“Where are we going? You’ll see,” Vance said with a confident laugh.
He stood with Laura Lou on the doorstep of a small gingerbread~coloured house in a rustic-looking street bordered with similar habitations. Her bare hand lay on his sleeve, and the gold band on her fourth finger seemed to catch and shoot back all the fires of the morning.
It was one of those windless December days when May is in the air, and it seems strange not to see grass springing and buds bursting. The rutty street lay golden before Vance and Laura Lou, and as they came out of the Methodist minister’s house they seemed to be walking straight into the sun.
Vance had made all his plans, but had imparted them to no one, not even to his bride. The religious ceremony, it was true, had been agreed on beforehand, as a concession2 to her prejudices, and to her fear of her mother. When Mrs. Tracy learned of the marriage it must appear to have been performed with proper solemnity. Not that Vance had become irreligious; but, since his elementary course in philosophy had shown him that the religion he thought he had invented was simply a sort of vague pantheism, and went back in its main lines to the dawn of metaphysics, he had lost interest in the subject, or rather in his crude vision of it. What he wanted now was to learn what others had imagined, far back in the beginnings of thought; and he could see no relation between the colossal3 dreams and visions amid which his mind was moving and the act of standing4 up before a bilious-looking man with gold teeth, in a room with a Rogers statuette on the sideboard, and repeating after him a patter of words about God and Laura Lou — and having to pay five dollars for it.
Well, it was over now, and didn’t much matter anyhow; and everything to come after was still his secret. Laura Lou had not been inconveniently5 curious: she had behaved like a good little girl before the door opens on the Christmas tree. It was enough for her, Vance knew, to stand there looking up at him, her hand on his arm, his ring on her finger; from that moment everything she was, or wanted, was immersed and lost in himself. But his own plans had been elaborately worked out; he was in the state of lucid6 ecstasy7 when no material detail seems too insignificant8 to be woven into the pattern of one’s bliss9.
“Come,” he said, “there’s just time to catch the train.” They hurried along the straggling streets of the little Long Island town, and reached the station as the last passengers were scrambling10 to their places. They found two seats at one end of the car, where they could sit, hand locked in hand, while the train slid through interminable outskirts11 and finally reached an open region of trees and fields. For a while neither spoke12. Laura Lou, her head slightly turned toward the window, was watching the landscape slip by with a wide-eyed attention, so that Vance caught only the curve of her cheek and the light shining through the curls about her ear. There was something almost rigidly13 attentive14 in her look and attitude, as though she were a translucent15 vessel16 so brimming with happiness that she feared to move or speak lest it should overflow18. The fear communicated itself to him, and as they sat there, hand in hand, he felt as if they were breathlessly watching a magic bird poised19 just before them, which the least sound might put to flight. “My dove,” he thought, “we’re watching my dove . . . .”
At length she turned and said in a whisper (as if not to frighten the dove): “Mother’ll come home soon and find the letter.”
He pressed her hand more tightly. The letter was the one she had written to tell Mrs. Tracy that she was not going to marry Bunty Hayes — that she would already be married to Vance when her mother opened the letter. She had been utterly20 unable to find words to break the news, and Vance had had to tell her what to say. In the note he had put a hundred-dollar bill, on which was pinned a slip of paper with the words: “On account of B. Hayes’s loan.” For the idea of the thousand-dollar loan, which Bunty Hayes had made to poor Mrs. Tracy to enable her to send Laura Lou to school, was a torture to Vance. The Hour had paid two hundred dollars for “Unclaimed,” and he had instantly enclosed half the amount in Laura Lou’s letter. It was perhaps not exactly the moment to introduce the question of money; but Vance could suffer no delay. He hoped to wipe out the debt within two or three months; then the last shadow would be lifted from his happiness. Meanwhile it had tranquillized him to do what he could.
“Oh, look — the sea!” cried Laura Lou; and there it was, beyond scrub oak and sandhills, a distant flash of light under a still sky without clouds. Vance’s heart swelled21; but he turned his eyes back to Laura Lou, and said, with seeming indifference22: “That’s nothing . . . .”
The gleam vanished; the train jogged on again between trees and fields. Houses cropped up, singly, then in groups, then in streets; the train slowed down by rural platforms, people got in and out. An hour later, as the usual clanking and jarring announced another halt, Vance said: “Here!” He reached for their joint23 suitcase, took Laura Lou by the arm, and pushed her excitedly toward the door. A minute later they were standing on a shabby platform, while the train swung off again and left them alone in a world of shanties24 and sandhills. “We’ll have to walk,” Vance explained, picking up the suitcase, which seemed to him to weigh no more than a feather. As soon as they had left the station every rut of the road, every tussock of grass and hunched-up scrub oak cowering25 down against the wind, started up familiarly before him. If he lived to be a thousand, he thought, he would never forget an inch of that road.
