delicacy82. One never loses by believing the best.’
‘If one is not duped.’
‘Expectations dupe us, not trust. The light of every soul burns upward. Of course, most of them are candles in the wind. Let us allow for atmospheric83 disturbance84. Now I thank you, dear, for bringing me back to life. I see that I was really a selfish suicide, because I feel I have power to do some good, and belong to the army. When we are beginning to reflect, as I do now, on a recovered basis of pure health, we have the world at the dawn and know we are young in it, with great riches, great things gained and greater to achieve. Personally I behold85 a queer little wriggling86 worm for myself; but as one, of the active world I stand high and shapely; and the very thought of doing work, is like a draught87 of the desert-springs to me. Instead of which, I have once more to go about presenting my face to vindicate88 my character. Mr. Redworth would admit no irony89 in that! At all events, it is anti-climax.’
‘I forgot to tell you, Tony, you have been proposed for,’ said Emma; and there was a rush of savage90 colour over Tony’s cheeks.
Her apparent apprehensions91 were relieved by hearing the name of Mr. Sullivan Smith.
‘My poor dear countryman! And he thought me worthy, did he? Some day, when we are past his repeating it, I’ll thank him.’
The fact of her smiling happily at the narration92 of Sullivan Smith’s absurd proposal by mediatrix, proved to Emma how much her nature thirsted for the smallest support in her self-esteem.
The second campaign of London was of bad augury93 at the commencement, owing to the ridiculous intervention94 of a street-organ, that ground its pipes in a sprawling95 roar of one of the Puritani marches, just as the carriage was landing them at the door of her house. The notes were harsh, dissonant96, drunken, interlocked and horribly torn asunder97, intolerable to ears not keen to extract the tune98 through dreadful memories. Diana sat startled and paralyzed. The melody crashed a revival99 of her days with Dacier, as in gibes100; and yet it reached to her heart. She imagined a Providence101 that was trying her on the threshold, striking at her feebleness. She had to lock herself in her room for an hour of deadly abandonment to misery, resembling the run of poison through her blood, before she could bear to lift eyes on her friend; to whom subsequently she said: ‘Emmy, there are wounds that cut sharp as the enchanter’s sword, and we don’t know we are in halves till some rough old intimate claps us on the back, merely to ask us how we are! I have to join myself together again, as well as I can. It’s done, dear; but don’t notice the cement.’
‘You will be brave,’ Emma petitioned.
‘I long to show you I will.’
The meeting with those who could guess a portion of her story, did not disconcert her. To Lady Pennon and Lady Singleby, she was the brilliant Diana of her nominal103 luminary104 issuing from cloud. Face and tongue, she was the same; and once in the stream, she soon gathered its current topics and scattered105 her arrowy phrases. Lady Pennon ran about with them, declaring that the beautiful speaker, if ever down, was up, and up to her finest mark. Mrs. Fryar–Gannett had then become the blazing regnant antisocial star; a distresser of domesticity, the magnetic attraction in the spirituous flames of that wild snapdragon bowl, called the Upper class; and she was angelically blonde, a straw-coloured Beauty. ‘A lovely wheat sheaf, if the head were ripe,’ Diana said of her.
‘Threshed, says her fame, my dear,’ Lady Pennon replied, otherwise allusive106.
‘A wheatsheaf of contention107 for the bread of wind,’ said Diana, thinking of foolish Sir Lukin; thoughtless of talking to a gossip.
She would have shot a lighter108 dart109, had she meant it to fly and fix.
Proclaim, ye classics, what minor110 Goddess, or primal111, Iris112 or Ate, sped straight away on wing to the empty wheatsheaf-ears of the golden-visaged Amabel Fryar–Gunnett, daughter of Demeter in the field to behold, of Aphrodite in her rosy113 incendiarism for the many of men; filling that pearly concave with a perversion114 of the uttered speech, such as never lady could have repeated, nor man, if less than a reaping harvester: which verily for women to hear, is to stamp a substantial damnatory verification upon the delivery of the saying:—
‘Mrs. Warwick says of you, that you’re a bundle of straws for everybody and bread for nobody.’
