Three men and two ladies were sitting on the shabby paintless verandah at Eaglewood at the end of a summer afternoon.
The place was full of the signs of comfortable but disorderly use. A low table was spread with tea things, a teapot of one make, cups of another, plates with fragments of stale-looking cake and cold toast. There were willow1 armchairs, some disabled and mended with string, but all provided with gaily2 striped cushions which had visibly suffered from sun and rain; there were also long deck chairs with tattered3 plaids or Indian blankets on them, and more cushions strewn on the floor, among a litter of magazines and newspapers. In one corner stood a tall earthen jar with branches of blossoming plum and shadbush, in another an easel with a study blocked out in charcoal4, and everywhere were trails of ashes, and little accumulations of cigar and cigarette ends.
The low-studded old house of gray stone was throned on the mountainside so high above Paul’s Landing that those who sat on the verandah missed the dispiriting sight of the town and of the cement works below, and saw only, beyond the precipitate5 plunge6 of many~tinted forest, the great sweep of the Hudson, and the cliffs on its other shore.
The view from Eaglewood was famous — yet visible, Hélo?se Spear reflected, to none of those who habitually7 lived with it except herself. Her mother, she thought, had probably seen it for a while, years ago, in her first eager youth; then it had been lost in a mist of multiple preoccupations, literary, humanitarian8, and domestic, from which it emerged only when visitors were led out on the verandah for the first time. “Ah, our view — YES,” Mrs. Spear would then murmur10, closing her handsome eyes as if to shut herself in with the unutterable, away from the importunities of spoken praise. And her guests would remain silent, too much impressed by her attitude to find the superlatives expected of them.
As for Mr. Spear, his daughter knew that he had simply never seen the view at all; his eyes had never been still long enough. But he had read of it in verse and prose; he talked of it with vivacity11 and emotion; he knew the attitude to strike, deprecating yet possessive, lighting12 a cigarette while the others gazed, and saying: “The poets have sung us, as you know. You remember Bryant’s ‘Eyrie’? Yes — that’s the Eaglewood view. He used to stay here with my wife’s great-grandfather. And Washington Irving, in his Sketch13 Book. And Whitman — it’s generally supposed . . .” And at that point Mrs. Spear would open her eyes to interject: “Really? You didn’t know that my husband knew Whitman? I always scold him for not having written down some of their wonderful talks together — ”
“Ah, Whitman was a very old man when I knew him — immobilized at Camden. He never came here in my time. But from something he once said I gathered that Eaglewood undoubtedly14 . . . yes, I must really jot15 it all down one of these days . . . .”
Mr. Spear’s past was full of the dateless blur16 of the remarkable17 things he had not jotted18 down. Slim, dark, well-preserved, with his wavy19 grayish hair and cleverly dyed moustache, he was the type of the busy dreamer who is forever glancing at his watch, calling impatiently for timetables and calendars (two articles never to be found in the Spear household), calculating and plotting out his engagements, doubting whether there will be time to squeeze in this or that, wondering if after all it will be possible to “make it,” and then, at the end of each day, groaning20 as he lights his after~dinner cigar: “Devil take it, when I got up this morning I thought of a lot of rather important things I had to do — and like a fool I forgot to jot them down.” It was not to be expected, Halo thought, that a man as busy as her father should ever have time to look at a sunset.
As for Hélo?se’s brother Lorry (Lorburn, of course) who sat extended in the hollow of a canvas chair, his handsome contemptuous head tilted21 back, and his feet on the verandah rail, Lorry, the fool, COULD see the view when he chose, and out of sheer perversity22 and posing, wouldn’t — and that was worst of all, to his sister’s thinking. “Oh, for God’s sake, Halo, don’t serve up the view again, there’s a good girl! Shan’t I ever be able to teach you NOT TO HAVE TASTE? The world’s simply dying of a surfeit23 of scenery — an orgy of beauty. If my father would cut down some of those completely superfluous24 trees, and let us get a line on the chimney of the cement factory . . . It’s a poor little chimney, of course, but it’s got the supreme25 quality of ugliness. In certain lights, you know, it’s almost as ugly as the Willows26 . . . or the Parthenon, say . . . .”
But unless there were visitors present Lorry seldom got as far as the Parthenon in his monologue27, because he knew his family had long since discounted his opinions about beauty, and went on thinking of other things while he was airing them — even old George Frenside did nowadays, though once the boy’s paradoxes28 had seemed to amuse him.
