Until he was nearly arrived at manhood, it did not become clear to Kipps how it was that he had come into the care of an aunt and uncle instead of having a father and mother like other little boys. He had vague memories of a somewhere else, a dim room, a window looking down on white buildings, and of a some one else who talked to forgotten people and who was his mother. He could not recall her features very distinctly, but he remembered with extreme definition a white dress she wore, with a pattern of little sprigs of flowers and little bows upon it, and a girdle of straight-ribbed white ribbon about the waist. Linked with this, he knew not how, were clouded half-obliterated recollections of scenes in which there was weeping, weeping in which he was inscrutably moved to join. Some terrible tall man with a loud voice played a part in these scenes, and, either before or after them, there were impressions of looking for interminable periods out of the window of railway trains in the company of these two people.
He knew, though he could not remember that he had ever been told, that a certain faded wistful face that looked at him from a plush and gilt2 framed daguerreotype3 above the mantel of the ‘sitting-room’ was the face of his mother. But that knowledge did not touch his dim memories with any elucidation4. In that photograph she was a girlish figure, leaning against a photographer’s stile, and with all the self-conscious shrinking natural to that position. She had curly hair and a face far younger and prettier than any other mother in his experience. She swung a Dolly Varden hat by the string, and looked with obedient, respectful eyes on the photographer-gentleman who had commanded the pose. She was very slight and pretty. But the phantom6 mother that haunted his memory so elusively7 was not like that, though he could not remember how she differed.
Perhaps she was older or a little less shrinking, or, it may be, only dressed in a different way . . . It is clear she handed him over to his aunt and uncle at New Romney with explicit8 directions and a certain endowment. One gathers she had something of that fine sense of social distinctions that subsequently played so large a part in Kipps’ career. He was not to go to a ‘Common’ school, she provided, but to a certain seminary in Hastings, that was not only a ‘middle-class academy’ with mortar-boards and every evidence of a higher social tone, but also remarkably9 cheap. She seems to have been animated10 by the desire to do her best for Kipps even at a certain sacrifice of herself, as though Kipps were in some way a superior sort of person. She sent pocket-money to him from time to time for a year or more after Hastings had begun for him, but her face he never saw in the days of his lucid5 memory.
His aunt and uncle were already high on the hill of life when first he came to them. They had married for comfort in the evening or, at any rate, in the late afternoon of their days. They were at first no more then vague figures in the background of proximate realities, such realities as familiar chairs and tables, quiet to ride and drive, the newel of the staircase, kitchen furniture, pieces of firewood, the boiler11 tap, old newspapers, the cat, the High Street, the back-yard and the flat fields that are always so near in that little town. He knew all the stones in the yard individually, the creeper in the corner, the dust-bin12 and the mossy wall, better than many men know the faces of their wives. There was a corner under the ironing-board which, by means of a shawl, could be made, under propitious13 gods, a very decent cubby-house, a corner that served him for several years as the indisputable hub of the world, and the stringy places in the carpet, the knots upon the dresser, and the several corners of the rag hearthrug his uncle had made, became essential parts of his mental foundations. The shop he did not know so thoroughly14; it was a forbidden region to him, yet somehow he managed to know it very well.
His aunt and uncle were, as it were, the immediate15 gods of this world, and, like the gods of the world of old, occasionally descended16 right into it, with arbitrary injunctions and disproportionate punishments. And, unhappily, one rose to their Olympian level at meals. Then one had to say one’s ‘grace,’ hold one’s spoon and fork in mad, unnatural17 ways called ‘properly,’ and refrain from eating even nice, sweet things ‘too fast.’ If he ‘gobbled’ there was trouble, and at the slightest abandon with knife, fork, and spoon his aunt rapped his knuckles18, albeit19 his uncle always finished up his gravy20 with his knife. Sometimes, moreover, his uncle would come pipe in hand out of a sedentary remoteness in the most disconcerting way when a little boy was doing the most natural and attractive things, with ‘Drat and drabbit that young rascal21! What’s he a-doing of now?’ and his aunt would appear at door or window to interrupt interesting conversation with children who were upon unknown grounds considered ‘low’ and undesirable22, and call him in. The pleasantest little noises, however softly you did them, drumming on tea-trays, trumpeting23 your fists, whistling on keys, ringing chimes with a couple of pails, or playing tunes25 on the window-panes, brought down the gods in anger. Yet what noise is fainter than your finger on the window — gently done? Sometimes, however, these gods gave him broken toys out of the shop, and then one loved them better — for the shop they kept was, among other things, a toy-shop. (The other things included books to read and books to give away, and local photographs; it had some pretentions to be a china-shop and the fascia spoke26 of glass; it was also a stationer’s shop with a touch of haberdashery about it, and in the windows and odd corners were mats and terra-cotta dishes and milking-stools for painting, and there was a hint of picture-frames, and firescreens, and fishing-tackle, and air-guns and bathing-suits, and tents — various things, indeed, but all cruelly attractive to a small boy’s fingers.) Once his aunt gave him a trumpet24 if he would promise faithfully not to blow it, and afterwards took it away again. And his aunt made him say his catechism, and something she certainly called the ‘Colic for the Day,’ every Sunday in the year.
