That lost world would come back to him at many times, and often for no cause that he could trace or fathom4 — a voice half-heard, a word far-spoken, a leaf, a light that came and passed and came again. But always when that lost world would come back, it came at once, like a sword-thrust through the entrails, in all its panoply5 of past time, living, whole, and magic as it had always been.
And always when it came to him, and at whatever time, and for whatever reason, he could hear his father’s great voice sounding in the house again and see his gaunt devouring6 stride as he had come muttering round the corner at the hour of noon long years before.
And then he would hear again the voice of his dead brother, and remember with a sense of black horror, dream-like disbelief, that Ben was dead, and yet could not believe that Ben had ever died, or that he had had a brother, lost a friend. Ben would come back to him in these moments with a blazing and intolerable reality, until he heard his quiet living voice again, saw his fierce scowling8 eyes of bitter grey, his scornful, proud and lively face, and always when Ben came back to him it was like this: he saw his brother in a single image, in some brief forgotten moment of the past, remembered him by a word, a gesture, a forgotten act; and certainly all that could ever be known of Ben’s life was collected in that blazing image of lost time and the forgotten moment. And suddenly he would be there in a strange land, staring upward from his bed in darkness, hearing his brother’s voice again, and living in the far and bitter miracle of time.
And always now, when Ben came back to him, he came within the frame and limits of a single image, one of those instant blazing images which from this time would haunt his memory and which more and more, as a kind of distillation9 — a reward for all the savage10 struggles of his Faustian soul with the protean11 and brain-maddening forms of life — were to collect and concentrate the whole material of experience and memory, in which the process of ten thousand days and nights could in an instant be resumed. And the image in which Ben now always came to him was this: he saw his brother standing12 in a window, and an old red light of fading day, and all the strange and tragic13 legend of his destiny was on his brow, and all that any man could ever see or know or understand of his dead brother’s life was there.
Bitter and beautiful, scorn no more. Ben stands there in the window, for a moment idle, his strong, lean fingers resting lightly on his bony hips14, his grey eyes scowling fiercely, bitterly and contemptuously over the laughing and exuberant15 faces of the crowd. For a moment more he scowls16 fixedly17 at them with an expression of almost savage contempt. Then scornfully he turns away from them. The bitter, lean and pointed19 face, the shapely, flashing, close-cropped head jerks upward, backward, he laughs briefly20 and with pitying contempt as he speaks to that unknown and invisible auditor21 who all his life has been the eternal confidant and witness of his scorn.
“Oh my God!” he says, jerking his scornful head out towards the crowd again. “Listen to this, will you?”
They look at him with laughing and exuberant faces, unwounded by his scorn. They look at him with a kind of secret and unspoken tenderness which the strange and bitter savour of his life awakes in people always. They look at him with faith, with pride, with the joy and confidence and affection which his presence stirs in everyone. And as if he were the very author of their fondest hopes, as if he were the fiat22, not the helpless agent, of the thing they long to see accomplished23, they yell to him in their unreasoning exuberance24: “All right, Ben! Give us a hit now! A single’s all we need, boy! Bring him in!” Or others, crying with the same exuberance of faith: “Strike him out, Ben! Make him fan!”
But now the crowd, sensing the electric thrill and menace of a decisive conflict, has grown still, is waiting with caught breath and pounding hearts, their eyes fixed18 eagerly on Ben. Somewhere, a thousand miles to the North, somewhere through the reddened, slanting25 and fast-fading light of that October day, somewhere across the illimitable fields and folds and woods and hills and hollows of America, across the huge brown earth, the mown fields, the vast wild space, the lavish27, rude and unfenced distances, the familiar, homely28, barren, harsh, strangely haunting scenery of the nation; somewhere through the crisp, ripe air, the misty29, golden pollenated light of all her prodigal30 and careless harvest; somewhere far away at the heart of the great sky-soaring, smoke-gold, and enchanted31 city of the North, and of their vision — the lean right arm of the great pitcher32 Mathewson is flashing like a whip. A greyhound of a man named Speaker, quick as a deer to run, sharp as a hawk33 to see, swift as a cat to strike, stands facing him. And the huge terrific stands, packed to the eaves incredibly with mounting tiers of small white faces, now all breathless, silent, and intent, all focused on two men as are the thoughts, the hearts, the visions of these people everywhere in little towns, soar back, are flung to the farthest edges of the field in a vision of power, of distance, space and lives unnumbered, fused into a single unity34 that is so terrific that it bursts the measures of our comprehension and has a dream-like strangeness of reality even when we see it.
The scene is instant, whole and wonderful. In its beauty and design that vision of the soaring stands, the pattern of forty thousand empetalled faces, the velvet35 and unalterable geometry of the playing field, and the small lean figures of the players, set there, lonely, tense and waiting in their places, bright, desperate solitary36 atoms encircled by that huge wall of nameless faces, is incredible. And more than anything, it is the light, the miracle of light and shade and colour — the crisp, blue light that swiftly slants37 out from the soaring stands and, deepening to violet, begins to march across the velvet field and towards the pitcher’s box, that gives the thing its single and incomparable beauty.