Or, stranger speculation115, through what, and what number of conduits, curious, and variously colouring, did it reach the fair Amabel of the infant-incradle smile, in that deformation116 of the original utterance117! To pursue the thing, would be to enter the subter-sensual perfumed caverns118 of a Romance of Fashionable Life, with no hope of coming back to light, other than by tail of lynx, like the great Arabian seaman119, at the last page of the final chapter. A prospectively120 popular narrative121 indeed! and coin to reward it, and applause. But I am reminded that a story properly closed on the marriage of the heroine Constance and her young Minister of State, has no time for conjuring122 chemists’ bouquet123 of aristocracy to lure124 the native taste. When we have satisfied English sentiment, our task is done, in every branch of art, I hear: and it will account to posterity125 for the condition of the branches. Those yet wakeful eccentrics interested in such a person as Diana, to the extent of remaining attentive126 till the curtain falls, demand of me to gather-up the threads concerning her: which my gardener sweeping127 his pile of dead leaves before the storm and night, advises me to do speedily. But it happens that her resemblance to her sex and species of a civilized128 period plants the main threads in her bosom. Rogues129 and a policeman, or a hurried change of front of all the actors, are not a part of our slow machinery130.
Nor is she to show herself to advantage. Only those who read her woman’s blood and character with the head, will care for Diana of the Crossways now that the knot of her history has been unravelled131. Some little love they must have for her likewise: and how it can be quickened on behalf of a woman who never sentimentalizes publicly, and has no dolly-dolly compliance132, and muses133 on actual life, and fatigues134 with the exercise of brains, and is in sooth an alien: a princess of her kind and time, but a foreign one, speaking a language distinct from the mercantile, trafficking in ideas:—this is the problem. For to be true to her, one cannot attempt at propitiation. She said worse things of the world than that which was conveyed to the boxed ears of Mrs. Fryar–Gunnett. Accepting the war declared against her a second time, she performed the common mental trick in adversity of setting her personally known innocence135 to lessen136 her generally unknown error—but anticipating that this might become known, and the other not; and feeling that the motives137 of the acknowledged error had served to guard her from being the culprit of the charge she writhed138 under, she rushed out of a meditation139 compounded of mind and nerves, with derision of the world’s notion of innocence and estimate of error. It was a mood lasting140 through her stay in London, and longer, to the discomfort141 of one among her friends; and it was worthy of The Anti-climax Expedition, as she called it.
For the rest, her demeanour to the old monster world exacting142 the servility of her, in repayment143 for its tolerating countenance144, was faultless. Emma beheld145 the introduction to Mrs. Warwick of his bride, by Mr. Percy Dacier. She had watched their approach up the Ball-room, thinking, how differently would Redworth and Tony have looked. Differently, had it been Tony and Dacier: but Emma could not persuade herself of a possible harmony between them, save at the cost of Tony’s expiation146 of the sin of the greater heart in a performance equivalent to Suttee. Perfectly an English gentleman of the higher order, he seemed the effigy147 of a tombstone one, fixed148 upright, and civilly proud of his effigy bride. So far, Emma considered them fitted. She perceived his quick eye on her corner of the room; necessarily, for a man of his breeding, without a change of expression. An emblem149 pertaining150 to her creed151 was on the heroine’s neck; also dependant152 at her waist. She was white from head to foot; a symbol of purity. Her frail153 smile appeared deeply studied in purity. Judging from her look and her reputation, Emma divined that the man was justly mated with a devious154 filmy sentimentalist, likely to ‘fiddle harmonics on the sensual strings’ for him at a mad rate in the years to come. Such fiddling155 is indeed the peculiar156 diversion of the opulent of a fatly prosperous people; who take it, one may concede to them, for an inspired elimination157 of the higher notes of life: the very highest. That saying of Tony’s ripened158 with full significance to Emma now. Not sensualism, but sham159 spiritualism, was the meaning; and however fine the notes, they come skilfully160 evoked161 of the under-brute in us. Reasoning it so, she thought it a saying for the penetration162 of the most polished and deceptive163 of the later human masks. She had besides, be it owned, a triumph in conjuring a sentence of her friend’s, like a sword’s edge, to meet them; for she was boiling angrily at the ironical164 destiny which had given to those Two a beclouding of her beloved, whom she could have rebuked166 in turn for her insane caprice of passion.
But when her beloved stood-up to greet Mrs. Percy Dacier, all idea save tremulous admiration167 of the valiant168 woman, who had been wounded nigh to death, passed from Emma’s mind. Diana tempered her queenliness to address the favoured lady with smiles and phrases of gentle warmth, of goodness of nature; and it became a halo rather than a personal eclipse that she cast.