As the two grew old as he grew up, and as his impression of them modified insensibly from year to year, it seemed to him at last that they had always been as they were when in his adolescent days his impression of things grew fixed27; his aunt he thought of as always lean, rather worried looking, and prone28 to a certain obliquity29 of cap, and his uncle massive, many chinned, and careless about his buttons. They neither visited nor received visitors. They were always very suspicious about their neighbours and other people generally; they feared the ‘low’ and they hated and despised the ‘stuck up’ and so they ‘kept themselves to themselves,’ according to the English ideal. Consequently Little Kipps had no playmates, except through the sin of disobedience. By inherent nature he had a sociable30 disposition31. When he was in the High Street he made a point of saying ‘Hallo!’ to passing cyclists, and he would put his tongue out at the Quodling children whenever their nursemaid was not looking. And he began a friendship with Sid Pornick, the son of the haberdasher next door, that, with wide intermissions, was destined32 to last his lifetime through.
Pornick, the haberdasher, I may say at once, was, according to old Kipps, a ‘blaring jackass’; he was a teetotaller, a ‘nyar, nyar, ‘imsinging Methodis’,’ and altogether distasteful and detrimental33, he and his together, to true Kipps ideals so far as little Kipps could gather them. This Pornick certainly possessed34 an enormous voice, and he annoyed old Kipps greatly by calling ‘You — Arn’ and ‘Siddee’ up and down his house. He annoyed old Kipps by private choral services on Sunday, all his family, ‘nyar, nyar’ing; and by mushroom culture, by behaving as though the pilaster between the two shops was common property, by making a noise of hammering in the afternoon when old Kipps wished to be quiet after his midday meal, by going up and down uncarpeted stairs in his boots, by having a black beard, by attempting to be friendly, and by — all that sort of thing. In fact, he annoyed old Kipps. He annoyed him especially with his shop-door mat. Old Kipps never beat his mat, preferring to let sleeping dust lie, and seeking a motive36 for a foolish proceeding37, he held that Pornick waited until there was a suitable wind in order that the dust disengaged in that operation might defile38 his neighbour’s shop. These issues would frequently develop into loud and vehement39 quarrels, and on one occasion came so near to violence as to be subsequently described by Pornick (who read his newspaper) as a ‘Disgraceful Frackass.’ On that occasion he certainly went into his own shop with extreme celerity.
But it was through one of these quarrels that the friendship of little Kipps and Sid Pornick came about. The two small boys found themselves one day looking through the gate at the doctor’s goats together; they exchanged a few contradictions about which goat could fight which, and then young Kipps was moved to remark that Sid’s father was a ‘blaring jackess.’ Sid said he wasn’t, and Kipps repeated that he was, and quoted his authority. Then Sid, flying off at a tangent rather alarmingly, said he could fight young Kipps with one hand, an assertion young Kipps with a secret want of confidence denied. There were some vain repetitions, and the incident might have ended there, but happily a sporting butcher boy chanced on the controversy40 at this stage, and insisted upon seeing fair play.
The two small boys, under his pressing encouragement, did at last button up their jackets, square, and fight an edifying41 drawn42 battle until it seemed good to the butcher boy to go on with Mrs. Holyer’s mutton. Then, according to his directions and under his experienced stage management, they shook hands and made it up. Subsequently a little tear-stained, perhaps, but flushed with the butcher boy’s approval (‘tough little kids’), and with cold stones down their necks as he advised, they sat side by side on the doctor’s gate, projecting very much behind, staunching an honourable43 bloodshed, and expressing respect for one another. Each had a bloody44 nose and a black eye — three days later they matched to a shade — neither had given in, and, though this was tacit, neither wanted any more.
It was an excellent beginning. After this first encounter the attributes of their parents and their own relative value in battle never rose between them, and if anything was wanted to complete the warmth of their regard it was found in a joint45 dislike of the eldest46 Quodling. The eldest Quodling lisped, had a silly sort of straw hat and a large pink face (all covered over with self-satisfaction), and he went to the National school with a green-baize bag — a contemptible47 thing to do. They called him names and threw stones at him, and when he replied by threatenings (‘Look ’ere, young Art Kipth, you better thtoppit!’) they were moved to attack, and put him to fight.
And after that they broke the head of Ann Pornick’s doll, so that she went home weeping loudly — a wicked and endearing proceeding. Sid was whacked48, but, as he explained, he wore a newspaper tactically adjusted during the transaction, and really it didn’t hurt him at all . . . And Mrs. Pornick put her head out of the shop door suddenly and threatened Kipps as he passed.
2
‘Cavendish Academy,’ the school that had won the limited choice of Kipps’ vanished mother, was established in a battered49 private house in the part of Hastings remotest from the sea; it was called an Academy for Young Gentlemen, and many of the young gentlemen had parents in ‘India’ and other unverifiable places. Others were the sons of credulous50 widows, anxious, as Kipps’ mother had been, to get something a little ‘superior’ to a board school education as cheaply as possible, and others, again, were sent to demonstrate the dignity of their parents and guardians51. And of course there were boys from France.
Its ‘principal’ was a lean, long creature of indifferent digestion52 and temper, who proclaimed himself on a gilt-lettered board in his front area, George Garden Woodrow, F.S.Sc., letters indicating that he had paid certain guineas for a bogus diploma. A bleak53, white-washed outhouse constituted his schoolroom, and the scholastic54 quality of its carved and worn desks and forms was enhanced by a slippery blackboard and two large, yellow, out-of-date maps — one of Africa and the other of Wiltshire — that he had picked up cheap at a sale. There were other maps and globes in his study, where he interviewed inquiring parents, but these his pupils never saw. And in a glass cupboard in the passage were several shillings-worth of test-tubes and chemicals, a tripod, a glass retort, and a damaged Bunsen burner, manifesting that the ‘Scientific laboratory’ mentioned in the prospectus55 was no idle boast.
