Thus at last — by no direct exertion1 of my own, but by turn after turn of things to which I blindly gave my little help — the mystery of my life was solved. Many things yet remained to be fetched up to focus and seen round; but the point of points was settled.
Of all concerned, my father alone stood blameless and heroic. What tears of shame and pride I shed, for ever having doubted him! — not doubting his innocence2 of the crime itself, but his motives3 for taking it upon him. I had been mean enough to dream that my dear father outraged4 justice to conceal5 his own base birth!
That ever such thought should have entered my mind may not make me charitable to the wicked thoughts of the world at large, but, at any rate, it ought to do so. And the man in question, my own father, who had starved himself to save me! Better had I been the most illegal child ever issued into this cold world, than dare to think so of my father, and then find him the model of every thing.
To hide the perjury7, avarice8, and cowardice9 of his father, and to appease10 the bitter wrong, he had even bowed to take the dark suspicion on himself, until his wronged and half-sane brother (to whom, moreover, he owed his life) should have time to fly from England. No doubt he blamed himself as much as he condemned11 the wretched criminal, because he had left his father so long unwarned and so unguarded, and had thoughtlessly used light words about him, which fell not lightly on a stern, distempered mind. Hence, perhaps, the exclamation12 which had told against him so.
And then when he broke jail — which also told against him terribly — to revisit his shattered home, it is likely enough that he meant after that to declare the truth, and stand his trial as a man should do. But his wife, perhaps, in her poor weak state, could not endure the thought of it, knowing how often jury is injury, and seeing all the weight against him. She naturally pledged him to pursue his flight, “for her sake,” until she should be better able to endure his trial, and until he should have more than his own pure word and character to show. And probably if he had then been tried, with so many things against him, and no production of that poor brother, his tale would have seemed but a flimsy invention, and “Guilty” would have been the verdict. And they could not know that, in such case, the guilty man would have come forward, as we shall see that he meant to do.
When my father heard of his dear wife’s death, and believed, no doubt, that I was buried with the rest, the gloom of a broken and fated man, like polar night, settled down on him. What matter to him about public opinion or any thing else in the world just now? The sins of his father were on his head; let them rest there, rather than be trumpeted13 by him. He had nothing to care for; let him wander about. And so he did for several years, until I became a treasure to him — for parental14 is not intrinsic value — and then, for my sake, as now appeared, he betook us both to a large kind land.
Revolving15 these things sadly, and a great many more which need not be told, I thought it my duty to go as soon as possible to Bruntsea, and tell my good and faithful friends what I was loath16 to write about. There, moreover, I could obtain what I wanted to confirm me — the opinion of an upright, law-abiding, honorable man about the course I proposed to take. And there I might hear something more as to a thing which had troubled me much in the deepest of my own troubles — the melancholy17 plight18 of dear Uncle Sam. Wild, and absurd as it may appear to people of no gratitude19, my heart was set upon faring forth20 in search of the noble Sawyer, if only it could be reconciled with my duty here in England. That such a proceeding21 would avail but little, seemed now, alas22! too manifest; but a plea of that kind generally means that we have no mind to do a thing.
Be that as it will, I made what my dear Yankees — to use the Major’s impertinent phrase — call “straight tracks” for that ancient and obsolete23 town, rejuvenized now by its Signor. The cause of my good friend’s silence — not to use that affected24 word “reticence”— was quite unknown to me, and disturbed my spirit with futile25 guesses.
Resolute26, therefore, to pierce the bottom of every surviving mystery, I made claim upon “Mr. Stixon, junior”— as “Stixon’s boy” had now vindicated27 his right to be called, up to supper-time — and he with high chivalry28 responded. Not yet was he wedded29 to Miss Polly Hopkins, the daughter of the pickled-pork man; otherwise would he or could he have made telegraphic blush at the word “Bruntsea?” And would he have been quite so eager to come?