George Frenside was the other man on the verandah. There he sat, behind his sempiternal cigar, glowering29 into the tender spaces of the sky as if what he saw there were an offense30 to the human race; yet Halo wondered if one could say of those small deep-sunk eyes, forever watchful31 behind their old-fashioned pince-nez, that anything they rested on escaped them. Probably not; for in certain ways he was sensitive to beauty, and not afraid of it, like Lorry. Only, to move him, it had to be beauty of man’s making, something wrung32 by human genius out of the stubborn elements. The sunset and the woodlands were nothing to him if they had not fed a poet or a painter — a poet preferably. Frenside had often said to Halo: “No, my child; remember I’m not a vegetarian33 — never could digest raw landscape.” But that did not mean that he did not SEE it, did not parcel it out into its component34 parts with those cool classifying eyes. George Frenside was aware of most things; little escaped him of the cosmic spectacle. Only for him the beauty of the earth was something you could take apart, catalogue, and pigeonhole35, and not the enveloping36 harmony it was to the girl who sat beside him looking out on the sunset opalescence37 at their feet.
George Frenside was an institution at Eaglewood, and wherever else the Spears set up their tents. His short stocky figure, his brooding Socratic head, his cigar and eyeglasses, figured among Halo’s earliest recollections, and she had always seen him as she saw him now: elderly, poor, unsuccessful, and yet more masterful, more stimulating38, than anyone else she had known. “A fire that warms everything but itself,” she had once defined him; but he had snapped back: “I don’t warm, I singe39.”
Not a bad description of his relation to most people; but she, who knew him so well, knew also the communicative glow he could give out, and often wondered why it had never lit up his own path.
She was familiar with Frenside’s explanation: the critical faculty40 outweighed41 all others in him, and, as he had often told her, criticism won’t keep its man. He saw (he also said) the skeletons of things and people: he was a walking radiograph. God knows he didn’t want to be — would rather not have had a decomposing42 mind. But it was the one allotted43 to him, and with it he had lingered on the outskirts44 of success, contributing fierce dissections of political and literary ideas to various newspapers and reviews, often refusing to write an article when it was asked for — and especially when a good sum was offered for it — and then suddenly dashing off a brilliant diatribe45 which no one wanted, and which came back to him from one editor after another. He had written, a good many years earlier, a brief volume of essays called Dry Points, which had had a considerable success in the limited circle of the cultivated, and been enthusiastically reviewed in England. This had produced a handsome offer from a publisher, who asked Frenside for a revolutionary book on education: a subject made to his hand. The idea delighted him, he wanted the money badly, he had never before had the offer of so large a sum; and he sat paralyzed by the completeness of the opportunity. One day he found a title which amused him — The Art of Imparting Ignorance — and that was the only line of the book he ever wrote.
“It’s one of the surest signs of genius to do your best when you’re working for money,” he told Halo. “I have only talent — and the idea of doing a book to order simply benumbed me. What the devil can I do but keep on hack-writing?” But even that he did only intermittently46. Nevertheless, he held jealously to his pecuniary47 independence, and, though he frequently accepted the hospitality of the Spears, and of a few other old friends, he was never known to have borrowed a penny of any of them, a fact which Halo Spear’s own brief experience led her to regard as unusual, and almost unaccountable. But then, she thought, there was nothing about George Frenside that wasn’t queer, even to his virtues48 . . . .
Her eyes wandered back to the landscape. It lay before her in the perfect beauty of a June evening: one of those evenings when twilight49 floats aloft in an air too pure to be penetrated50 by the density51 of darkness. What did it all mean, she wondered — that there should be this beauty, so ever-varying, so soul-sufficing, so complete, and face to face with it these people who one and all would gladly have exchanged it for any one of a hundred other things; her mother for money enough to carry them to the end of the year, her father for his New York club and a bridge table, Lorry of course for money too (money was always the burning question in the Spear family), and George Frenside for good talk in a Bohemian restaurant?
The girl herself shared, or at least understood, the hereditary52 antagonism53 toward Eaglewood of those who lived there. To the last two generations of Lorburns Eaglewood had embodied54 all the things they could not do because of it. The only member of the family who idealised it (and even he only theoretically) was Mr. Spear, who had “married into” it, and still faintly glowed with the refracted honour of speaking of “our little old place on the Hudson.”
Old it was, for an American possession. Lorburns had lived there for considerably55 over two hundred years: the present house had been built in 1680. It was too long, perhaps, for Americans to live in any one place; and the worst of it was that, when they had, it became a sort of tribal56 obligation to go on doing so. Sell Eaglewood? Which one of them would have dared to? When Pittsburgh and Chicago fell upon the feudal57 Hudson, and one old property after another was bartered58 for a mess of pottage, the Lorburns sat apart with lifted brows, and grimly thanked Providence59 that Paul’s Landing was too far from New York to attract the millionaires. Even now, had fashion climbed to their solitary60 height it is doubtful if any of them — not excepting Lorry — would have dared to mention aloud the places they could have gone to, and the things they could have done, if only they had been free of Eaglewood. As it happened, no such danger threatened, for fashion had passed them by; but had the peril61 been imminent62, Mr. Spear would have opposed it with all the force of his eloquence63.