This prospectus, which was in dignified56 but incorrect English, laid particular stress on the sound preparation for a commercial career given in the Academy, but the army, navy, and civil service were glanced at in an ambiguous sentence. There was something vague in the prospectus about ‘examinational successes’— though Woodrow, of course, disapproved57 of ‘cram’— and a declaration that the curriculum included ‘art,’ ‘modern foreign languages,’ and ‘a sound technical and scientific training.’ Then came insistence58 upon the ‘moral well-being’ of the pupils, and an emphatic59 boast of the excellence60 of the religious instruction, ‘so often neglected nowadays even in schools of wide repute.’
‘That’s bound to fetch ’em,’ Mr. Woodrow had remarked when he drew up the prospectus. And in conjunction with the mortar-boards it certainly did. Attention was directed to the ‘motherly’ care of Mrs. Woodrow, in reality a small, partially61 effaced62 woman with a plaintive63 face and a mind above cookery, and the prospectus concluded with a phrase intentionally64 vague, ‘Fare unrestricted, and our own milk and produce.’
The memories Kipps carried from that school into afterlife were set in an atmosphere of stuffiness65 and mental muddle66, and included countless67 pictures of sitting on creaking forms, bored and idle; of blot68 licking and the taste of ink; of torn books with covers that set one’s teeth on edge; of the slimy surface of the laboured slates69; of furtive70 marble-playing, whispered story-telling, and of pinches, blows, and a thousand such petty annoyances71 being perpetually ‘passed on’ according to the custom of the place; of standing72 up in class and being hit suddenly and unreasonably73 for imaginary misbehaviour; of Mr. Woodrow’s raving74 days, when a scarcely sane75 injustice76 prevailed; of the cold vacuity77 of the hour of preparation before the bread-and-butter breakfast; and of horrible headaches and queer, unprecedented78 internal feelings, resulting from Mrs. Woodrow’s motherly rather than intelligent cookery. There were dreary79 walks when the boys marched two by two, all dressed in the mortar-board caps that so impressed the widowed mothers; there were dismal80 half-holidays when the weather was wet, and the spirit of evil temper and evil imagination had the pent boys to work its will on; there were unfair, dishonourable fights, and miserable82 defeats and victories; there was bullying83 and being bullied84. A coward boy Kipps particularly afflicted85, until at last he was goaded86 to revolt by incessant87 persecution88, and smote89 Kipps to tolerance90 with whirling fists. There were memories of sleeping three in a bed; of the dense91, leathery smell of the school-room when one returned thither92 after ten minutes’ play; of a playground of mud and incidental sharp flints. And there was much furtive foul93 language.
‘Our Sundays are our happiest days,’ was one of Woodrow’s formulae with the inquiring parent, but Kipps was not called in evidence. They were to him terrible gaps of inanity94, no work, no play, a dreary expanse of time with the mystery of church twice and plum-duff once in the middle. The afternoon was given up to furtive relaxations95, among which ‘Torture Chamber96’ games with the less agreeable weaker boys figured. It was from the difference between this day and common days that Kipps derived97 his first definite conceptions of the nature of God and Heaven. His instinct was to evade98 any closer acquaintance as long as he could.
The solid work varied99, according to the prevailing100 mood of Mr. Woodrow. Sometimes that was a despondent101 lethargy, copy-books were distributed or sums were ‘set,’ or the great mystery of book-keeping was declared in being, and beneath these superficial activities lengthy102 conversations and interminable guessing games with marbles went on, while Mr. Woodrow sat inanimate at his desk, heedless of school affairs, staring in front of him at unseen things. At times his face was utterly103 inane104; at times it had an expression of stagnant105 amazement106, as if he saw before his eyes with pitiless clearness the dishonour81 and mischief107 of his being . . .
At other times the F.S.Sc., roused himself to action, and would stand up a wavering class and teach it, goading108 it with bitter mockery and blows through a chapter of Ahn’s ‘First French Course’; or, ‘France and the French,’ or a dialogue about a traveller’s washing or the parts of an opera house. His own knowledge of French had been obtained years ago in another English private school, and he had refreshed it by occasional weeks of loafing and mean adventure in Dieppe. He would sometimes in their lessons hit upon some reminiscence of these brighter days, and then he would laugh inexplicably110 and repeat French phrases of an unfamiliar111 type.
Among the commoner exercises he prescribed the learning of long passages of poetry from a ‘Potry Book,’ which he would delegate an elder boy to ‘hear’ and there was reading aloud from the Holy Bible, verse by verse — it was none of your ‘godless’ schools!— so that you counted the verses up to your turn and then gave yourself to conversation; and sometimes one read from a cheap History of this land. They did, as Kipps reported, ‘loads of catechism.’ Also there was much learning of geographical112 names and lists, and sometimes Woodrow, in an outbreak of energy, would see these names were actually found in a map. And once, just once, there was a chemistry lesson — a lesson of indescribable excitement — glass things of the strangest shape, a smell like bad eggs, something bubbling in something, a smash and stench, and Mr. Woodrow saying quite distinctly — they threshed it out in the dormitory afterwards —‘Damn!’ Followed by the whole school being kept in, with extraordinary severities, for an hour . . .