The batter38 stands swinging his bat and grimly waiting at the plate, crouched39, tense, the catcher, crouched, the umpire, bent40, hands clasped behind his back, and peering forward. All of them are set now in the cold blue of that slanting shadow, except the pitcher, who stands out there all alone, calm, desperate, and forsaken41 in his isolation42, with the gold-red swiftly fading light upon him, his figure legible with all the resolution, despair and lonely dignity which that slanting, somehow fatal light can give him. Deep lilac light is eating swiftly in from every corner of the field now, and far off there is a vision of the misty, golden and October towers of the terrific city. The scene is unforgettable in the beauty, intoxication43 and heroic feeling of its incredible design, and yet, as overwhelming as the spectacle may be for him who sees it, it is doubtful if the eye-witness has ever felt its mystery, beauty, and strange loveliness as did that unseen and unseeing audience in a little town.
But now the crowd, sensing the menaceful approach of a decisive moment, has grown quiet and tense and breathless, as it stands there in the street. In the window, Ben sets the earphones firmly with his hands, his head goes down, the scowl7 between his grey eyes deepens to a look of listening intensity44. He begins to speak sharply to a young man standing at a table on the floor behind him. He snaps his fingers nervously45, a cardboard placard is handed to him, he looks quickly at it, and then thrusts it back, crying irritably46:
“No, no, no! Strike one, I said! Damn it, Mac, you’re about as much help to me as a wooden Indian!”
The young man on the floor thrusts another placard in his hand. Ben takes it quickly, swiftly takes out a placard from the complicated frame of wires and rows and columns in the window (for it is before the day of the electric Scoreboard, and this clumsy and complicated system whereby every strike, ball, substitution, or base hit — every possible movement and event that can occur upon the field — must be indicated in this way by placards printed with the exact information, is the only one they know) and thrusts a new placard on the line in place of the one that he has just removed. A cheer, sharp, lusty, and immediate47, goes up from the crowd. Ben speaks sharply and irritably to the dark and sullen-featured youth whose name is Foxey and Foxey runs outside quickly with another placard inscribed48 with the name of a new player who is coming in. Swiftly, Foxey takes out of its groove49 the name of the departing player, shoves the new one into place, and this time the rival partisans50 in the crowd cheer for the pitch hitter.
In the street now there is the excited buzz and hum of controversy51. The people, who, with a strange and somehow moving loyalty52, are divided into two groups supporting the merits of two teams which they have never seen, are eagerly debating, denying, making positive assertions of what is likely to happen, which are obviously extravagant53 and absurd in a contest where nothing can be predicted, and so much depends on fortune, chance, and the opportunity of the moment.
In the very forefront of the crowd, a little to the right as Ben stands facing them, a well-dressed man in the late fifties can be seen excitedly discussing the prospect54 of the game with several of his companions. His name is Fagg Sluder, a citizen well known to every one in town. He is a man who made a fortune as a contractor55 and retired56 from active business several years ago, investing part of his wealth in two or three large office buildings, and who now lives on the income he derives57 from them.
He is a nervous energetic figure of a man, of middle height, with greying hair, a short-cropped moustache, and the dry, spotted58, slightly concave features which characterize many Americans of his age. A man who, until recent years, has known nothing but hard work since his childhood, he has now developed, in his years of leisure, an enthusiastic devotion to the game, that amounts to an obsession59.
He has not only given to the town the baseball park which bears his name, he is also president of the local Club, and uncomplainingly makes good its annual deficit60. During the playing season his whole time is spent in breathing, thinking, talking baseball all day long: if he is not at the game, bent forward in his seat behind the home plate in an attitude of ravenous61 absorption, occasionally shouting advice and encouragement to the players in his rapid, stammering62, rather high-pitched voice that has a curiously63 incisive64 penetration65 and carrying power, then he is up on the Square before the fire department going over every detail of the game with his cronies and asking eager, rapid-fire questions of the young red-necked players he employs, and towards whom he displays the worshipful admiration66 of a schoolboy.
Now this man, who, despite his doctor’s orders, smokes twenty or thirty strong black cigars a day, and in fact is never to be seen without a cigar in his fingers or in his mouth, may be heard all over the crowd speaking eagerly in his rapid, stammering voice to a man with a quiet and pleasant manner who stands behind him. This is the assistant chief of the fire department and his name is Bickett.
“Jim,” Mr. Sluder is saying in his eager and excited way, “I— I— I— I tell you what I think! If — if — if Speaker comes up there again with men on bases — I— I— I just believe Matty will strike him out — I swear I do. What do you think?” he demands eagerly and abruptly67.
Mr. Bickett, first pausing to draw slowly and languorously68 on a cigarette before casting it into the gutter69, makes some easy, quiet and non-committal answer which satisfies Mr. Sluder completely, since he is paying no attention to him, anyway. Immediately, he claps the chewed cigar which he is holding in his stubby fingers into his mouth, and nodding his head briskly and vigorously, with an air of great decision, he stammers70 out again:
“Well — I— I— I just believe that’s what he’s going to do: I— I— I don’t think he’s afraid of that fellow at all! I— I— I think he knows he can strike him out any time he feels like it.”