Emma looked at Dacier. He wore the prescribed conventional air, subject in half a minute to a rapid blinking of the eyelids169. His wife could have been inimically imagined fascinated and dwindling170. A spot of colour came to her cheeks. She likewise began to blink.
The happy couple bowed, proceeding171; and Emma had Dacier’s back for a study. We score on that flat slate172 of man, unattractive as it is to hostile observations, and unprotected, the device we choose. Her harshest, was the positive thought that he had taken the woman best suited to him. Doubtless, he was a man to prize the altar-candle above the lamp of day. She fancied the back-view of him shrunken and straitened: perhaps a mere102 hostile fancy: though it was conceivable that he should desire as little of these meetings as possible. Eclipses are not courted.
The specially173 womanly exultation174 of Emma Dunstane in her friend’s noble attitude, seeing how their sex had been struck to the dust for a trifling175 error, easily to be overlooked by a manful lover, and had asserted its dignity in physical and moral splendour, in self-mastery and benignness, was unshared by Diana. As soon as the business of the expedition was over, her orders were issued for the sale of the lease of her house and all it contained. ‘I would sell Danvers too,’ she said, ‘but the creature declines to be treated as merchandize. It seems I have a faithful servant; very much like my life, not quite to my taste; the one thing out of the wreck176!—with my dog!’
Before quitting her house for the return to Copsley, she had to grant Mr. Alexander Hepburn, post-haste from his Caledonia, a private interview. She came out of it noticeably shattered. Nothing was related to Emma, beyond the remark: ‘I never knew till this morning the force of No in earnest.’ The weighty little word—woman’s native watchdog and guardian177, if she calls it to her aid in earnest—had encountered and withstood a fiery178 ancient host, astonished at its novel power of resistance.
Emma contented179 herself with the result. ‘Were you much supplicated180?’
‘An Operatic Fourth–Act,’ said Diana, by no means; feeling so flippantly as she spoke.
She received, while under the impression of this man’s, honest, if primitive181, ardour of courtship, or effort to capture, a characteristic letter from Westlake, choicely phrased, containing presumeably an application for her hand, in the generous offer of his own. Her reply to a pursuer of that sort was easy. Comedy, after the barbaric attack, refreshed her wits and reliance on her natural fencing weapons. To Westlake, the unwritten No was conveyed in a series of kindly182 ironic165 subterfuges183, that, played it like an impish flea184 across the pages, just giving the bloom of the word; and rich smiles come to Emma’s life in reading the dexterous185 composition: which, however, proved so thoroughly186 to Westlake’s taste, that a second and a third exercise in the comedy of the negative had to be despatched to him from Copsley.
1 permanently | |
adv.永恒地,永久地,固定不变地 | |
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2 dire | |
adj.可怕的,悲惨的,阴惨的,极端的 | |
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3 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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4 ambiguity | |
n.模棱两可;意义不明确 | |
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5 azure | |
adj.天蓝色的,蔚蓝色的 | |
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6 majestic | |
adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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7 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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8 drenched | |
adj.湿透的;充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 );在某人(某物)上大量使用(某液体) | |
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9 transformations | |
n.变化( transformation的名词复数 );转换;转换;变换 | |
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10 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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11 benefactor | |
n. 恩人,行善的人,捐助人 | |
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12 confidingly | |
adv.信任地 | |
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13 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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14 hue | |
n.色度;色调;样子 | |
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15 shrouded | |
v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 );保密 | |
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16 craving | |
n.渴望,热望 | |
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17 wafted | |
v.吹送,飘送,(使)浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18 zealous | |
adj.狂热的,热心的 | |
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19 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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20 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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21 transparent | |
adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
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22 livelihood | |
n.生计,谋生之道 | |
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23 wilfully | |
adv.任性固执地;蓄意地 | |
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24 tact | |
n.机敏,圆滑,得体 | |
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25 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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26 wan | |
(wide area network)广域网 | |
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27 meditating | |
a.沉思的,冥想的 | |
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28 shrugged | |
vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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29 sanity | |
n.心智健全,神智正常,判断正确 | |
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30 genially | |
adv.亲切地,和蔼地;快活地 | |
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31 shuffle | |
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32 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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33 touchingly | |
adv.令人同情地,感人地,动人地 | |
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34 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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35 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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36 poetical | |
adj.似诗人的;诗一般的;韵文的;富有诗意的 | |
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37 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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38 memorably | |
难忘的 | |
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39 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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40 similes | |
(使用like或as等词语的)明喻( simile的名词复数 ) | |
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41 alluded | |
提及,暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42 perused | |
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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43 nibble | |