But interspersed113 with the memories of this gray routine were certain patches of brilliant colour, the Holidays, his holidays, which, in spite of the feud114 between their seniors, he spent as much as possible with Sid Pornick, the son of the irascible black-bearded haberdasher next door. They seemed to be memories of a different world. There were glorious days of ‘mucking about’ along the beach, the siege of unresisting Martello towers, the incessant interest of the mystery and motion of windmills, the windy excursions with boarded feet over the yielding shingle115 to Dungeness lighthouse — Sid Pornick and he far adrift from reality, smugglers and armed men from the moment they left Great Stone behind them — wanderings in the hedgeless, reedy marsh116, long excursions reaching even to Hythe, where the machine-guns of the Empire are for ever whirling and tapping, and to Rye and Winchelsea perched like dream-cities on their little hills. The sky in these memories was the blazing hemisphere of the marsh heaven in summer, or its wintry tumult117 of sky and sea; and there were wrecks118, real wrecks, in it (near Dymchurch pitched high and blackened and rotting were the ribs120 of a fishing smack121, flung aside like an empty basket when the sea had devoured122 its crew), and there was bathing all naked in the sea, bathing to one’s armpits, and even trying to swim in the warm sea-water (spite of his aunt’s prohibition) and (with her indulgence) the rare eating of dinner from a paper parcel miles away from home. Cake and cold ground-rice puddin’ with plums it used to be — there is no better food at all. And for the background, in the place of Woodrow’s mean and fretting123 rule, were his aunt’s spare but frequently quite amiable124 figure — for though she insisted on his repeating the English Church catechism every Sunday, she had an easy way over dinners that one wanted to take abroad — and his uncle, corpulent and irascible, but sedentary and easily escaped. And freedom!
The holidays were, indeed, very different from school. They were free, they were spacious125, and though he never knew it in these words — they had an element of beauty. In his memory of his boyhood they shone like strips of stained-glass window in a dreary waste of scholastic wall, they grew brighter and brighter as they grew remoter. There came a time at last and moods when he could look back to them with a feeling akin35 to tears.
The last of these windows was the brightest, and instead of the kaleidoscopic126 effect of its predecessors127 its glory was a single figure. For in the last of his holidays before the Moloch of Retail128 Trade got hold of him, Kipps made his first tentative essays at the mysterious shrine129 of Love. Very tentative they were, for he had become a boy of subdued130 passions, and potential rather than actual affectionateness.
And the object of these first stirrings of the great desire was no other than Ann Pornick, the head of whose doll he and Sid had broken long ago, and rejoiced over long ago, in the days when he had yet to learn the meaning of a heart.
3
Negotiations131 were already on foot to make Kipps into a draper before he discovered the lights that lurked132 in Ann Pornick’s eyes. School was over, absolutely over, and it was chiefly present to him that he was never to go to school again. It was high summer. The ‘breaking up’ of school had been hilarious133; and the excellent maxim134, ‘Last Day’s Pay Day,’ had been observed by him with a scrupulous135 attention to his honour. He had punched the heads of all his enemies, wrung136 wrists and kicked shins; he had distributed all his unfinished copy-books, all his school books, his collection of marbles, and his mortar-board cap among such as loved him; and he had secretly written in obscure pages of their books ‘remember Art Kipps.’ He had also split the anaemic Woodrow’s cane137, carved his own name deeply in several places about the premises138, and broken the scullery window. He had told everybody so often that he was to learn to be a sea captain, that he had come almost to believe the thing himself. And now he was home, and school was at an end for him for evermore.
He was up before six on the day of his return, and out in the hot sunlight of the yard. He set himself to whistle a peculiarly penetrating139 arrangement of three notes, supposed by the boys of the Hastings Academy and himself and Sid Pornick, for no earthly reason whatever, to be the original Huron war-cry. As he did this he feigned140 not to be doing it, because of the hatred141 between his uncle and the Pornicks, but to be examining with respect and admiration142 a new wing of the dustbin recently erected143 by his uncle — a pretence144 that would not have deceived a nestling tom-tit.
Presently there came a familiar echo from the Pornick hunting-ground. Then Kipps began to sing, ‘Ar pars145 eight tra-la, in the lane be’ind the church.’ To which an unseen person answered, ‘Ar pars eight it is, in the lane be’ind the church.’ The ‘tra-la’ was considered to render the sentence incomprehensible to the uninitiated. In order to conceal146 their operations still more securely, both parties to this duet then gave vent109 to a vocalisation of the Huron war-cry again, and after a lingering repetition of the last and shrillest note, dispersed147 severally, as became boys in the enjoyment148 of holidays, to light the house fires for the day.
Half-past eight found Kipps sitting on the sunlit gate at the top of the long lane that runs towards the sea, clashing his boots in a slow rhythm, and whistling with great violence all that he knew of an excruciatingly pathetic air. There appeared along by the churchyard wall a girl in a short frock, brown-haired, quick-coloured, and with dark blue eyes. She had grown so that she was a little taller than Kipps, and her colour had improved. He scarcely remembered her, so changed was she since last holidays — if, indeed, he had seen her during his last holidays, a thing he could not clearly recollect1.
Some vague emotion arose at the sight of her. He stopped whistling and regarded her, oddly tongue-tied. ‘He can’t come,’ said Ann, advancing boldly. ‘Not yet.’
‘What — not Sid?’
‘No. Father’s made him dust all his boxes again.’
‘What for?’
‘I dunno. Father’s in a stew’s morning.’
‘Oh!’
Pause. Kipps looked at her, and then was unable to look at her again. She regarded him with interest. ‘You left school?’ she remarked, after a pause.
‘Yes.’
‘So’s Sid.’
The conversation languished149. Ann put her hands on the top of the gate, and began a stationary150 hopping151, a sort of ineffectual gymnastic experiment.
‘Can you run?’ she said presently. ‘Run you any day,’ said Kipps. ‘Gimme a start?’
‘Where for?’ said Kipps.