Laura Lou seemed to have cast aside her apprehensions27. She swung along beside him, saying now and then: “Where are we going?” and laughing contentedly28 at his joyous29: “You’ll see.” There was no sense of winter in the air; but as they advanced a breath of salt and seaweed made their faces tingle30, and Vance, drawn31 by it, started into a run. “There’s not a minute to lose!” he called back; and Laura Lou raced after him, stumbling on her high heels among the sandy ruts. They scrambled32 on, speechless with haste, drunk with sun and air and their own hearts; and presently he dragged her up the last hillock, and there lay the ocean. He had sworn to himself that one day he would come back and see it with the girl he loved; but he had not known that the girl would be Laura Lou. He felt a little awed33 to think that the hand of Destiny had been on his shoulder even then; and as he gazed at the heaving silver reaches he wondered if they had known all the while where he was going, and if now they saw the path that lay ahead.
When, three years earlier, he had come down in summer to that same beach, lonely, half starved, dazed with discouragement, fevered from overwork, the sea had been a gray tumult34 under a sunless sky; now, on this December day, it flashed with summer fires. “Like my life,” he thought, putting out his arm to draw Laura Lou to the ridge35 on which he sat. “There,” he said, his cheek on hers, “there’s where our bird’s mother was born.”
Her bewildered eyes turned to him under their hummingbird36 lashes37. “Our bird’s mother?”
“Venus, darling. Didn’t you know the dove belonged to Venus? Didn’t you know Venus was our goddess, and that she was born out of the waves, and came up all over foam38? And that you look so like her that I feel as if you’d just been blown in on one of those silver streamers, and they might pull you back any minute if I didn’t hold tight onto you?” He suited the act to the words with a vehemence39 that made her laugh out in rosy40 confusion: “Vance, I never did hear such things as you make up about people.”
He laughed back and held her fast; but already his thoughts had wandered again to the ever-heaving welter of silver. “God, I wish a big gale41 would blow up this very minute — I’d give anything to see all those millions and millions of waves rear up and wrestle42 with each other.”
Laura Lou shivered. “I guess we’d be frozen if they did.”
“Why — are you cold?” he wondered, remembering how, as afternoon fell, she had grown pale and shivered in the garden of the Willows43.
She shook her head, nestling down against him. “No — but I’m hungry, I believe.”
“Hungry? Ye gods! So am I. You bright child, how did you find out?” He caught her close again, covering with kisses her eyes and lips and her softly beating throat.
He had pitched the suitcase down at their feet, and he stooped to open it, and pulled out a greasy-looking parcel. “What about picnicking here? I’ve always wanted to have the wild waves at my wedding party.” He was unwrapping, and spreading out on the sand, beef sandwiches, slices of sausage and sticky cake, cheese, a bunch of grapes and a custard pie, all more or less mixed up with each other; and he and Laura Lou fell on them with hungry fingers. At last she declared: “Oh, Vance, we mustn’t eat any more — oh, no, no, I COULDN’T . . .” but he continued to press the food on her, and as her lips opened to morsel44 after morsel the returning glow whipped her cheeks to carmine45. Then he dug again into the suitcase, extracted a half bottle of champagne46 and a corkscrew — and looked about him desperately47 for glasses. “Oh, hell, what’ll I do? Oh, child, there’s nothing for us to drink it out of!”
Rocking with laughter, she followed the pantomime of his despair. But suddenly he sprang up, slid down the hillock, and running along the beach came back with a big empty shell. “Here — our goddess sends you this! She sailed ashore48 in a shell, you know.” He flourished it before her, and then bade her hold it in both hands, while she laughed and laughed at his vain struggles with the corkscrew and the champagne bottle. Finally he gave up and knocked off the neck of the bottle, and the golden foam came spiring49 and splashing into the shell and over their hands. “Oh, Vance . . . oh, Vance . . .” She tilted50 her head back and put her lips to the fluted51 rim17, and he thought he had never seen anything lovelier than the pulse beat in her throat when the wine ran down. “Ever taste anything like that?” he asked, licking his fingers; and she giggled52: “No, nothing, only ginger1 ale,” and sat and watched while he refilled their chalice53 and drank from it, carefully putting his lips where hers had been. “It’s like a gale of wind and with the sun in it — that’s what it’s like,” he declared. He did not confess to her that it was also his first taste of champagne; unconsciously he had already decided54 that part of his duty as a husband was to be older and stronger than she was, and to know more than she did about everything.
“Here’s our house,” Vance said, swinging her hand to cheer her up. He knew by her dragging step that the walk had seemed long to her. To him it had appeared, all the way from the beach to the cluster of deserted55 buildings they were approaching, as if the racing56 waves had carried him. But he forced himself to walk slowly, taking his first lesson in the duty of keeping step.