Such things are trifling31, compared to our own, which naturally fill the universe. I was bound to be a great lady now, and patronize and regulate and drill all the doings of nature. So I durst not even ask, though desiring much to do so, how young Mr. Stixon was getting on with his delightful32 Polly. And his father, as soon as he found me turned into the mistress, and “his lady” (as he would have me called thenceforth, whether or no on my part), not another word would he tell me of the household sentiments, politics, or romances. It would have been thought a thing beneath me to put any nice little questions now, and I was obliged to take up the tone which others used toward me. But all the while I longed for freedom, Uncle Sam, Suan Isco, and even Martin of the Mill.
Law business, however, and other hinderances, kept me from starting at once for Bruntsea, impatient as I was to do so. Indeed, it was not until the morning of the last Saturday in November that I was able to get away. The weather had turned to much rain, I remember, with two or three tempestuous33 nights, and the woods were almost bare of leaves, and the Thames looked brown and violent.
In the fly from Newport to Bruntsea I heard great rollers thundering heavily upon the steep bar of shingle34, and such a lake of water shone in the old bed of the river that I quite believed at first that the Major had carried out his grand idea, and brought the river back again. But the flyman shook his head, and looked very serious, and told me that he feared bad times were coming. What I saw was the work of the Lord in heaven, and no man could prevail against it. He had always said, though no concern of his — for he belonged to Newport — that even a British officer could not fly in the face of the Almighty35. He himself had a brother on the works, regular employed, and drawing good money, and proud enough about it; and the times he had told him across a pint36 of ale — howsomever, our place was to hope for the best; but the top of the springs was not come yet, and a pilot out of Newport told him the water was making uncommon37 strong; but he did hope the wind had nigh blowed itself out; if not, they would have to look blessed sharp tomorrow. He had heard say that in time of Queen Elizabeth sixscore of houses was washed clean away, and the river itself knocked right into the sea; and a thing as had been once might just come to pass again, though folk was all so clever now they thought they wor above it. But, for all that, their grandfathers’ goggles38 might fit them. But here we was in Bruntsea town, and, bless his old eyes — yes! If I pleased to look along his whip, I might see ancient pilot come, he did believe, to warn of them!
Following his guidance, I descried39 a stout40 old man, in a sailor’s dress, weather-proof hat, and long boots, standing41 on a low seawall, and holding vehement42 converse43 with some Bruntsea boatmen and fishermen who were sprawling44 on the stones as usual.
“Driver, you know him. Take the lower road,” I said, “and ask what his opinion is.”
“No need to ask him,” the flyman answered; “old Banks would never be here, miss, if he was of two opinions. He hath come to fetch his daughter out of harm, I doubt, the wife of that there Bishop45 Jim, they call him — the chap with two nails to his thumb, you know. Would you like to hear how they all take it, miss?”
With these words he turned to the right, and drove into Major Hockin’s “Sea Parade.” There we stopped to hear what was going on, and it proved to be well worth our attention. The old pilot perhaps had exhausted46 reason, and now was beginning to give way to wrath47. The afternoon was deepening fast, with heavy gray clouds lowering, showing no definite edge, but streaked48 with hazy49 lines, and spotted50 by some little murky51 blurs52 or blots53, like tar6 pots, carried slowly.
“Hath Noah’s Ark ever told a lie?” the ancient pilot shouted, pointing with one hand at these, and with a clinched54 fist at the sea, whence came puffs55 of sullen56 air, and turned his gray locks backward. “Mackerel sky when the sun got up, mermaiden’s eggs at noon, and now afore sunset Noah’s Arks! Any of them breweth a gale57 of wind, and the three of them bodes58 a tempest. And the top of the springs of the year tomorrow. Are ye daft, or all gone upon the spree, my men? Your fathers would ‘a knowed what the new moon meant. Is this all that cometh out of larning to read?”
“Have a pinch of ‘bacco, old man,” said one, “to help you off with that stiff reel. What consarn can he be of yourn?”
“Don’t you be put out, mate,” cried another. “Never came sea as could top that bar, and never will in our time. Go and calk your old leaky craft, Master Banks.”
