AT Rasseneur’s, after having eaten his soup, étienne went back into the small chamber1 beneath the roof and facing the Voreux, which he was to occupy, and fell on to his bed dressed as he was, overcome with fatigue2. In two days he had not slept four hours. When he awoke in the twilight3 he was dazed for a moment, not recognizing his surroundings; and he felt such uneasiness and his head was so heavy that he rose, painfully, with the idea of getting some fresh air before having his dinner and going to bed for the night.
Outside, the weather was becoming milder: the sooty sky was growing copper-coloured, laden4 with one of those warm rains of the Nord, the approach of which one feels by the moist warmth of the air, and the night was coming on in great mists which drowned the distant landscape of the plain. Over this immense sea of reddish earth the low sky seemed to melt into black dust, without a breath of wind now to animate5 the darkness. It was the wan6 and deathly melancholy7 of a funeral.
étienne walked straight ahead at random8, with no other aim but to shake off his fever. When he passed before the Voreux, already growing gloomy at the bottom of its hole and with no lantern yet shining from it, he stopped a moment to watch the departure of the day-workers. No doubt six o’clock had struck; landers, porters from the pit-eye, and grooms9 were going away in bands, mixed with the vague and laughing figures of the screening girls in the shade.
At first it was Brulé and her son-in-law, Pierron. She was abusing him because he had not supported her in a quarrel with an overseer over her reckoning of stones.
“Get along! damned good-for-nothing! Do you call yourself a man to lower yourself like that before one of these beasts who devour10 us?”
Pierron followed her peacefully, without replying. At last he said:
“I suppose I ought to jump on the boss? Thanks for showing me how to get into a mess!”
“Bend your backside to him, then,” she shouted. “By God! if my daughter had listened to me! It’s not enough for them to kill the father. Perhaps you’d like me to say ‘thank you.’ No, I’ll have their skins first!”
Their voices were lost. étienne saw her disappear, with her eagle nose, her flying white hair, her long, lean arms that gesticulated furiously. But the conversation of two young people behind caused him to listen. He had recognized Zacharie, who was waiting there, and who had just been addressed by his friend Mouquet.
“Are you here?” said the latter. “We will have something to eat, and then off to the Volcan.”
“Directly. I’ve something to attend to.”
“What, then?”
The lander turned and saw Philoméne coming out of the screening shed. He thought he understood.
“Very well, if it’s that. Then I go ahead.”
“Yes, I’ll catch you up.”
As he went away, Mouquet met his father, old Mouque, who was also coming out of the Voreux. The two men simply wished each other good evening, the son taking the main road while the father went along by the canal.
Zacharie was already pushing Philoméne in spite of her resistance into the same solitary12 path. She was in a hurry another time; and the two wrangled13 like old housemates. There was no fun in only seeing one another out of doors, especially in winter, when the earth is moist and there are no wheatfields to lie in.
“No, no, it’s not that,” he whispered impatiently. “I’ve something to say to you.” He led her gently with his arm round her waist. Then, when they were in the shadow of the pit-bank, he asked if she had any money.
“What for?” she demanded.
Then he became confused, spoke14 of a debt of two francs which had reduced his family to despair.
“Hold your tongue! I’ve seen Mouquet; you’re going again to the Volcan with him, where those dirty singer-women are.”
He defended himself, struck his chest, gave his word of honour. Then, as she shrugged15 her shoulders, he said suddenly:
“Come with us if it will amuse you. You see that you don’t put me out. What do I want to do with the singers? Will you come?”
“And the little one?” she replied. “How can one stir with a child that’s always screaming? Let me go back, I guess they’re not getting on at the house.”
But he held her and entreated16. See! it was only not to look foolish before Mouquet to whom he had promised. A man could not go to bed every evening like the fowls17. She was overcome, and pulled up the skirt of her gown; with her nail she cut the thread and drew out some half-franc pieces from a corner of the hem11. For fear of being robbed by her mother she hid there the profit of the overtime18 work she did at the pit.
“I’ve got five, you see,” she said, “I’ll give you three. Only you must swear that you’ll make your mother decide to let us marry. We’ve had enough of this life in the open air. And mother reproaches me for every mouthful I eat. Swear first.”
She spoke with the soft voice of a big, delicate girl, without passion, simply tired of her life. He swore, exclaimed that it was a sacred promise; then, when he had got the three pieces, he kissed her, tickled19 her, made her laugh, and would have pushed things to an extreme in this corner of the pit-bank, which was the winter chamber of their household, if she had not again refused, saying that it would not give her any pleasure. She went back to the settlement alone, while he cut across the fields to rejoin his companion.
