Look to the lady:—
And when we have our naked frailties1 hid,
That suffer in exposure, let us meet,
And question this most bloody2 piece of work,
To know it further. Fears and scruples3 shake us;
In the great hand of God I stand; and, thence,
Against the undivulg’d pretence4 I fight
Macbeth.
Shortly after this, a fresh relay of police arrived and I could hear the whole house being ransacked6. I had found my shoes, and was sitting in my own private room before a fire which had been lighted for me on the hearth7. I was in a state of stupor8 now, and if my body shook, as it did from time to time, it was not from cold, nor do I think from any special horror of mind or soul (I felt too dull for that), but in response to the shuddering9 pines which pressed up close to the house at this point and soughed and tapped at the walls and muttered among themselves with an insistence10 which I could not ignore, notwithstanding my many reasons for self-absorption.
The storm, which had been exceedingly fierce while it lasted, had quieted down to a steady fall of snow. Had its mission been to serve as a blanket to this crime by wiping out from the old snow all tell-tale footsteps and such other records as simplify cases of this kind for the detectives, it could not have happened more apropos12 to the event. From the complaints which had already reached my ears from the two policemen, I was quite aware that even as early as their first arrival, they had found a clean page where possibly a few minutes before the whole secret of this tragedy may have been written in unmistakable characters; and while this tilled me with relief in one way, it added to my care in another, for the storm which could accomplish so much in so short a time was a bitter one for a young girl to meet, and Carmel must have met it at its worst, in her lonesome struggle homeward.
Where was she? Living or dead, where was she now and where was Adelaide — the two women who for the last six weeks had filled my life with so many unhallowed and conflicting emotions? The conjecture13 passed incessantly14 through my brain, but it passed idly also and was not answered even in thought. Indeed, I seemed incapable15 of sustaining any line of thought for more than an instant, and when after an indefinite length of time the door behind me opened, the look I turned upon the gentleman who entered must have been a strange and far from encouraging one.
He brought a lantern with him. So far the room had had no other illumination than such as came from the fire, and when he had set this lantern down on the mantel and turned to face me, I perceived, with a sort of sluggish16 hope, that he was Dr. Perry, once a practising physician and my father’s intimate friend, now a county official of no ordinary intelligence and, what was better, of no ordinary feeling.
His attachment17 to my father had not descended18 to me and, for the moment, he treated me like a stranger.
“I am the coroner of this district,” said he. “I have left my bed to have a few words with you and learn if your detention19 here is warranted. You are the president of this club, and the lady whose violent death in this place I have been called upon to investigate, is Miss Cumberland, your affianced wife?”
My assent20, though hardly audible, was not to be misunderstood. Drawing up a chair, he sat down and something in his manner which was not wholly without sympathy, heartened me still more, dispelling21 some of the cloudiness which had hitherto befogged my faculties22.
“They have told me what you had to say in explanation of your presence here where a crime of some nature has taken place. But I should like to hear the story from your own lips. I feel that I owe you this consideration. At all events, I am disposed to show it. This is no common case of violence and the parties to it are not of the common order. Miss Cumberland’s virtue23 and social standing11 no one can question, while you are the son of a man who has deservedly been regarded as an honour to the town. You have been intending to marry Miss Cumberland?”
“Yes.” I looked the man directly in the eye. “Our wedding-day was set.”
“Did you love her? Pardon me; if I am to be of any benefit to you at this crisis I must strike at the root of things. If you do not wish to answer, say so, Mr. Ranelagh.”
“I do wish.” This was a lie, but what was I to do, knowing how dangerous it would be for Carmel to have it publicly known where my affections were really centred and what a secret tragedy of heart-struggle and jealous passion underlay24 this open one of foul25 and murderous death. “I am in no position to conceal26 anything from you. I did love Miss Cumberland. We have been engaged for a year. She was a woman of fortune but I am not without means of my own and could have chosen a penniless girl and still been called prosperous.”
“I see, and she returned your love?”
“Sincerely.” Was the room light enough to reveal my guilty flush? She had loved me only too well, too jealously, too absorbingly for her happiness or mine.
“And the sister?”
It was gently but gravely put, and instantly I knew that our secret was out, however safe we had considered it. This man was cognisant of it, and if he, why not others! Why not the whole town! A danger which up to this moment I had heard whispered only by the pines, was opening in a gulf28 beneath our feet. Its imminence29 steadied me. I had kept my glance on Coroner Perry, and I do not think it changed. My tone, I am quite assured, was almost as quiet and grave as his as I made my reply in these words:
“Her sister is her sister. I hardly think that either of us would be apt to forget that. Have you heard otherwise, sir?”