“We have rode out a good many gales60 without seeking prophet from Newport — a place never heerd on when this old town was made.”
“Come and wet your old whistle at the ‘Hockin Arms,’ Banks. You must want it, after that long pipe.”
“‘Hockin Arms,’ indeed!” the pilot answered, turning away in a rage from them. “What Hockin Arms will there be this time tomorrow? Hockin legs wanted, more likely, and Hockin wings. And you poor grinning ninnies, as ought to have four legs, ye’ll be praying that ye had them tomorrow. However, ye’ve had warning, and ye can’t blame me. The power of the Lord is in the air and sea. Is this the sort of stuff ye trust in?”
He set one foot against our Major’s wall — an action scarcely honest while it was so green — and, coming from a hale and very thickset man, the contemptuous push sent a fathom61 of it outward. Rattle62, rattle went the new patent concrete, starting up the lazy-pated fellows down below.
“You’ll try the walls of a jail,” cried one. “You go to Noah’s Ark,” shouted another. The rest bade him go to a place much worse; but he buttoned his jacket in disdain64, and marched away, without spoiling the effect by any more weak words.
“Right you are,” cried my flyman —“right you are, Master Banks. Them lubbers will sing another song tomorrow. Gee65 up, old hoss, then!”
All this, and the ominous66 scowl67 of the sky and menacing roar of the sea (already crowding with black rollers), disturbed me so that I could say nothing, until, at the corner of the grand new hotel, we met Major Hockin himself, attired68 in a workman’s loose jacket, and carrying a shovel69. He was covered with mud and dried flakes70 of froth, and even his short white whiskers were incrusted with sparkles of brine; but his face was ruddy and smiling, and his manner as hearty71 as ever.
“You here, Erema! Oh, I beg pardon — Baroness72 Castlewood, if you please. My dear, again I congratulate you.”
“You have as little cause to do that as I fear I can find in your case. You have no news for me from America? How sad! But what a poor plight you yourself are in!”
“Not a bit of it. At first sight you might think so; and we certainly have had a very busy time. Send back the fly. Leave your bag at our hotel. Porter, be quick with Lady Castlewood’s luggage. One piece of luck befalls me — to receive so often this beautiful hand. What a lot of young fellows now would die of envy —”
“I am glad that you still can talk nonsense,” I said; “for I truly was frightened at this great lake, and so many of your houses even standing in the water.”
“It will do them good. It will settle the foundations and crystallize the mortar73. They will look twice as well when they come out again, and never have rats or black beetles74. We were foolish enough to be frightened at first; and there may have been danger a fortnight ago. But since that tide we have worked day and night, and every thing is now so stable that fear is simply ridiculous. On the whole, it has been a most excellent thing — quite the making, in fact, of Bruntsea.”
“Then Bruntsea must be made of water,” I replied, gazing sadly at the gulf75 which parted us from the Sea Parade, the Lyceum, and Baths, the Bastion Promenade76, and so on; beyond all which the streaky turmoil77 and misty78 scud79 of the waves were seen.
“Made of beer, more likely,” he retorted, with a laugh. “If my fellows worked like horses — which they did — they also drank like fishes. Their mouths were so dry with the pickle30, they said. But the total abstainers were the worst, being out of practice with the can. However, let us make no complaints. We ought to be truly thankful; and I shall miss the exercise. That is why you have heard so little from me. You see the position at a glance. I have never been to Paris at all, Erema. I have not rubbed up my parleywoo, with a blast from Mr. Bellows80. I was stopped by a telegram about this job — acrior illum. I had some Latin once, quite enough for the House of Commons, but it all oozed81 out at my elbows; and to ladies (by some superstition) it is rude — though they treat us to bad French enough. Never mind. What I want to say is this, that I have done nothing, but respected your sad trouble; for you took a wild fancy to that poor bedridden, who never did you a stroke of good except about Cosmopolitan82 Jack63, and whose removal has come at the very nick of time. For what could you have done for money, with the Yankees cutting each other’s throats, and your nugget quite sure to be annexed83, or, at the very best, squared up in greenbacks?”