The house, a mere57 shanty58, had a projecting porch roof which gave it a bungalow59 look. When Vance, bitten with the idea of spending his honeymoon60 by the sea, had hunted up the kindly61 manager at Friendship House, the latter, amazed and then diverted at the idea — “Land alive — in December?” — had said, why yes, he didn’t know why Vance shouldn’t have the keys of the bungalow where the camp manager and his wife stayed when the camp was open. The camp had been run up near a farm, for the convenience of being in reach of milk and country produce, and he guessed the farmer’s wife would put some fuel in the bungalow, and see if the old stove would draw. They could get milk from her too, he thought, and maybe they could take their meals at the farm. She was pretty good-natured, and at that time of year she might like a little company for a change.
Once in most lives things turn out as the dreamer dreamed them. This was Vance’s day, and when he pushed open the door there was the stove, with a pile of wood and some scraps62 of coal ready for lighting63, and a jug64 of milk and loaf of bread on the table. The bare boarded room, which looked like the inside of a bathhouse, was as clean as if it had been recently scoured65, and the drift of sand and crinkled seaweed on the floor merely suggested that a mermaid66 might have done the cleaning. Vance laughed aloud for joy. “Oh, Laura Lou, isn’t it great?”
She stood on the threshold, looking shyly about her, and he turned and drew her in. The table bearing the provisions carried also a candle in a tin candlestick; and against the wall stood a sort of trestle bed with two pillows and a coarse brown blanket. Two kitchen chairs, a handful of broken crockery on a shelf, a cracked looking glass, and a pile of old baskets and cracker67 boxes in a corner completed the furniture. Over the bed hung a tattered68 calendar, of which the last page to be uncovered was dated September 15, and bore the admonition: Little Children, Love One Another.
Vance burst out laughing; then, seeing a faint tremor69 about Laura Lou’s lips, he said: “See here, you sit down while I get at the fire.” He began to fear their frail70 shanty might be too cold for her as night fell; and he dropped on his knees and set to work cramming71 fuel into the stove. Decidedly it was his day; the fire lit, the stovepipe drew. But as he knelt before it he felt a faint anxiety. Laura Lou sat behind him. She had not spoken since they had entered the shanty, and he wondered if she had felt a shock of disappointment. Perhaps she had expected a cosy72 overheated room in a New York or Philadelphia hotel, with white sheets on the bed and running water — oh, God, he thought suddenly, how the hell were they going to get washed? There wasn’t a basin or pitcher73, much less soap or towel. In summer, no doubt, the manager and his wife just ran down to the sea for a dip. . . . Vance began to be afraid to look around. At length he heard a sound behind him and felt Laura Lou’s hands on his shoulders. He turned without rising, and her face, flushed and wet with tears, hung close over him.
“Why, what is it, darling? The place too rough for you — too lonely? You’re sorry we came?” he cried remorsefully74.
She gave him a rainbow smile. “I’ll never be sorry where you are.”
“Well, then — ”
“Only I’m so tired,” she said, her voice grown as small as a child’s.
“Of course you are, sweet. Here — wait till I make the bed comfortable and you can lie down.” He shook up the meagre pillows, and after she had taken off her shoes he covered her with her coat and knelt down to chafe75 her cold feet. She looked so small and helpless, so uncomprehending and utterly thrown on his mercy, that his passion was held in check, and he composed her on the bed with soft fraternal hands. “There — the fire’ll warm the place up in no time; and while you’re resting I’ll step across to the farm and see what I can bring back for supper.”
“Oh, Vance, I don’t want any supper.”
“But I do — and piping hot,” he called back with a factitious gaiety, wondering that he had not guessed the place to take her to would have been a hotel with an imitation marble restaurant, and a good movie next door where she could read her own romance into the screen heroine’s.
He grimaced76 at the thought, and then, lighting the candle, so that the place might look as cheerful as possible, went out and walked across a stubbly field to the farm. The farmer’s wife, a big good~natured Swedish woman, received him with friendly curiosity. She’d known one or two young fellows to come down as late as December, she said, but she’d never had a honeymoon before. The idea amused her, and she started at once warming up a can of tomato soup, and offered Vance a saucepan to heat the milk for breakfast. While she warmed the soup he sat in the window of the kitchen and looked out to the sea. What a place to live in always — solitude77 and beauty, and that great unresting Presence calling out night and day with many voices! (“Many voices” — where’d he read that?) There, the woman said; she guessed the soup was good and hot; maybe he’d like some crackers78 with it? Oh, he could settle when he went away — that was all right. She even rummaged79 out a tin of prepared coffee, left there with some of the camp stores; he could have that too, and a couple of towels. Soap was more difficult to come by, but she decided that they could have her youngest boy’s, as he was off clamdigging for a week, and no great hand at washing anyhow. Carrying the pot of hot soup carefully, his other supplies in his pockets, Vance walked back through the twilight80 . . . .