He was prepared for equivocation30, possibly for denial, but not for attack. His manner changed and showed distrust and I saw that I had lost rather than made by this venturous move.
“Is this your writing?” he suddenly asked, showing me a morsel31 of paper which he had drawn32 from his vest pocket.
I looked, and felt that I now understood what the pines had been trying to tell me for the last few hours. That compromising scrap33 of writing had not been destroyed. It existed for her and my undoing34! Then doubt came. Fate could not juggle36 thus with human souls and purposes. I had simply imagined myself to have recognised the words lengthening37 and losing themselves in a blur38 before my eyes. Carmel was no fool even if she had wild and demoniacal moments. This could not be my note to her,— that fatal note which would make all denial of our mutual39 passion unavailing.
“Is it your writing?” my watchful40 inquisitor repeated.
I looked again. The scrap was smaller than my note had been when it left my hands. If it were the same, then some of the words were gone. Were they the first ones or the last? It would make a difference in the reading, or rather, in the conclusions to be drawn from what remained. If only the mist would clear from before my eyes, or he would hold the slip of paper nearer! The room was very dark. The — the —
“Is it your writing?” Coroner Perry asked for the third time.
There was no denying it. My writing was peculiar41 and quite unmistakable. I should gain nothing by saying no.
“It looks like it,” I admitted reluctantly. “But I cannot be sure in this light. May I ask what this bit of paper is and where you found it?”
“Its contents I think you know. As for the last question I think you can answer that also if you will.”
Saying which, he quietly replaced the scrap of paper in his pocket-book.
I followed the action with my eyes. I caught a fresh glimpse of a darkened edge, and realised the cause of the faint odour which I had hitherto experienced without being conscious of it. The scrap had been plucked out of the chimney. She had tried to burn it. I remembered the fire and the smouldering bits of paper which crumbled42 at my touch. And this one, this, the most important — the only important one of them all, had flown, half-scorched, up the chimney and clung there within easy reach.
The whole incident was plain to me, and I could even fix upon the moment when Hexford or Clarke discovered this invaluable43 bit of evidence. It was just before I burst in upon them from the ballroom44, and it was the undoubted occasion of the remark I then overheard:
“This settles it. He cannot escape us now.”
During the momentary45 silence which now ensued, I tried to remember the exact words which had composed this note. They were few —— sparks from my very heart — I ought to be able to recollect46 them.
“To-night — 10:30 train — we will be married at P——. Come, come, my darling, my life. She will forgive when all is done. Hesitation47 will only undo35 us. To-night at 10 30. Do not fail me. I shall never marry any one but you.”
Was that all? I had an indistinct remembrance of having added some wild and incoherent words of passionate48 affection affixed49 to her name. Her name! But it may be that in the hurry and flurry of the moment, these terms of endearment50 simply passed through my mind and found no expression on paper. I could not be sure, any more than I could be positive from the half glimpse I got of these lines, which portion had been burned off,— the top in which the word train occurred, or the final words, emphasising a time of meeting and my determination to marry no one but the person addressed. The first gone, the latter might take on any sinister51 meaning. The latter gone, the first might prove a safeguard, corroborating52 my statement that an errand had taken me into town.
I was oppressed by the uncertainty53 of my position. Even if I carried off this detail successfully, others of equal importance might be awaiting explanation. My poor, maddened, guilt27-haunted girl had made the irreparable mistake of letting this note of mine fly unconsumed up the chimney, and she might have made others equally incriminating. It would be hard to find an alibi54 for her if suspicion once turned her way. She had not met me at the train. The unknown but doubtless easily-to-be-found man who had handed me her note could swear to that fact.
Then the note itself! I had destroyed it, it is true, but its phrases were so present to my mind — had been so branded into it by the terrors of the tragedy which they appeared to foreshadow, that I had a dreadful feeling that this man’s eye could read them there. I remember that under the compelling power of this fancy, my hand rose to my brow outspread and concealing55, as if to interpose a barrier between him and them. Is my folly56 past belief? Possibly. But then I have not told you the words of this fatal communication. They were these — innocent, if she were innocent, but how suggestive in the light of her probable guilt:
“I cannot. Wait till to-morrow. Then you will see the depth of my love for you — what I owe you — what I owe Adelaide.”
I should see!
I was seeing.
Suddenly I dropped my hand; a new thought had come to me. Had Carmel been discovered on the road leading from this place?
You perceive that by this time I had become the prey57 of every threatening possibility; even of that which made the present a nightmare from which I should yet wake to old conditions and old struggles, bad enough, God knows, but not like this — not like this.
Meantime I was conscious that not a look or movement of mine had escaped the considerate but watchful eye of the man before me.