“You ought not to speak so, Major Hockin. If all your plans were not under water, I should be quite put out with you. My cousin was not bedridden; neither was he at all incapable84, as you have called him once or twice. He was an infinitely85 superior man to — to what one generally sees; and when you have heard what I have to tell, in his place you would have done just as he did. And as for money, and ‘happy release’— as the people who never want it for themselves express it — such words simply sicken me; at great times they are so sordid86.”
“What is there in this world that is not sordid — to the young in one sense, and to the old in another?”
Major Hockin so seldom spoke87 in this didactic way, and I was so unable to make it out, that, having expected some tiff59 on his part at my juvenile88 arrogance89, I was just in the mould for a deep impression from sudden stamp of philosophy. I had nothing to say in reply, and he went up in my opinion greatly.
He knew it; and he said, with touching90 kindness, “Erema, come and see your dear aunt Mary. She has had an attack of rheumatic gout in her thimble-finger, and her maids have worried her out of her life, and by far the most brilliant of her cocks (worth 20 pounds they tell me) breathed his last on Sunday night, with gapes91, or croup, or something. This is why you have not heard again from her. I have been in the trenches92 day and night, stoning out the sea with his own stones, by a new form of concrete discovered by myself. And unless I am very much mistaken — in fact, I do not hesitate to say — But such things are not in your line at all. Let us go up to the house. Our job is done, and I think Master Neptune93 may pound away in vain. I have got a new range in the kitchen now, partly of my own invention; you can roast, or bake, or steam, or stew94, or frizzle kabobs — all by turning a screw. And not only that, but you can keep things hot, piping hot, and ripening95, as it were, better than when they first were done. Instead of any burned iron taste, or scum on the gravy96, or clottiness, they mellow97 by waiting, and make their own sauce. If I ever have time I shall patent this invention; why, you may burn brick-dust in it, Bath-brick, hearth-stone, or potsherds! At any hour of the day or night, while the sea is in this condition, I may want my dinner; and there we have it. We say grace immediately, and down we sit. Let us take it by surprise, if it can be taken so. Up through my chief drive, instanter! I think that I scarcely ever felt more hungry. The thought of that range always sets me off. And one of its countless98 beauties is the noble juicy fragrance99.”
Major Hockin certainly possessed100 the art — so meritorious101 in a host — of making people hungry; and we mounted the hill with alacrity102, after passing his letter-box, which reminded me of the mysterious lady. He pointed103 to “Desolate104 Hole,” as he called it, and said that he believed she was there still, though she never came out now to watch their house. And a man of dark and repelling105 aspect had been seen once or twice by his workmen, during the time of their night relays, rapidly walking toward Desolate Hole. How any one could live in such a place, with the roar and the spray of the sea, as it had been, at the very door, and through the windows, some people might understand, but not the Major.
Good Mrs. Hockin received me with her usual warmth and kindness, and scolded me for having failed to write more to her, as all people seem to do when conscious of having neglected that duty themselves. Then she showed me her thimble-finger, which certainly was a little swollen106; and then she poured forth her gratitude for her many blessings108, as she always did after any little piece of grumbling109. And I told her that if at her age I were only a quarter as pleasant and sweet of temper, I should consider myself a blessing107 to any man.
After dinner my host produced the locket, which he had kept for the purpose of showing it to the artist’s son in Paris, and which he admired so intensely that I wished it were mine to bestow110 on him. Then I told him that, through a thing wholly unexpected — the confession111 of the criminal himself — no journey to Paris was needful now. I repeated that strange and gloomy tale, to the loud accompaniment of a rising wind and roaring sea, while both my friends listened intently.
“Now what can have led him so to come to you?” they asked; “and what do you mean to do about it?”
“He came to me, no doubt, to propose some bargain, which could not be made in my cousin’s lifetime. But the telling of his tale made him feel so strange that he really could not remember what it was. As to what I am to do, I must beg for your opinion; such a case is beyond my decision.” Mrs. Hockin began to reply, but stopped, looking dutifully at her lord.