Outside of the door he said softly: “Lou!” There was no answer, and he lifted the latch81 and went in. The room was dark, except for the cloudy glow through the stove-door and the unsteady candle flicker82; at first he had a sense of entering on emptiness. Then he saw that Laura Lou was lying as he had left her, except that she had flung one bare arm above her head. Shading the candle he went up to the bed. Her little face, flushed with the sea wind, and tumbled over with rumpled83 straw-coloured hair, lay sideways in the bend of her arm. She was sound asleep, the hummingbird lashes resting darkly on her clear cheek with the hollow under it, and her breath coming as softly as if she were in her own bed at home. For the first time Vance felt a faint apprehension26 at what he had done, at his own inexperience as well as hers, and the uncertainty84 of the future. He had bound himself fast to this child, he, hardly more than a child himself in knowledge of men and in the mysterious art of getting on . . . and for one stricken instant he asked himself why he had done it. The misgiving85 just flashed through him; but it left an inward chill. With those other girls he had been tangled86 up with there had been no time for such conjectures87; they sucked him down to them like quick-sands. But now he seemed to be bending over a cool moonlit pool . . . .
“What shall I say,” he thought, “when she wakes?” And, at that moment her lids lifted, and her eyes looked into his. The candle slanted88 in his shaking hand; but Laura Lou’s face was still. “Oh, Vance . . . I was dreaming about you,” she said, with a little sleep-fringed smile.
About dawn he woke and got up from her side. He moved with infinite caution lest he should disturb her, drawing on his clothes and socks, and picking up his shoes to put them on outside in the porch. From the threshold he looked back. In the pale winter light she lay like a little marble image; the serenity89 of her attitude seemed to put the whole weight of the adventure on his shoulders, and again he thought: “Why did I do it? What can come of it?” and stood dazed before the locked mystery of his own mind. In those short hours of passion the little girl who had seemed so familiar to him had suddenly become mysterious too; closest part of himself henceforth, yet utterly remote and inexplicable90; a woman with a sealed soul, but with a body that clung to his. . . . The misgiving which had passed in a flash the night before now fastened on him with a cold tenacity91. “What do I know about her? What does she know about me?” he questioned in a terror of self-scrutiny. He looked at her again, and the startled thought: “What if she were lying there dead?” flashed through his mind. How could such a horrible idea have come to him? In an instant his wild imagination had seized on it, and he saw himself maimed, desolate92, crushed — but free. Free to open that door and go out, straight back to his life of two days before, without the awful burden of responsibility he had madly shouldered. . . . The vision lasted but the flicker of a lid, but like lightning at night in an unknown landscape it lit up whole tracts93 of himself that he had never seen. The horror was so strong that he half turned back to wake her up and dispel94 it. The faint stir of her breast under her thin nightdress reassured95 him, and he unlatched the door and went out. . . . Instantly the horror vanished, and as he saw before him the great motionless curves of sea and sky, and thought that all the while they had been there, hushed and secret, encircling his microscopic96 adventure, a sense of unifying97 power took possession of him, as it used to in his boyhood. “And all the time there was THAT!” he thought.
He pulled on his shoes and raced down to the sea. The air was still mild, and he stood by the fringe of little waves and looked eastward98 at the bar of light reddening across the waters. As he stood there, all the shapes of beauty which had haunted his imagination seemed to rise from the sea and draw about him. They swept him upward into the faint dapplings of the morning sky, and he caught, as in a mystic vision, the meaning of beauty, the secret of poetry, the sense of the forces struggling in him for expression. How could he ever have been afraid — afraid of Laura Lou, of fate, of himself? She was the vessel from which he had drunk this divine reassurance99, this moment of union with the universe. Whatever happened, however hard and rough the road ahead, he would carry her on his heart like the little cup of his great communion . . . .
收听单词发音 |
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ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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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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inconveniently
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| ad.不方便地 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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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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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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shanties
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| n.简陋的小木屋( shanty的名词复数 )；铁皮棚屋；船工号子；船歌 | |
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cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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hummingbird
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| n.蜂鸟 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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spiring
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| v.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的现在分词 ) | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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52
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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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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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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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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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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cracker
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| n.（无甜味的）薄脆饼干 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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remorsefully
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| adv.极为懊悔地 | |
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chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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grimaced
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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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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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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83
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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85
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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86
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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88
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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89
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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91
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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92
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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94
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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95
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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96
microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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97
unifying
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| 使联合( unify的现在分词 )； 使相同； 使一致； 统一 | |
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98
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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99
reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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