Mr. Spear regarded Eaglewood with the veneration64 of the parvenu65 for a recently acquired ancestor. When he married the beautiful Miss Lorburn, New York said: “He’s very clever, of course; but still, who would have expected to see a Spear at Eaglewood?” And he knew it, and was determined66 to show New York that a Spear could be perfectly67 at home even at that altitude.
He was himself the son of the Reverend Harold Spear, the eloquent68 and popular divine who for years had packed Saint Ambrose’s with New York’s most distinguished69 congregation. Dr. Spear, as popular out of the pulpit as in it, had married a distant cousin of the Van der Luydens, thus paving the way for his son’s more brilliant alliance; but still it required a certain courage on the part of the heiress of Eaglewood to accept a suitor whom her friends alluded70 to as “merely clever.” Sometimes Hélo?se, thinking over the phrase (which her mother had once quoted to her in derision), smiled to note how exact it was. After all, those dull old Lorburns and their clan71 must have had a nice sense of nuances: her father, whom she loved and laughed at, was exactly that — he was merely clever. It was perhaps because his wife belonged to the same category (though, being a Lorburn, she had never been placed in it, since a Lorburn woman might be beautiful, or masterful, or distinguished, but never anything so ambiguous as “clever”) that she had had been attracted by young Spear, and had married him in spite of the family opposition72. Emily Lorburn, brought up in an atmosphere of rigid73 social conformity74, had become passionately75 nonconforming; her husband, educated after the strict rule of Episcopalian orthodoxy, had read Strauss and Renan in secret before going over openly to Darwin and Haeckel. The young people, dazzled by each other’s audacities76, had perhaps expected, by pooling them, to form a nucleus77 of intellectual revolt; but the world had revolted without waiting for them. Their heresies78 were too mild to cause any excitement outside of their own circle, and their house, instead of being the centre of incendiarism they had imagined, was merely regarded as one where one was likely to meet agreeable people.
All this, though long since patent to their children, was still but dimly apprehended79 by Mr. and Mrs. Spear, and Halo knew that her mother secretly regarded Eaglewood, the obligations it entailed80 and the privations it necessitated81, as the chief obstacle to the realizing of her ambitions. Mrs. Spear felt that what both she and her husband needed to produce the revolutionary effect they aimed at was a house in New York; and for years all her energies had been bent82 on getting it. These had been the years of Halo’s little girlhood and first youth: economical years marked by a series of snowbound winters at Eaglewood, and (whenever the place could be let) European summers in places dingily83 aesthetic84. But in spite of these sacrifices the unequal struggle had had to be given up; the visionary house in New York had shrunk to a small flat, the flat to six weeks in a family hotel, with Eaglewood for the rest of the year; and at present, as Halo knew, her mother was anxiously calculating whether, with the growing cost of everything, and Lorry’s perpetual debts, and perpetual inability to find a job, it would not be necessary to renounce85 even a month in the family hotel.
There were times when to the girl herself Eaglewood was as much of a prison as to her elders. But the fact that it was easier for her than for her parents to get away made the being there less irksome; and besides, she loved the place for itself, instead of being proud of it for family reasons, and hating it for every other. The house depressed86 her, in spite of its portraits and relics87, and the faded perfume of old days, because it was associated with the perpetual struggle to keep the roof dry, the ceilings patched, the furnace going, the curtains and carpets turned and darned, the taxes paid. But poverty and lack of care could not spoil what lay outside the house: the acres of neglected parkland with ancient trees widening their untrimmed domes9 over lawns that had lapsed88 into pasture, the woods beyond, murmuring and glinting with little streams, and that ever-renewed view on which the girl’s eyes never rested without the sense of inner communion which all the others had missed.
Ah, that view . . . suddenly she thought: “I believe the boy I saw down at the Willows last week has the only eyes I know that would really see it as I do — ”; and the thought, rousing her out of her dream, brought her to her feet with a jerk.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, with a cry in which amusement mingled90 with consternation91; for she saw nearly everything in life first on the amusing side, even to her own shortcomings.
George Frenside lifted his head from the newspaper and turned his ironic92 eyeglasses on her. “What’s up?”
“Only that I’ve forgotten an engagement.”
“What? Again?”
She nodded contritely93. “I’m a perfect beast — it was simply vile94 of me!” She was talking to herself, not to Frenside. As for her own family, they were all too used to her frequent outbursts of compunction over forgotten engagements to let her remorse95 disturb their meditations96.