étienne had followed them mechanically, from afar, without understanding, regarding it as a simple rendezvous21. The girls were precocious22 in the pits; and he recalled the Lille work-girls whom he had waited for behind the factories, those bands of girls, corrupted23 at fourteen, in the abandonment of their wretchedness. But another meeting surprised him more. He stopped.
At the bottom of the pit-bank, in a hollow into which some large stones had slipped, little Jeanlin was violently snubbing Lydie and Bébert, seated one at his right, the other at his left.
“What do you say? Eh? I’ll slap each of you if you want more. Who thought of it first, eh?”
In fact, Jeanlin had had an idea. After having roamed about in the meadows, along the canal, for an hour, gathering24 dandelions with the two others, it had occurred to him, before this pile of salad, that they would never eat all that at home; and instead of going back to the settlement he had gone to Montsou, keeping Bébert to watch, and making Lydie ring at the houses and offer the dandelions. He was experienced enough to know that, as he said, girls could sell what they liked. In the ardour of business, the entire pile had disappeared; but the girl had gained eleven sous. And now, with empty hands, the three were dividing the profits.
“That’s not fair!” Bébert declared. “Must divide into three. If you keep seven sous we shall only have two each.”
“What? not fair!” replied Jeanlin furiously. “I gathered more first of all.”
The other usually submitted with timid admiration25 and a credulity which always made him the dupe. Though older and stronger, he even allowed himself to be struck. But this time the sight of all that money excited him to rebellion.
“He’s robbing us, Lydie, isn’t he? If he doesn’t share, we’ll tell his mother.”
Jeanlin at once thrust his fist beneath the other’s nose. “Say that again! I’ll go and say at your house that you sold my mother’s salad. And then, you silly beast, how can I divide eleven sous into three? Just try and see, if you’re so clever. Here are your two sous each. Just look sharp and take them, or I’ll put them in my pocket.”
Bébert was vanquished,and accepted the two sous. Lydie, who was trembling, had said nothing, for with Jeanlin she experienced the fear and the tenderness of a little beaten woman. When he held out the two sous to her she advanced her hand with a submissive laugh. But he suddenly changed his mind.
“Eh! what will you do with all that? Your mother will nab them, sure enough, if you don’t know how to hide them from her. I’d better keep them for you. When you want money you can ask me for it.”
And the nine sous disappeared. To shut her mouth he had put his arms around her laughingly and was rolling with her over the pit-bank. She was his little wife, and in the dark corners they used to try together the love which they heard and saw in their homes behind partitions, through the cracks of doors. They knew everything, but they were able to do nothing, being too young, fumbling26 and playing for hours at the games of vicious puppies. He called that playing at papa and mama; and when he chased her she ran away and let herself be caught with the delicious trembling of instinct, often angry, but always yielding, in the expectation of something which never came.
As Bébert was not admitted to these games and received a cuffing27 whenever he wanted to touch Lydie, he was always constrained28, agitated29 by anger and uneasiness when the other two were amusing themselves, which they did not hesitate to do in his presence. His one idea, therefore, was to frighten them and disturb them, calling out that someone could see them.
“It’s all up! There’s a man looking.”
This time he told the truth; it was étienne, who had decided30 to continue his walk. The children jumped up and ran away, and he passed by round the bank, following the canal, amused at the terror of these little rascals31. No doubt it was too early at their age, but they saw and heard so much that one would have to tie them up to restrain them. Yet étienne became sad.
A hundred paces farther on he came across more couples. He had arrived at Réquillart, and there, around the old ruined mine, all the girls of Montsou prowled about with their lovers. It was the common rendezvous, the remote and deserted32 spot to which the putters came to get their first child when they dared not risk the shed. The broken palings opened to every one the old yard, now become a nondescript piece of ground, obstructed33 by the ruins of the two sheds which had fallen in, and by the skeletons of the large buttresses34 which were still standing20. Derelict trains were lying about, and piles of old rotting wood, while a dense35 vegetation was reconquering this corner of ground, displaying itself in thick grass, and springing up in young trees that were already vigorous. Every girl found herself at home here; there were concealed36 holes for all; their lovers placed them over beams, behind the timber, in the trains; they even lay elbow to elbow without troubling about their neighbours. And it seemed that around this extinguished engine, near this shaft37 weary of disgorging coal, there was a revenge of creation in the free love which, beneath the lash38 of instinct, planted children in the bellies39 of these girls who were yet hardly women.