“You do not relish58 my questions,” he dryly observed. “Perhaps you would rather tell your story without interruption. If so, I beg you to be as explicit59 as possible. The circumstances are serious enough for perfect candour on your part.”
He was wrong. They were too serious for that. Perfect candour would involve Carmel. Seeming candour was all I could indulge in. I took a quick resolve. I would appear to throw discretion60 to the winds; to confide61 to him what men usually hold sacred; to risk my reputation as a gentleman, rather than incur62 a suspicion which might involve others more than it did myself. Perhaps I should yet win through and save her from an ignominy she possibly deserved but which she must never receive at my hands.
“I will give you an account of my evening,” said I. “It will not aid you much, but will prove my good faith. You asked me a short time ago if I loved the lady whom I was engaged to marry and whose dead body I most unexpectedly came upon in this house some time before midnight. I answered yes, and you showed that you doubted me. You were justified63 in your doubts. I did love her once, or thought so, but my feelings changed. A great temptation came into my life. Carmel returned from school and — you know her beauty, her fascination64. A week in her presence, and marriage with Adelaide became impossible. But how evade65 it? I only knew the coward’s way; to lure66 this inexperienced young girl, fresh from school, into a runaway67 match. A change which now became perceptible in Miss Cumberland’s manner, only egged me on. It was not sufficiently68 marked in character to call for open explanation, yet it was unmistakable to one on the watch as I was, and betokened69 a day of speedy reckoning for which I was little prepared. I know what the manly70 course would have been, but I preferred to skulk71. I acknowledge it now; it is the only retribution I have to offer for a past I am ashamed of. Without losing one particle of my intention, I governed more carefully my looks and actions, and thought I had succeeded in blinding Adelaide to my real feelings and purpose. Whether I did or not, I cannot say. I have no means of knowing now. She has not been her natural self for these last few days, but she had other causes for worry, and I have been willing enough to think that these were the occasion of her restless ways and short, sharp speech and the blankness with which she met all my attempts to soothe72 and encourage her. This evening”— I choked at the word. The day had been one string of extraordinary experiences, accumulating in intensity73 to the one ghastly discovery which had overtopped and overwhelmed all the rest. “This evening,” I falteringly74 continued, “I had set as the limit to my endurance of the intolerable situation. During a minute of solitude75 preceding the dinner at Miss Cumberland’s house on the Hill, I wrote a few lines to her sister, urging her to trust me with her fate and meet me at the station in time for the ten-thirty train. I meant to carry her at once to P——, where I had a friend in the ministry76 who would at once unite us in marriage. I was very peremptory77, for my nerves were giving way under the secret strain to which they had been subjected for so long, and she herself was looking worn with her own silent and uncommunicated conflict.
“To write this note was easy, but to deliver it involved difficulties. Miss Cumberland’s eyes seemed to be more upon me than usual. Mine were obliged to respond and Carmel seeing this, kept hers on her plate or on the one other person seated at the table, her brother Arthur. But the opportunity came as we all rose and passed together into the drawing-room. Carmel fell into place at my side and I slipped the note into her hand. She had not expected it and I fear that the action was observed, for when I took my leave of Miss Cumberland shortly after, I was struck by her expression. I had never seen such a look on her face before, nor can I conceive of one presenting a more extraordinary contrast to the few and commonplace words with which she bade me good evening. I could not forget that look. I continued to see those pinched features and burning eyes all the way home where I went to get my grip-sack, and I saw them all the way to the station, though my thoughts were with her sister and the joys I had planned for myself. Man’s egotism, Dr. Perry. I neither knew Adelaide nor did I know the girl whose love I had so over-estimated. She failed me, Dr. Perry. I was met at the station not by herself, but by a letter — a few hurried lines given me by an unknown man — in which she stated that I had asked too much of her, that she could not so wrong her sister who had brought her up and done everything for her since her mother died. I have not that letter now, or I would show it to you. In my raging disappointment I tore it up on the place where I received it, and threw the pieces away. I had staked my whole future on one desperate throw and I had lost. If I had had a pistol —” I stopped, warned by an uneasy movement on the part of the man I addressed, that I had better not dilate78 too much upon my feelings. Indeed, I had forgotten to whom I was talking. I realised nothing, thought of nothing but the misery79 I was describing. His action recalled me to the infinitely80 deeper misery of my present situation, and conscious of the conclusions which might be drawn from such impulsive81 utterances82, I pulled myself together and proceeded to finish my story with greater directness.
“I did not leave the station till the ten-thirty train had gone. I had hopes, still, of seeing her, or possibly I dreaded83 the long ride back to my apartments. It was from sheer preoccupation of mind that I drove this way instead of straight out by Marshall Avenue. I had no intention of stopping here; the club-house was formally closed yesterday, as you may know, and I did not even have the keys with me. But, as I reached the bend in the road where you get your first sight of the buildings, I saw a thin streak84 of smoke rising from one of its chimneys, and anxious as to its meaning, I drove in —”
“Wait, Mr. Ranelagh, I am sorry to interrupt you, but by which gate did you enter?”