Ann considered, and indicated a tree. She walked towards it and turned. ‘Gimme to here?’ she called. Kipps, standing now and touching152 the gate, smiled to express conscious superiority. ‘Farther!’ he said.
‘Here?’
‘Bit more!’ said Kipps; and then, repenting153 of his magnanimity, said ‘Orf!’ suddenly, and so recovered his lost concession154.
They arrived abreast155 at the tree, flushed and out of breath. ‘Tie!’ said Ann, throwing her hair back from her face with her hand. ‘I won,’ panted Kipps. They disputed firmly, but quite politely. ‘Run it again then,’ said Kipps.’ I don’t mind.’
They returned towards the gate.
‘You don’t run bad,’ said Kipps, temperately156, expressing sincere admiration. ‘I’m pretty good, you know.’ Ann sent her hair back by an expert toss of the head. ‘You give me a start,’ she allowed.
They became aware of Sid approaching them. ‘You better look out, young Ann’, said Sid, with that irreverent want of sympathy usual in brothers. ‘You have been out nearly ‘arf-‘our. Nothing ain’t been done upstairs. Father said he didn’t know where you was, but when he did he’d warm y’r young ear.’
Ann prepared to go.
‘How about that race?’ asked Kipps.
‘Lor!’ cried Sid, quite shocked. ‘You ain’t been racing157 her!’
Ann swung herself round the end to the gate with her eyes on Kipps, and then turned away suddenly and ran off down the lane. Kipps’ eyes tried to go after her, and came back to Sid’s.
‘I give her a lot of start,’ said Kipps apologetically. ‘It wasn’t a proper race.’ And so the subject was dismissed. But Kipps was distrait158 for some seconds perhaps, and the mischief had begun in him.
4
They proceeded to the question of how two accomplished159 Hurons might most satisfactorily spend the morning. Manifestly their line lay straight along the lane to the sea. ‘There’s a new wreck119,’ said Sid, ‘and my!— don’t it stink160 just!’
‘Stink?’
‘Fair make you sick. It’s rotten wheat.’
They fell to talking of wrecks, and so came to ironclads and wars and such-like manly161 matters. Half-way to the wreck Kipps made a casual, irrelevant162 remark.
‘Your sister ain’t a bad sort,’ he said off-handedly.
‘I clout163 her a lot,’ said Sidney modestly; and, after a pause, the talk reverted164 to more suitable topics.
The new wreck was full of rotting grain, and stank165 abominably166, even as Sid had said. This was excellent. They had it all to themselves. They took possession of it in force, at Sid’s suggestion, and had speedily to defend it against enormous numbers of imaginary ‘natives,’ who were at last driven off by loud shouts of bang bang, and vigorous thrusting and shoving of sticks. Then, also at Sid’s direction, they sailed with it into the midst of a combined French, German, and Russian fleet, demolishing167 the combination unassisted, and having descended to the beach, clambered up the side and cut out their own vessel168 in brilliant style; they underwent a magnificent shipwreck169 (with vocalised thunder) and floated ‘waterlogged’— so Sid insisted — upon an exhausted170 sea.
These things drove Ann out of mind for a time. But at last, as they drifted without food or water upon a stagnant ocean, haggard-eyed, chins between their hands, looking in vain for a sail, she came to mind again abruptly171.
‘It’s rather nice ‘aving sisters,’ remarked one perishing mariner172.
Sid turned round and regarded him thoughtfully.
‘Not it!’ he said.
‘No?’
‘Not a bit of it.’
He grinned confidentially173. ‘Know too much,’ he said, and afterwards, ‘get out of things.’
He resumed his gloomy scrutiny174 of the hopeless horizon. Presently he fell spitting jerkily between his teeth, as he had read was the way with such ripe manhood as chews its quid.
‘Sisters,’ he said, ‘is rot. That’s what sisters are. Girls, if you like, but sisters — No!’
‘But ain’t sisters girls?’
‘N-eaow!’ said Sid, with unspeakable scorn; and Kipps answered, ‘Of course, I didn’t mean — I wasn’t thinking of that.’
‘You got a girl?’ asked Sid, spitting very cleverly again.
Kipps admitted his deficiency. He felt compunction.
‘You don’t know who my girl is, Art Kipps, I bet.’
‘Who is, then?’ asked Kipps, still chiefly occupied by his own poverty. ‘Ah!’
Kipps let a moment elapse before he did his duty. ‘Tell us!’ Sid eyed him and hesitated.
‘Secret?’ he said.
‘Secret.’
‘Dying solemn?’
‘Dying solemn!’ Kipps’ self-concentration passed into curiosity.
Sid administered a terrible oath.
Sid adhered lovingly to his facts. ‘It begins with a Nem,’ he said, doling176 it out parsimoniously177. ‘M-A-U-D,’ he spelt, with a stern eye on Kipps. ‘C-H-A-R-T-E-R-I-S.’
Now, Maud Charteris was a young person of eighteen and the daughter of the vicar of St. Bavon’s — besides which, she had a bicycle — so that as her name unfolded, the face of Kipps lengthened178 with respect. ‘Get out,’ he gasped179 incredulously. ‘She ain’t your girl, Sid Pornick.’
‘She is!’ answered Sid stoutly180.
‘What — truth?’
‘Truth.’
Kipps scrutinised his face. ‘Reely?’
Sid touched wood, whistled, and repeated a binding181 doggerel182 with great solemnity.
Kipps still struggled with the amazing new light on the world about him. ‘D’you mean — she knows?’