n.轻咬,啃;v.一点点地咬,慢慢啃,吹毛求疵 | |
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44 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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45 rebounded | |
弹回( rebound的过去式和过去分词 ); 反弹; 产生反作用; 未能奏效 | |
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46 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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47 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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48 dictated | |
v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 );口授;支配;摆布 | |
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49 revelled | |
v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 );狂欢;着迷;陶醉 | |
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50 inflicted | |
把…强加给,使承受,遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51 bondage | |
n.奴役,束缚 | |
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52 foretold | |
v.预言,预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53 gales | |
龙猫 | |
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54 likeness | |
n.相像,相似(之处) | |
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55 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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56 gaily | |
adv.欢乐地,高兴地 | |
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57 strenuous | |
adj.奋发的,使劲的;紧张的;热烈的,狂热的 | |
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58 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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59 bleak | |
adj.(天气)阴冷的;凄凉的;暗淡的 | |
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60 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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61 inscribed | |
v.写,刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 );内接 | |
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62 imperative | |
n.命令,需要;规则;祈使语气;adj.强制的;紧急的 | |
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63 recreancy | |
n.胆小;怯懦;不忠;变节 | |
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64 robust | |
adj.强壮的,强健的,粗野的,需要体力的,浓的 | |
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65 fray | |
v.争吵;打斗;磨损,磨破;n.吵架;打斗 | |
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66 discredit | |
vt.使不可置信;n.丧失信义;不信,怀疑 | |
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67 outraged | |
a.震惊的,义愤填膺的 | |
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68 reviled | |
v.辱骂,痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69 blanching | |
adj.漂白的n.热烫v.使变白( blanch的现在分词 );使(植物)不见阳光而变白;酸洗(金属)使有光泽;用沸水烫(杏仁等)以便去皮 | |
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70 inveterate | |
adj.积习已深的,根深蒂固的 | |
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71 shuddered | |
v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 );发抖;(机器、车辆等)突然震动;颤动 | |
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72 cleaving | |
v.劈开,剁开,割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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73 justifying | |
证明…有理( justify的现在分词 ); 为…辩护; 对…作出解释; 为…辩解(或辩护) | |
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74 degradation | |
n.降级;低落;退化;陵削;降解;衰变 | |
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75 friendliness | |
n.友谊,亲切,亲密 | |
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76 unaware | |
a.不知道的,未意识到的 | |
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77 conceit | |
n.自负,自高自大 | |
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78 bracing | |
adj.令人振奋的 | |
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79 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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80 spoke | |
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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81 construe | |
v.翻译,解释 | |
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82 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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83 atmospheric | |
adj.大气的,空气的;大气层的;大气所引起的 | |
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84 disturbance | |
n.动乱,骚动;打扰,干扰;(身心)失调 | |
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85 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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86 wriggling | |
v.扭动,蠕动,蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 );(使身体某一部位)扭动;耍滑不做,逃避(应做的事等);蠕蠕 | |
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87 draught | |
n.拉,牵引,拖;一网(饮,吸,阵);顿服药量,通风;v.起草,设计 | |
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88 vindicate | |
v.为…辩护或辩解,辩明;证明…正确 | |
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89 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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90 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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91 apprehensions | |
疑惧 | |
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92 narration | |
n.讲述,叙述;故事;记叙体 | |
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93 augury | |
n.预言,征兆,占卦 | |
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94 intervention | |
n.介入,干涉,干预 | |
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95 sprawling | |
adj.蔓生的,不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 );蔓延;杂乱无序地拓展;四肢伸展坐着(或躺着) | |
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96 dissonant | |
adj.不和谐的;不悦耳的 | |
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97 asunder | |
adj.分离的,化为碎片 | |
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98 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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99 revival | |
n.复兴,复苏,(精力、活力等的)重振 | |
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100 gibes | |
vi.嘲笑,嘲弄(gibe的第三人称单数形式) | |
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101 providence | |
n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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102 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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103 nominal | |
adj.名义上的;(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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104 luminary | |
n.名人,天体 | |
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105 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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106 allusive | |
adj.暗示的;引用典故的 | |
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107 contention | |
n.争论,争辩,论战;论点,主张 | |
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108 lighter | |
n.打火机,点火器;驳船;v.用驳船运送;light的比较级 | |
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109 dart | |
v.猛冲,投掷;n.飞镖,猛冲 | |
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110 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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111 primal | |
adj.原始的;最重要的 | |
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112 iris | |
n.虹膜,彩虹 | |
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113 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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114 perversion | |