“By the lower one.”
“Was it snowing at this time?”
“Not yet. It was just before the clouds rushed upon the moon. I could see everything quite plainly.”
My companion nodded and I went breathlessly on. Any question of his staggered me. I was so ignorant of the facts at his command, of the facts at any one’s command outside my own experience and observation, that the simplest admission I made might lead directly to some clew of whose very existence I was unaware85. I was not even able to conjecture by what chance or at whose suggestion the police had raided the place and discovered the tragedy which had given point to that raid. No one had told me, and I had met with no encouragement to ask. I felt myself sliding amid pitfalls86. My own act might precipitate87 the very doom88 I sought to avert89. Yet I must preserve my self-possession and answer all questions as truthfully as possible lest I stumble into a web from which no skill of my own or of another could extricate90 me.
“Fastening my horse to one of the pine trees in the thickest clump91 I saw — he is there now, I suppose — I crept up to the house, and tried the door. It was on the latch92 and I stole in. There was no light on the lower floor, and after listening for any signs of life, I began to feel my way about the house, searching for the intruder. As I did not wish to attract attention to myself, I took off my shoes. I went through the lower rooms, and then I came upstairs. It was some time before I reached the — the room where a fire had been lit; but when I did I knew — not,” I hastily corrected, as I caught his quick concentrated glance, “what had happened or whom I should find there, but that this was the spot where the intruder had been, possibly was now, and I determined93 to grapple with him. What — what have I said?” I asked in anguish94, as I caught a look on the coroner’s face of irrepressible repulsion and disgust, slight and soon gone but unmistakable so long as it lasted.
“Nothing,” he replied, “go on.”
But his tone, considerate as it had been from the first, did not deceive me. I knew that I had been detected in some slip or prevarication95. As I had omitted all mention of the most serious part of my adventure — had said nothing of my vision of Carmel or the terrible conclusions which her presence there had awakened96 — my conscience was in a state of perturbation which added greatly to my confusion. For a moment I did not know where I stood, and I am afraid I betrayed a sense of my position. He had to recall me to myself by an unimportant question or two before I could go on. When I did proceed, it was with less connection of ideas and a haste in speaking which was not due altogether to the harrowing nature of the tale itself.
“I had matches in my pocket and I struck one,” I began. “Afterwards I lit the candle. The emptiness of the room did not alarm me. I experienced the sense of tragedy. Seeing the pillows heaped high and too regularly for chance along a lounge ordinarily holding only two, I tore them off. I saw a foot, a hand, a tress of bright hair. Even then I did not think of her. Why should I? Not till I uncovered the face did I know the terrors of my discovery, and then, the confusion of it all unmanned me and I fell on my knees —”
“Go on! Go on!”
The impetuosity, the suspense97 in the words astounded98 me. I stared at the coroner and lost the thread of my story — What had I to say more? How account for what must be ever unaccountable to him, to the world, to my own self, if in obedience99 to the demands of the situation I subdued100 my own memory and blotted101 out all I had seen but that which it was safe to confess to?
“There is no more to say,” I murmured. “The horror of that moment made a chaos102 in my mind. I looked at the dead body of her who lay there as I have looked at everything since; as I looked at the police when they came — as I look at you now. But I know nothing. It is all a phantasmagoria to me — with no more meaning than a nightmare. She is dead — I know that — but beyond that, all is doubt — confusion — what the world and all its passing show is to a blind man. I can neither understand nor explain.”
收听单词发音 |
1
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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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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3
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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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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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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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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apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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dispelling
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的现在分词 ) | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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underlay
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的过去式 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起n.衬垫物 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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imminence
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| n.急迫，危急 | |
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equivocation
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| n.模棱两可的话，含糊话 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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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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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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juggle
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| v.变戏法，纂改，欺骗，同时做；n.玩杂耍，纂改，花招 | |
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lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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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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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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47
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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50
endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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52
corroborating
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的现在分词 ) | |
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53
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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54
alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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55
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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56
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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57
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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58
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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59
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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61
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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62
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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64
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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68
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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skulk
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| v.藏匿；潜行 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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falteringly
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| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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75
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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78
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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81
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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83
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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84
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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85
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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86
pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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87
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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88
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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90
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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91
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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92
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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93
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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94
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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95
prevarication
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| n.支吾；搪塞；说谎；有枝有叶 | |
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96
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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97
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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98
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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99
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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100
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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101
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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102
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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