Yet a caretaker lived there, old Mouque, to whom the Company had given up, almost beneath the destroyed tower, two rooms which were constantly threatened by destruction from the expected fall of the last walls. He had even been obliged to shore up a part of the roof, and he lived there very comfortably with his family, he and Mouquet in one room, Mouquette in the other. As the windows no longer possessed40 a single pane41, he had decided to close them by nailing up boards; one could not see well, but it was warm. For the rest, this caretaker cared for nothing: he went to look after his horses at the Voreux, and never troubled himself about the ruins of Réquillart, of which the shaft only was preserved, in order to serve as a chimney for a fire which ventilated the neighbouring pit.
It was thus that Father Mouque was ending his old age in the midst of love. Ever since she was ten Mouquette had been lying about in all the corners of the ruins, not as a timid and still green little urchin42 like Lydie, but as a girl who was already big, and a mate for bearded lads. The father had nothing to say, for she was considerate, and never introduced a lover into the house. Then he was used to this sort of accident. When he went to the Voreux, when he came back, whenever he came out of his hole, he could scarcely put a foot down without treading on a couple in the grass; and it was worse if he wanted to gather wood to heat his soup or look for burdocks for his rabbit at the other end of the enclosure. Then he saw one by one the voluptuous43 noses of all the girls of Montsou rising up around him, while he had to be careful not to knock against the limbs stretched out level with the paths. Besides, these meetings had gradually ceased to disturb either him who was simply taking care not to stumble, or the girls whom he allowed to finish their affairs, going away with discreet44 little steps like a worthy45 man who was at peace with the ways of nature. Only just as they now knew him he at last also knew them, as one knows the rascally46 magpies47 who become corrupted in the pear-trees in the garden. Ah! youth! youth! how it goes on, how wild it is! Sometimes he wagged his chin with silent regret, turning away from the noisy wantons who were breathing too loudly in the darkness. Only one thing put him out of temper: two lovers had acquired the bad habit of embracing outside his wall. It was not that it prevented him from sleeping, but they leaned against the wall so heavily that at last they damaged it.
Every evening old Mouque received a visit from his friend, Father Bonnemort, who regularly before dinner took the same walk. The two old men spoke little, scarcely exchanging ten words during the half-hour that they spent together. But it cheered them thus to think over the days of old, to chew their recollections over again without need to talk of them. At Réquillart they sat on a beam side by side, saying a word and then sinking into their dreams, with faces bent48 towards the earth. No doubt they were becoming young again. Around them lovers were turning over their sweethearts; there was a murmur49 of kisses and laughter; the warm odour of the girls arose in the freshness of the trodden grass. It was now forty-three years since Father Bonnemort had taken his wife behind the pit; she was a putter, so slight that he had placed her on a tram to embrace her at ease. Ah! those were fine days. And the two old men, shaking their heads, at last left each other, often without saying good night.
That evening, however, as étienne arrived, Father Bonnemort, who was getting up from the beam to return to the settlement, said to Mouque:
“Good night, old man. I say, you knew Roussie?”
Mouque was silent for a moment, rocked his shoulders; then, returning to the house:
“Good night, good night, old man.”
étienne came and sat on the beam, in his turn. His sadness was increasing, though he could not tell why. The old man, whose disappearing back he watched, recalled his arrival in the morning, and the flood of words which the piercing wind had dragged from his silence. What wretchedness! And all these girls, worn out with fatigue, who were still stupid enough in the evening to fabricate little ones, to yield flesh for labour and suffering! It would never come to an end if they were always filling themselves with starvelings. Would it not be better if they were to shut up their bellies, and press their thighs50 together, as at the approach of misfortune? Perhaps these gloomy ideas only stirred confusedly in him because he was alone, while all the others at this hour were going about taking their pleasure in couples. The mild weather stifled51 him a little, occasional drops of rain fell on his feverish52 hands. Yes, they all came to it; it was something stronger than reason.
Just then, as étienne remained seated motionless in the shadow, a couple who came down from Montsou rustled53 against him without seeing him as they entered the uneven54 Réquillart ground. The girl, certainly a virgin55, was struggling and resisting with low whispered supplications, while the lad in silence was pushing her towards the darkness of a corner of the shed, still upright, under which there were piles of old mouldy rope. It was Catherine and big Chaval. But étienne had not recognized them in passing, and his eyes followed them; he was watching for the end of the story, touched by a sensuality which changed the course of his thoughts. Why should he interfere56? When girls refuse it is because they like first to be forced.