Sid flushed deeply, and his aspect became stern and gloomy. He resumed his wistful scrutiny of the sunlit sea. ‘I’d die for that girl, Art Kipps,’ he said presently; and Kipps did not press a question he felt to be ill-timed. I’d do anything she asked me to do,’ said Sid; ‘just anything. If she was to ask me to chuck myself into the sea.’ He met Kipps’ eye. ‘I would,’ he said.
They were pensive183 for a space, and then Sid began to discourse184 in fragments of Love, a theme upon which Kipps had already in a furtive way meditated185 a little, but which, apart from badinage186, he had never yet heard talked about in the light of day. Of course, many and various aspects of life had come to light in the muffled187 exchange of knowledge that went on under the shadow of Woodrow, but this of Sentimental188 Love was not among them. Sid, who was a boy with an imagination, having once broached189 this topic, opened his heart, or, at any rate, a new chamber of his heart, to Kipps, and found no fault with Kipps for a lack of return. He produced a thumbed novelette that had played a part in his sentimental awakening190; he proffered191 it to Kipps, and confessed there was a character in it, a baronet, singularly like himself. This baronet was a person of volcanic192 passions, which he concealed193 beneath a demeanour of ‘icy cynicism.’ The utmost expression he permitted himself was to grit194 his teeth, and, now his attention was called to it, Kipps remarked that Sid also had a habit of gritting195 his teeth, and, indeed, had had all the morning. They read for a time, and presently Sid talked again. The conception of love, Sid made evident, was compact of devotion and much spirited fighting and a touch of mystery, but through all that cloud of talk there floated before Kipps a face that was flushed and hair that was tossed aside.
So they budded, sitting on the blackening old wreck in which men had lived and died, looking out to sea, talking of that other sea upon which they must presently embark196.
They ceased to talk, and Sid read; but Kipps, falling behind with the reading, and not wishing to admit that he read slowlier than Sid, whose education was of the inferior Elementary School brand, lapsed197 into meditation198.
‘I would like to ‘ave a girl,’ said Kipps.
‘I mean just to talk to, and all that —’
A floating sack distracted them at last from this obscure topic. They abandoned the wreck, and followed the new interest a mile along the beach, bombarding it with stones until it came to land. They had inclined to a view that it would contain romantic mysteries, but it was simply an ill-preserved kitten — too much even for them. And at last they were drawn dinner-ward, and went home hungry and pensive side by side.
5
But Kipps’ imagination had been warmed by that talk of love, and in the afternoon when he saw Ann Pornick in the High Street and said ‘Hallo!’ it was a different ‘hallo’ from that of their previous intercourse199. And when they had passed they both looked back and caught each other doing so. Yes, he did want a girl badly —
Afterwards he was distracted by a traction200 engine going through the town, and his aunt had got some sprats for supper. When he was in bed, however, sentiment came upon him again in a torrent201 quite abruptly and abundantly, and he put his head under the pillow and whispered very softly, ‘I love Ann Pornick,’ as a sort of supplementary202 devotion.
In his subsequent dreams he ran races with Ann, and they lived in a wreck together, and always her face was flushed and her hair about her face. They just lived in a wreck and ran races, and were very, very fond of one another. And their favourite food was rock chocolate, dates, such as one buys off barrows, and sprats — fried sprats —
In the morning he could hear Ann singing in the scullery next door. He listened to her for some time, and it was clear to him that he must put things before her.
Towards dusk that evening they chanced on one another out by the gate by the church, but though there was much in his mind, it stopped there with a resolute203 shyness until he and Ann were out of breath catching204 cockchafers and were sitting on that gate of theirs again. Ann sat up upon the gate, dark against vast masses of flaming crimson205 and darkling purple, and her eyes looked at Kipps from a shadowed face. There came a stillness between them, and quite abruptly he was moved to tell his love.
‘Ann,’ he said, ‘I do like you. I wish you was my girl ‘ . . . ‘I say, Ann. Will you be my girl?’
Ann made no pretence of astonishment206. She weighed the proposal for a moment with her eyes on Kipps. ‘If you like, Artie,’ she said lightly. ‘I don’t mind if I am.’
‘All right,’ said Kipps, breathless with excitement, ‘then you are.’
‘All right,’ said Ann.
Something seemed to fall between them, they no longer looked openly at one another. ‘Lor!’ cried Ann, suddenly, ‘see that one!’ and jumped down and darted207 after a cockchafer that had boomed within a yard of her face. And with that they were girl and boy again . . .
They avoided their new relationship painfully.
They did not recur208 to it for several days, though they met twice. Both felt that there remained something before this great experience was to be regarded as complete; but there was an infinite diffidence about the next step. Kipps talked in fragments of all sorts of matters, telling particularly of the great things that were being done to make a man and a draper of him; how he had two new pairs of trousers and a black coat and four new shirts. And all the while his imagination was urging him to that unknown next step, and when he was alone and in the dark he became even an enterprising wooer. It became evident to him that it would be nice to take Ann by the hand; even the decorous novelettes Sid affected209 egged him on to that greater nearness of intimacy210.
Then a great idea came to him, in a paragraph called ‘Lover’s Tokens’ that he read in a torn fragment of Tit–Bits. It fell in to the measure of his courage — a divided sixpence! He secured his aunt’s best scissors, fished a sixpence out of his jejune211 tin money-box, and jabbed his finger in a varied series of attempts to get it in half. When they met again the sixpence was still undivided. He had not intended to mention the matter to her at that stage, but it came up spontaneously. He endeavoured to explain the theory of broken sixpences and his unexpected failure to break one.
‘But what you break it for?’ said Ann. ‘It’s no good if it’s broke.’
‘It’s a Token,’ said Kipps.