“There is no doubt what you are bound to do, at least in one way,” the Major said. “You are a British subject, I suppose, and you must obey the laws of the country. A man has confessed to you a murder — no matter whether it was committed twenty years ago or two minutes; no matter whether it was a savage112, cold-blooded, premeditated crime, or whether there were things to palliate it. Your course is the same; you must hand him over. In fact, you ought never to have let him go.”
“How could I help it?” I pleaded, with surprise. “It was impossible for me to hold him.”
“Then you should have shot him with his own pistol. He offered it to you. You should have grasped it, pointed it at his heart, and told him that he was a dead man if he stirred.”
“Aunt Mary, would you have done that?” I asked. “It is so easy to talk of fine things! But in the first place, I had no wish to stop him; and in the next, I could not if I had.”
“My dear,” Mrs. Hockin replied, perceiving my distress113 at this view of the subject, “I should have done exactly what you did. If the laws of this country ordain114 that women are to carry them out against great strong men, who, after all, have been sadly injured, why, it proves that women ought to make the laws, which to my mind is simply ridiculous.”
1 exertion | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
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2 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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3 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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4 outraged | |
a.震惊的,义愤填膺的 | |
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5 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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6 tar | |
n.柏油,焦油;vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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7 perjury | |
n.伪证;伪证罪 | |
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8 avarice | |
n.贪婪;贪心 | |
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9 cowardice | |
n.胆小,怯懦 | |
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10 appease | |
v.安抚,缓和,平息,满足 | |
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11 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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12 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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13 trumpeted | |
大声说出或宣告(trumpet的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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14 parental | |
adj.父母的;父的;母的 | |
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15 revolving | |
adj.旋转的,轮转式的;循环的v.(使)旋转( revolve的现在分词 );细想 | |
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16 loath | |
adj.不愿意的;勉强的 | |
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17 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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18 plight | |
n.困境,境况,誓约,艰难;vt.宣誓,保证,约定 | |
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19 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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20 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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21 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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22 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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23 obsolete | |
adj.已废弃的,过时的 | |
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24 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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25 futile | |
adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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26 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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27 vindicated | |
v.澄清(某人/某事物)受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 );表明或证明(所争辩的事物)属实、正当、有效等;维护 | |
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28 chivalry | |
n.骑士气概,侠义;(男人)对女人彬彬有礼,献殷勤 | |
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29 wedded | |
adj.正式结婚的;渴望…的,执著于…的v.嫁,娶,(与…)结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30 pickle | |
n.腌汁,泡菜;v.腌,泡 | |
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31 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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32 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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33 tempestuous | |
adj.狂暴的 | |
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34 shingle | |
n.木瓦板;小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌);v.用木瓦板盖(屋顶);把(女子头发)剪短 | |
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35 almighty | |
adj.全能的,万能的;很大的,很强的 | |
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36 pint | |
n.品脱 | |
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37 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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38 goggles | |
n.护目镜 | |
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39 descried | |
adj.被注意到的,被发现的,被看到的 | |
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41 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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42 vehement | |
adj.感情强烈的;热烈的;(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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43 converse | |
vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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44 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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45 bishop | |
n.主教,(国际象棋)象 | |
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46 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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47 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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48 streaked | |
adj.有条斑纹的,不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 );使布满条纹 | |
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49 hazy | |
adj.有薄雾的,朦胧的;不肯定的,模糊的 | |
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50 spotted | |
adj.有斑点的,斑纹的,弄污了的 | |
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51 murky | |
adj.黑暗的,朦胧的;adv.阴暗地,混浊地;n.阴暗;昏暗 | |
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52 blurs | |
n.模糊( blur的名词复数 );模糊之物;(移动的)模糊形状;模糊的记忆v.(使)变模糊( blur的第三人称单数 );(使)难以区分 | |