On leaving the settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante Catherine had gone to Montsou along the road. From the age of ten, since she had earned her living at the pit, she went about the country alone in the complete liberty of the colliers’ families; and if no man had possessed her at fifteen it was owing to the tardy57 awakening58 of her puberty, the crisis of which had not yet arrived. When she was in front of the Company’s Yards she crossed the road and entered a laundress’s where she was certain to find Mouquette; for the latter stayed there from morning till night, among women who treated each other with coffee all round. But she was disappointed; Mouquette had just then been regaling them in her turn so thoroughly59 that she was not able to lend the half-franc she had promised. To console her they vainly offered a glass of hot coffee. She was not even willing that her companion should borrow from another woman. An idea of economy had come to her, a sort of superstitious60 fear, the certainty that that ribbon would bring her bad luck if she were to buy it now.
She hastened to regain61 the road to the settlement, and had reached the last houses of Montsou when a man at the door of the Estaminet Piquette called her:
“Eh! Catherine! where are you off to so quick?”
It was lanky62 Chaval. She was vexed63, not because he displeased64 her, but because she was not inclined to joke.
“Come in and have a drink. A little glass of sweet, won’t you?”
She refused politely; the night was coming on, they were expecting her at home. He had advanced, and was entreating65 her in a low voice in the middle of the road. It had been his idea for a long time to persuade her to come up to the room which he occupied on the first story of the Estaminet Piquette, a fine room for a household, with a large bed. Did he frighten her, that she always refused? She laughed good-naturedly, and said that she would come up some day when children didn’t grow. Then, one thing leading to another, she told him, without knowing how, about the blue ribbon which she had not been able to buy.
“But I’ll pay for it,” he exclaimed.
She blushed, feeling that it would be best to refuse again, but possessed by a strong desire to have the ribbon. The idea of a loan came back to her, and at last she accepted on condition that she should return to him what he spent on her. They began to joke again: it was agreed that if she did not sleep with him she should return him the money. But there was another difficulty when he talked of going to Maigrat’s.
“No, not Maigrat’s; mother won’t let me.”
“Why? is there any need to say where one goes? He has the best ribbons in Montsou.”
When Maigrat saw lanky Chaval and Catherine coming to his shop like two lovers who are buying their engagement gifts, he became very red, and exhibited his pieces of blue ribbon with the rage of a man who is being made fun of. Then, when he had served the young people, he planted himself at the door to watch them disappear in the twilight; and when his wife came to ask him a question in a timid voice, he fell on her, abusing her, and exclaiming that he would make them repent66 some day, the filthy67 creatures, who had no gratitude68, when they ought all to be on the ground licking his feet.
Lanky Chaval accompanied Catherine along the road. He walked beside her, swinging his arms; only he pushed her by the hip69, conducting her without seeming to do so. She suddenly perceived that he had made her leave the pavement and that they were taking the narrow Réquillart road. But she had no time to be angry; his arm was already round her waist, and he was dazing her with a constant caress70 of words. How stupid she was to be afraid! Did he want to hurt such a little darling, who was as soft as silk, so tender that he could have devoured71 her? And he breathed behind her ear, in her neck, so that a shudder72 passed over the skin of her whole body. She felt stifled, and had nothing to reply. It was true that he seemed to love her. On Saturday evenings, after having blown out the candle, she had asked herself what would happen if he were to take her in this way; then, on going to sleep, she had dreamed that she would no longer refuse, quite overcome by pleasure. Why, then, at the same idea to-day did she feel repugnance73 and something like regret? While he was tickling74 her neck with his moustache so softly that she closed her eyes, the shadow of another man, of the lad she had seen that morning, passed over the darkness of her closed eyelids75.
Catherine suddenly looked around her. Chaval had conducted her into the ruins of Réquillart and she recoiled76, shuddering77, from the darkness of the fallen shed.
“Oh! no! oh, no!” she murmured, “please let me go!” The fear of the male had taken hold of her, that fear which stiffens78 the muscles in an impulse of defence, even when girls are willing, and feel the conquering approach of man. Her virginity which had nothing to learn took fright as at a threatening blow, a wound of which she feared the unknown pain.
“No, no! I don’t want to! I tell you that I am too young. lt’s true! Another time, when I am quite grown up.”
“Stupid! There’s nothing to fear. What does that matter?”
But without speaking more he had seized her firmly and pushed her beneath the shed. And she fell on her back on the old ropes; she ceased to protest, yielding to the male before her time, with that hereditary80 submission81 which from childhood had thrown down in the open air all the girls of her race. Her frightened stammering82 grew faint, and only the ardent83 breath of the man was heard.
étienne, however, had listened without moving. Another who was taking the leap! And now that he had seen the comedy he got up, overcome by uneasiness, by a kind of jealous excitement in which there was a touch of anger. He no longer restrained himself; he stepped over the beams, for those two were too much occupied now to be disturbed. He was surprised, therefore, when he had gone a hundred paces along the path, to find that they were already standing up, and that they appeared, like himself, to be returning to the settlement. The man again had his arm round the girl’s waist, and was squeezing her, with an air of gratitude, still speaking in her neck; and it was she who seemed in a hurry, anxious to return quickly, and annoyed at the delay.