For a moment she stood brooding over her latest lapse89; then she turned to re-enter the house. As she disappeared Mrs. Spear, roused from some inner calculation which had wrinkled her brows and sharpened the lines about her mouth, sat up to call after her in a deep wailing97 voice: “But Lewis Tarrant — have you ALL forgotten Lewis Tarrant? Who’s going to fetch him from the station?”
Whenever Mrs. Spear emerged thus suddenly from the sea of her perplexities, her still lovely face wore a half-drowned look which made Halo feel as if one ought to give her breathing exercises and other first-aid remedies.
“Don’t look so upset, darling. Why should you think I’d forgotten Lewis? I’m going down presently to meet him; his train’s not due for another hour.”
But Lorry Spear, with an effort, had pulled himself to his feet and cast away his cigarette end. “You needn’t, Halo. I’ll go,” he said in a voice of brotherly self-sacrifice.
“Thanks ever so, Lorry. But don’t bother — ”
“No bother, child. I’ll call at the post at the same time, and pick up Mother’s arrowroot at the grocer’s.”
This evoked98 a languid laugh from Mr. Spear and Frenside, for the grocery at Paul’s Landing was the repository for all Mrs. Spear’s daily purchases, and whenever she suggested that, yes, well, perhaps they HAD better call there on the way home, because she believed she had ordered a packet of arrowroot, the motor would invariably climb the hill from the town groaning with innumerable parcels.
Halo paused in the glass door leading into the hall. “I want the car for myself, Lorry,” she said decisively, and turned to go in. Behind her, as she crossed the hall, she heard her brother’s precipitate steps. “See here, Halo — stop! I’m going down to meet Lewis; I want to.”
She faced him with her faint smile. “Oh, certainly. Come with me, then.”
“What’s the use of your going?” His handsome irresolute99 mouth grew sulky and resentful. “Fact is I rather want to see Lewis alone. We’ve got a little matter — ”
His sister’s eyebrows100 rose ironically. “So I supposed. How much this time, Lorry?”
“How much —?”
“Yes. Only don’t exaggerate. I’ve told you I want the car for myself. How much were you going to ask Lewis to lend you?”
Her brother, flushing up, began to protest and ejaculate. “Damned impertinence — ” But Halo lifted her arm to examine her wristwatch. “Don’t splutter like Father when he says he’s going to denounce an outrage101 in the papers. And don’t be exorbitant102 either.” She fumbled103 in the shabby antelope104 bag which hung from her other wrist. “Here — will this do?” She took out two ten-dollar notes and held them toward her brother.
“Hell, child — ” he stammered105, manifestly tempted106 and yet furious.
“You know you wouldn’t get as much out of Lewis. Better take it.”
He stood with his hands in his pockets, his chin down, staring at the notes without moving.
“Come, Lorry; I tell you I’m in a hurry.” She made a slight motion as though to reopen the bag and put back the money.
“I’ll go down myself to fetch Lewis,” he mumbled107, all the fluid lines of his face hardening into an angry obstinacy108.
“You won’t!”
“Won’t I? You’ll see, then — ” He caught her by the wrist, and they stood glaring at each other and breathing hard, like two angry young animals. Then Halo, with a laugh, wrenched109 her hand free, and reopening the bag drew out another ten dollars. She tossed the three notes on the table, and walked across the hall and out of the front door. No footsteps followed her, and she deemed it superfluous to glance back and see if the money had been removed from the table.
收听单词发音 |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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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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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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surfeit
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| v.使饮食过度；n.(食物)过量，过度 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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paradoxes
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| n.似非而是的隽语，看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 )；用于语言文学中的上述隽语；有矛盾特点的人[事物，情况] | |
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glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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pigeonhole
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| n.鸽舍出入口；v.把...归类 | |
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enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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opalescence
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| n.乳白光，蛋白色光；乳光 | |
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stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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singe
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| v.(轻微地)烧焦；烫焦；烤焦 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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outweighed
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的过去式和过去分词 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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decomposing
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| 腐烂( decompose的现在分词 )； （使）分解； 分解（某物质、光线等） | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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diatribe
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| n.抨击，抨击性演说 | |
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intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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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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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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51
density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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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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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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tribal
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| adj.部族的，种族的 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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bartered
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| v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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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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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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parvenu
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| n.暴发户，新贵 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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audacities
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| n.大胆( audacity的名词复数 )；鲁莽；胆大妄为；鲁莽行为 | |
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nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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heresies
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| n.异端邪说，异教( heresy的名词复数 ) | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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dingily
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| adv.暗黑地，邋遢地 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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contritely
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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101
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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103
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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104
antelope
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| n.羚羊；羚羊皮 | |
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105
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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107
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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