n.曲解;堕落;反常 | |
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115 speculation | |
n.思索,沉思;猜测;投机 | |
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116 deformation | |
n.形状损坏;变形;畸形 | |
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117 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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118 caverns | |
大山洞,大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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119 seaman | |
n.海员,水手,水兵 | |
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120 prospectively | |
adv.预期; 前瞻性; 潜在; 可能 | |
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121 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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122 conjuring | |
n.魔术 | |
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123 bouquet | |
n.花束,酒香 | |
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124 lure | |
n.吸引人的东西,诱惑物;vt.引诱,吸引 | |
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125 posterity | |
n.后裔,子孙,后代 | |
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126 attentive | |
adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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127 sweeping | |
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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128 civilized | |
a.有教养的,文雅的 | |
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129 rogues | |
n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 );无赖;调皮捣蛋的人;离群的野兽 | |
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130 machinery | |
n.(总称)机械,机器;机构 | |
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131 unravelled | |
解开,拆散,散开( unravel的过去式和过去分词 ); 阐明; 澄清; 弄清楚 | |
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132 compliance | |
n.顺从;服从;附和;屈从 | |
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133 muses | |
v.沉思,冥想( muse的第三人称单数 );沉思自语说(某事) | |
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134 fatigues | |
n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 );杂役;厌倦;(士兵穿的)工作服 | |
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135 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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136 lessen | |
vt.减少,减轻;缩小 | |
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137 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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138 writhed | |
(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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140 lasting | |
adj.永久的,永恒的;vbl.持续,维持 | |
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141 discomfort | |
n.不舒服,不安,难过,困难,不方便 | |
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142 exacting | |
adj.苛求的,要求严格的 | |
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143 repayment | |
n.偿还,偿还款;报酬 | |
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144 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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145 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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146 expiation | |
n.赎罪,补偿 | |
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147 effigy | |
n.肖像 | |
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148 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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149 emblem | |
n.象征,标志;徽章 | |
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150 pertaining | |
与…有关系的,附属…的,为…固有的(to) | |
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151 creed | |
n.信条;信念,纲领 | |
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152 dependant | |
n.依靠的,依赖的,依赖他人生活者 | |
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153 frail | |
adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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154 devious | |
adj.不坦率的,狡猾的;迂回的,曲折的 | |
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155 fiddling | |
微小的 | |
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156 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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157 elimination | |
n.排除,消除,消灭 | |
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158 ripened | |
v.成熟,使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159 sham | |
n./adj.假冒(的),虚伪(的) | |
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160 skilfully | |
adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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161 evoked | |
[医]诱发的 | |
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162 penetration | |
n.穿透,穿人,渗透 | |
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163 deceptive | |
adj.骗人的,造成假象的,靠不住的 | |
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164 ironical | |
adj.讽刺的,冷嘲的 | |
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165 ironic | |
adj.讽刺的,有讽刺意味的,出乎意料的 | |
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166 rebuked | |
责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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168 valiant | |
adj.勇敢的,英勇的;n.勇士,勇敢的人 | |
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169 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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170 dwindling | |
adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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171 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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172 slate | |
n.板岩,石板,石片,石板色,候选人名单;adj.暗蓝灰色的,含板岩的;vt.用石板覆盖,痛打,提名,预订 | |
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173 specially | |
adv.特定地;特殊地;明确地 | |
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174 exultation | |
n.狂喜,得意 | |
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175 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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176 wreck | |
n.失事,遇难;沉船;vt.(船等)失事,遇难 | |
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177 guardian | |
n.监护人;守卫者,保护者 | |
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178 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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179 contented | |
adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
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180 supplicated | |
v.祈求,哀求,恳求( supplicate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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181 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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182 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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183 subterfuges | |
n.(用说谎或欺骗以逃脱责备、困难等的)花招,遁词( subterfuge的名词复数 ) | |
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184 flea | |
n.跳蚤 | |
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185 dexterous | |
adj.灵敏的;灵巧的 | |
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186 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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