‘Like —?’
‘Oh, you keep half and I keep half, and when we’re sep’rated, you look at your half and I look at mine — see? Then we think of each other.’
‘Oh!’ said Ann, and appeared to assimilate this information.
‘Only, I can’t get it in ‘arf nohow,’ said Kipps.
They discussed this difficulty for some time without illumination. Then Ann had a happy thought.
‘Tell you what,’ she said, starting away from him abruptly and laying a hand on his arm, ‘you let me ‘ave it, Artie. I know where father keeps his file.’
Kipps handed her the sixpence, and they came upon a pause. ‘I’ll easy do it,’ said Ann.
In considering the sixpence side by side, his head had come near her cheek. Quite abruptly he was moved to take his next step into the unknown mysteries of love. ‘Ann,’ he said, and gulped212 at his temerity213, ‘I do love you. Straight. I’d do anything for you, Ann. Reely — I would.’
He paused for breath. She answered nothing, but she was no doubt enjoying herself. He came yet closer to her, his shoulder touched hers. ‘Ann, I wish you’d —’
He stopped.
‘What?’ said Ann.
‘Ann — lemme kiss you.’
Things seemed to hang for a space; his tone, the drop of his courage made the thing incredible as he spoke. Kipps was not of that bold order of wooers who impose conditions.
Ann perceived that she was not prepared for kissing after all. Kissing, she said, was silly, and when Kipps would have displayed a belated enterprise she flung away from him. He essayed argument. He stood afar off as it were — the better part of a yard — and said she might let him kiss her, and then that he didn’t see what good it was for her to be his girl if he couldn’t kiss her . . .
She repeated that kissing was silly. A certain estrangement214 took them homeward. They arrived in the dusky High Street not exactly together, and not exactly apart, but straggling. They had not kissed, but all the guilt215 of kissing was between them. When Kipps saw the portly contours of his uncle standing dimly in the shop doorway216 his footsteps faltered217, and the space between our young couple increased. Above, the window over Pornick’s shop was open, and Mrs. Pornick was visible, taking the air. Kipps assumed an expression of extreme innocence218. He found himself face to face with his uncle’s advanced outposts of waistcoat buttons.
‘Where ye bin, my boy?’
‘Bin for a walk, uncle.’
‘Not along of that brat219 of Pornick’s?’
‘Along of who?’
‘That gell’— indicating Ann with his pipe. ‘Oh, no, uncle!’— very faintly.
‘Run in, my boy.’ Old Kipps stood aside, with an oblique220 glance upward, and his nephew brushed clumsily by him and vanished out of sight of the street into the vague obscurity of the little shop. The door closed behind old Kipps with a nervous jangle of its bell, and he set himself to light the single oil-lamp that illuminated221 his shop at nights. It was an operation requiring care and watching, or else it flared222 and ‘smelt223.’ Often it smelt after all. Kipps, for some reason, found the dusky living-room with his aunt in it too populous224 for his feelings, and went upstairs.
‘That brat of Pornick’s!’ It seemed to him that a horrible catastrophe225 had occurred. He felt he had identified himself inextricably with his uncle and cut himself off from her for ever by saying ‘Oh, no!’ At supper he was so visibly depressed226 that his aunt asked him if he wasn’t feeling well. Under this imminent227 threat of medicine he assumed an unnatural cheerfulness . . .
He lay awake for nearly half an hour that night, groaning228 because things had all gone wrong, because Ann wouldn’t let him kiss her, and because his uncle had called her a brat. It seemed to Kipps almost as though he himself had called her a brat . . .
There came an interval229 during which Ann was altogether inaccessible230. One, two, three days passed and he did not see her. Sid he met several times; they went fishing and twice they bathed, but though Sid lent and received back two further love stories, they talked no more of love. They kept themselves in accord, however, agreeing that the most flagrantly sentimental story was ‘proper.’ Kipps was always wanting to speak of Ann, and never daring to do so. He saw her on Sunday evening going off to chapel231. She was more beautiful than ever in her Sunday clothes, but she pretended not to see him because her mother was with her. But he thought she pretended not to see him because she had given him up for ever. Brat!— who could be expected ever to forgive that? He abandoned himself to despair, he ceased even to haunt the places where she might be found . . .
With paralysing unexpectedness came the end.
Mr. Shalford, the draper at Folkestone to whom he was to be bound apprentice232, had expressed a wish to ‘shape the lad a bit’ before the autumn sale. Kipps became aware that his box was being packed, and gathered the full truth of things on the evening before his departure. He became feverishly233 eager to see Ann just once more. He made silly and needless excuses to go out into the yard, he walked three times across the street without any excuse at all to look up at the Pornick windows. Still she was hidden. He grew desperate. It was within half an hour of his departure that he came on Sid.
‘Hallo!’ he said, ‘I’m orf!’
‘Business?’
‘Yes.’
Pause.
‘I say, Sid. You going ‘ome?’
‘Straight now.’
‘D’you mind —. Ask Ann about that.’
‘About what?’
‘She’ll know.’
And Sid said he would. But even that, it seemed, failed to evoke234 Ann.
At last the Folkestone bus rumbled235 up, and he ascended236. His aunt stood in the doorway to see him off. His uncle assisted with the box and portmanteau. Only furtively237 could he glance up at the Pornick windows and still it seemed Ann hardened her heart against him. ‘Get up!’ said the driver, and the hoofs238 began to clatter239. No — she would not come out even to see him off. The bus was in motion, and old Kipps was going back into his shop. Kipps stared in front of him, assuring himself that he did not care.