Then étienne was tormented84 by the desire to see their faces. It was foolish, and he hastened his steps, so as not to yield to it; but his feet slackened of their own accord, and at the first lamppost he concealed himself in the shade. He was petrified85 by horror when he recognized Catherine and lanky Chaval. He hesitated at first: was it indeed she, that young girl in the coarse blue dress, with that bonnet86? Was that the urchin whom he had seen in breeches, with her head in the canvas cap? That was why she could pass so near him without his recognizing her. But he no longer doubted; he had seen her eyes again, with their greenish limpidity87 of spring water, so clear and so deep. What a wench! And he experienced a furious desire to avenge88 himself on her with contempt, without any motive89. Besides, he did not like her as a girl: she was frightful90.
Catherine and Chaval had passed him slowly. They did not know that they were watched. He held her to kiss her behind the ear, and she began to slacken her steps beneath his caresses91, which made her laugh. Left behind, étienne was obliged to follow them, irritated because they barred the road and because in spite of himself he had to witness these things which exasperated92 him. It was true, then, what she had sworn to him in the morning: she was not any one’s mistress; and he, who had not believed her, who had deprived himself of her in order not to act like the other! and who had let her be taken beneath his nose, pushing his stupidity so far as to be dirtily amused at seeing them! It made him mad! he clenched93 his hands, he could have devoured that man in one of those impulses to kill in which he saw everything red.
The walk lasted for half an hour. When Chaval and Catherine approached the Voreux they slackened their pace still more; they stopped twice beside the canal, three times along the pit-bank, very cheerful now and occupied with little tender games. étienne was obliged to stop also when they stopped, for fear of being perceived. He endeavoured to feel nothing but a brutal94 regret: that would teach him to treat girls with consideration through being well brought up! Then, after passing the Voreux, and at last free to go and dine at Rasseneur’s, he continued to follow them, accompanying them to the settlement, where he remained standing in the shade for a quarter of an hour, waiting until Chaval left Catherine to enter her home. And when he was quite sure that they were no longer together, he set off walking afresh, going very far along the Marchiennes road, stamping, and thinking of nothing, too stifled and too sad to shut himself up in a room.
It was not until an hour later, towards nine o’clock, that étienne again passed the settlement, saying to himself that he must eat and sleep, if he was to be up again at four o’clock in the morning. The village was already asleep, and looked quite black in the night. Not a gleam shone from the closed shutters95, the house fronts slept, with the heavy sleep of snoring barracks. Only a cat escaped through the empty gardens. It was the end of the day, the collapse96 of workers falling from the table to the bed, overcome with weariness and food.
At Rasseneur’s, in the lighted room, an engine-man and two day-workers were drinking. But before going in étienne stopped to throw one last glance into the darkness. He saw again the same black immensity as in the morning when he had arrived in the wind. Before him the Voreux was crouching97, with its air of an evil beast, its dimness pricked98 with a few lantern lights. The three fires of the bank were burning in the air, like bloody99 moons, now and then showing the vast silhouettes100 of Father Bonnemort and his yellow horse. And beyond, in the flat plain, shade had submerged everything, Montsou, Marchiennes, the forest of Vandame, the immense sea of beetroot and of wheat, in which there only shone, like distant lighthouses, the blue fires of the blast furnaces, and the red fires of the coke ovens. Gradually the night came on, the rain was now falling slowly, continuously, burying this void in its monotonous101 streaming. Only one voice was still heard, the thick, slow respiration102 of the pumping engine, breathing both by day and by night.
收听单词发音 |
1
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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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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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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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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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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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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wrangled
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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overtime
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| adj.超时的，加班的；adv.加班地 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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24
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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cuffing
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| v.掌打，拳打( cuff的现在分词 )；袖口状白血球聚集 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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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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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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34
buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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37
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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magpies
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| 喜鹊（magpie的复数形式） | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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lanky
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| adj.瘦长的 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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eyelids
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| 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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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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stiffens
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| （使）变硬，（使）强硬( stiffen的第三人称单数 ) | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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81
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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82
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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83
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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84
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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85
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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86
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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87
limpidity
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| n.清澈，透明 | |
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88
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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89
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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90
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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91
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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92
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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93
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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95
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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96
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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97
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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98
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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100
silhouettes
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| 轮廓( silhouette的名词复数 )； （人的）体形； （事物的）形状； 剪影 | |
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101
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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