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53 blots | |
污渍( blot的名词复数 ); 墨水渍; 错事; 污点 | |
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54 clinched | |
v.(尤指两人)互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 );解决(争端、交易),达成(协议) | |
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55 puffs | |
n.吸( puff的名词复数 );(烟斗或香烟的)一吸;一缕(烟、蒸汽等);(呼吸或风的)呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 );喷着汽(或烟)移动;吹嘘;吹捧 | |
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56 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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57 gale | |
n.大风,强风,一阵闹声(尤指笑声等) | |
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58 bodes | |
v.预示,预告,预言( bode的第三人称单数 );等待,停留( bide的过去分词 );居住;(过去式用bided)等待 | |
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59 tiff | |
n.小争吵,生气 | |
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60 gales | |
龙猫 | |
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61 fathom | |
v.领悟,彻底了解 | |
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62 rattle | |
v.飞奔,碰响;激怒;n.碰撞声;拨浪鼓 | |
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63 jack | |
n.插座,千斤顶,男人;v.抬起,提醒,扛举;n.(Jake)杰克 | |
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64 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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65 gee | |
n.马;int.向右!前进!,惊讶时所发声音;v.向右转 | |
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66 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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67 scowl | |
vi.(at)生气地皱眉,沉下脸,怒视;n.怒容 | |
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68 attired | |
adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服,使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69 shovel | |
n.铁锨,铲子,一铲之量;v.铲,铲出 | |
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70 flakes | |
小薄片( flake的名词复数 ); (尤指)碎片; 雪花; 古怪的人 | |
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71 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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72 baroness | |
n.男爵夫人,女男爵 | |
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73 mortar | |
n.灰浆,灰泥;迫击炮;v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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74 beetles | |
n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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75 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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76 promenade | |
n./v.散步 | |
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77 turmoil | |
n.骚乱,混乱,动乱 | |
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78 misty | |
adj.雾蒙蒙的,有雾的 | |
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79 scud | |
n.疾行;v.疾行 | |
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80 bellows | |
n.风箱;发出吼叫声,咆哮(尤指因痛苦)( bellow的名词复数 );(愤怒地)说出(某事),大叫v.发出吼叫声,咆哮(尤指因痛苦)( bellow的第三人称单数 );(愤怒地)说出(某事),大叫 | |
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81 oozed | |
v.(浓液等)慢慢地冒出,渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 );使(液体)缓缓流出;(浓液)渗出,慢慢流出 | |
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82 cosmopolitan | |
adj.世界性的,全世界的,四海为家的,全球的 | |
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83 annexed | |
[法] 附加的,附属的 | |
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84 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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85 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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86 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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87 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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88 juvenile | |
n.青少年,少年读物;adj.青少年的,幼稚的 | |
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89 arrogance | |
n.傲慢,自大 | |
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90 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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91 gapes | |
v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的第三人称单数 );张开,张大 | |
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92 trenches | |
深沟,地沟( trench的名词复数 ); 战壕 | |
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93 Neptune | |
n.海王星 | |
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94 stew | |
n.炖汤,焖,烦恼;v.炖汤,焖,忧虑 | |
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95 ripening | |
v.成熟,使熟( ripen的现在分词 );熟化;熟成 | |
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96 gravy | |
n.肉汁;轻易得来的钱,外快 | |
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97 mellow | |
adj.柔和的;熟透的;v.变柔和;(使)成熟 | |
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98 countless | |
adj.无数的,多得不计其数的 | |
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99 fragrance | |
n.芬芳,香味,香气 | |
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100 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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101 meritorious | |
adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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102 alacrity | |
n.敏捷,轻快,乐意 | |
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103 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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104 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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105 repelling | |
v.击退( repel的现在分词 );使厌恶;排斥;推开 | |
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106 swollen | |
adj.肿大的,水涨的;v.使变大,肿胀 | |
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107 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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108 blessings | |
n.(上帝的)祝福( blessing的名词复数 );好事;福分;因祸得福 | |
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109 grumbling | |
adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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110 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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111 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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112 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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113 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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114 ordain | |
vi.颁发命令;vt.命令,授以圣职,注定,任命 | |
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