He heard a door slam, and instantly craned out his neck to look back. He knew that slam so well. Behold240! out of the haberdasher’s door a small, untidy figure in homely241 pink print had shot resolutely242 into the road and was sprinting243 in pursuit. In a dozen seconds she was abreast of the bus. At the sight of her Kipps’ heart began to beat very quickly, but he made no immediate motion of recognition.
‘Artie!’ she cried breathlessly. ‘Artie! Artie! You know! I got that!’
The bus was already quickening its pace and leaving her behind again, when Kipps realised what ‘that’ meant. He became animated, he gasped, and gathered his courage together and mumbled244 an incoherent request to the driver to ‘stop jest a jiff for sunthin’. The driver grunted245, as the disparity of their years demanded, and then the bus had pulled up and Ann was below.
She leapt up upon the wheel. Kipps looked down into Ann’s face, and it was foreshortened and resolute. He met her eyes just for one second as their hands touched. He was not a reader of eyes. Something passed quickly from hand to hand, something that the driver, alert at the corner of his eye, was not allowed to see. Kipps hadn’t a word to say, and all she said was, ‘I done it, ‘smorning.’ It was like a blank space in which something pregnant should have been written and wasn’t. Then she dropped down, and the bus moved forward.
After the lapse175 of about ten seconds, it occurred to him to stand and wave his new bowler246 hat at her over the corner of the bus top, and to shout hoarsely247, ‘Goo’-bye, Ann! Don’ forget me — while I’m away!’
She stood in the road looking after him, and presently she waved her hand.
He remained standing unstably248, his bright, flushed face looking back at her and his hair fluffing in the wind, and he waved his hat until at last the bend of the road hid her from his eyes. Then he turned about and sat down, and presently he began to put the half-sixpence he held clenched249 in his hand into his trouser-pocket. He looked sideways at the driver to judge how much he had seen.
Then he fell a-thinking. He resolved that, come what might, when he came back to New Romney at Christmas, he would, by hook or by crook250, kiss Ann.
Then everything would be perfect and right, and he would be perfectly251 happy.
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收听单词发音
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1
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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daguerreotype
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| n.银板照相 | |
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elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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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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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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elusively
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| adv.巧妙逃避地，易忘记地 | |
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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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19
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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trumpeting
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的现在分词形式） | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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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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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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obliquity
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| n.倾斜度 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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33
detrimental
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| adj.损害的，造成伤害的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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42
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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43
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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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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45
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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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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47
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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whacked
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| a.精疲力尽的 | |
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49
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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51
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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54
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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prospectus
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| n.计划书；说明书；慕股书 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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61
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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62
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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stuffiness
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| n.不通风，闷热；不通气 | |
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66
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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69
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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70
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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71
annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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72
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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73
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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74
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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75
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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76
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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77
vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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78
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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79
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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80
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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81
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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82
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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83
bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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84
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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87
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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88
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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89
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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90
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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91
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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92
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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93
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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94
inanity
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| n.无意义，无聊 | |
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95
relaxations
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| n.消遣( relaxation的名词复数 )；松懈；松弛；放松 | |
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96
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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97
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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98
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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99
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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100
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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101
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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102
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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103
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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104
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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105
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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106
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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107
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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108
goading
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| v.刺激( goad的现在分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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109
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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110
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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111
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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112
geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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113
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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114
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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115
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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116
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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117
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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118
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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119
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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120
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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121
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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122
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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123
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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124
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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125
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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126
kaleidoscopic
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| adj.千变万化的 | |
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127
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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128
retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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129
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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130
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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131
negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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132
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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133
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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134
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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135
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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136
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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137
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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138
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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139
penetrating
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|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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140
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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141
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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142
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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143
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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144
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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145
pars
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| n.部，部分；平均( par的名词复数 )；平价；同等；（高尔夫球中的）标准杆数 | |
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146
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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147
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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148
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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149
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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150
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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151
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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152
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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153
repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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154
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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155
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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156
temperately
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| adv.节制地，适度地 | |
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157
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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158
distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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159
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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160
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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161
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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162
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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163
clout
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| n.用手猛击；权力，影响力 | |
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164
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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165
stank
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| n. (英)坝，堰，池塘 动词stink的过去式 | |
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166
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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167
demolishing
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| v.摧毁( demolish的现在分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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168
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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169
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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170
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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171
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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172
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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173
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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174
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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175
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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176
doling
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| 救济物( dole的现在分词 )； 失业救济金 | |
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177
parsimoniously
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| ad.过工节俭地；吝啬小气地 | |
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178
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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180
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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181
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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182
doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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183
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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184
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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185
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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186
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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187
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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188
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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189
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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190
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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191
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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192
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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193
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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194
grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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195
gritting
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的现在分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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196
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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197
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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198
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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199
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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200
traction
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| n.牵引；附着摩擦力 | |
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201
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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202
supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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203
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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204
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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205
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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206
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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207
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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208
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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209
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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210
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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211
jejune
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| adj.枯燥无味的，贫瘠的 | |
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212
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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213
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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214
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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215
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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216
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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217
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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218
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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219
brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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220
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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221
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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222
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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223
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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224
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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225
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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226
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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227
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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228
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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229
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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230
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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231
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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232
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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233
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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234
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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235
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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236
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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238
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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239
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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240
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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241
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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242
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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243
sprinting
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| v.短距离疾跑( sprint的现在分词 ) | |
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244
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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245
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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246
bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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247
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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248
unstably
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| adj.不稳固的；不坚定的；易变的；反复无常的 | |
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249
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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250
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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251
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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