The boy knows everyone in the crowd as he looks around him. Here are the other boys of his own age, and older — his fellow route-boys in the morning’s work, his school companions, delivery boys employed by druggists, merchants, clothiers, the sons of the more wealthy and prominent people of the town. Here are the boys from the eastern part of town from which he comes and in which his father’s house is built — the older, homelier, and for some reason more joyful71 and confident part of town to him — though why, he does not know, he cannot say. Perhaps it is because the hills along the eastern borders of the town are near and close and warm, and almost to be touched. But in the western part of town, the great vistas72 of the soaring ranges, the distant summits of the Smokies fade far away into the west, into the huge loneliness, the haunting desolation of the unknown distance, the red, lonely light of the powerful retreating sun.
But now the old red light is slanting swiftly, the crowd is waiting tense and silent, already with a touch of sorrow, resignation, and the winter in their hearts, for summer’s over, the game is ending, and October has come again, has come again. In the window, where the red slant26 of the sun already falls, Ben is moving quickly, slipping new placards into place, taking old ones out, scowling, snapping his hard, white fingers in command, speaking curtly73, sharply, irritably to the busy figures, moving at his bidding on the floor. The game — the last game of the series — is sharp, close, bitterly contested. No one can say as yet which way the issue goes, which side will win, when it will end — but that fatality74 of red slanting light, the premonitory menace of the frost, the fatal certitude of victory and defeat, with all the sorrow and regret that both can bring to man, are in their hearts.
From time to time, a wild and sudden cheer breaks sharply from the waiting crowd, as something happens to increase their hope of victory, but for the most part they are tense and silent now, all waiting for the instant crisis, the quick end.
Behind Ben, seated in a swivel chair, but turned out facing toward the crowd, the boy can see the gouty bulk of Mr. Flood, the owner of the paper. He is bent forward heavily in his seat, his thick apoplectic75 fingers braced76 upon his knees, his mouth ajar, his coarse, jowled, venously empurpled face and bulging77 yellow eyes turned out upon the crowd, in their constant expression of slow stupefaction. From time to time, when the crowd cheers loudly, the expression of brutal78 surprise upon Mr. Flood’s coarse face will deepen perceptibly and comically, and in a moment he will say stupidly, in his hoarse79 and phlegmy tones:
“Who done that? . . . What are they yelling for? . . . Which side’s ahead now? . . . What happened that time, Ben?”
To which Ben usually makes no reply whatever, but the savage scowl between his grey eyes deepens with exasperation80, and finally, cursing bitterly, he says:
“Damn it, Flood! What do you think I am-the whole damned newspaper? For heaven’s sake, man, do you think all I’ve got to do is answer damn-fool questions? If you want to know what’s happening, go outside where the rest of them are!”
“Well, Ben, I just wanted to know how —” Mr. Flood begins hoarsely81, heavily, and stupidly.
“Oh, for God’s sake! Listen to this, won’t you?” says Ben, laughing scornfully and contemptuously as he addresses the invisible auditor of his scorn, and jerking his head sideways toward the bloated figure of his employer as he does so. “Here!” he says, in a disgusted manner. “For God’s sake, someone go and tell him what the score is, and put him out of his misery82!” And scowling savagely83, he speaks sharply into the mouthpiece of the phone and puts another placard on the line.
And suddenly, even as the busy figures swarm84 and move there in the window before the waiting crowd, the bitter thrilling game is over! In waning85 light, in faint shadows, far, far away in a great city of the North, the 40,000 small empetalled faces bend forward, breathless, waiting — single and strange and beautiful as all life, all living, and man’s destiny. There’s a man on base, the last flash of the great right arm, the crack of the bat, the streaking86 white of a clean-hit ball, the wild, sudden, solid roar, a pair of flashing legs have crossed the rubber, and the game is over! And instantly, there at the city’s heart, in the great stadium, and all across America, in ten thousand streets, ten thousand little towns, the crowd is breaking, flowing, lost for ever! That single, silent, most intolerable loveliness is gone for ever. With all its tragic, proud and waiting unity, it belongs now to the huge, the done, the indestructible fabric87 of the past, has moved at last out of that inscrutable maw of chance we call the future into the strange finality of dark time.
Now it is done, the crowd is broken, lost, exploded, and 10,000,000 men are moving singly down 10,000 streets — toward what? Some by the light of Hesperus which, men say, can bring all things that live on earth to their own home again — flock to the fold, the father to his child, the lover to the love he has forsaken — and the proud of heart, the lost, the lonely of the earth, the exile and the wanderer — to what? To pace again the barren avenues of night, to pass before the bulbous light of lifeless streets with half-averted faces, to pass the thousand doors, to feel again the ancient hopelessness of hope, the knowledge of despair, the faith of desolation.
And for a moment, when the crowd has gone, Ben stands there silent, lost, a look of bitter weariness, disgust, and agony upon his grey gaunt face, his lonely brow, his fierce and scornful eyes. And as he stands there that red light of waning day has touched the flashing head, the gaunt, starved face, has touched the whole image of his fiercely wounded, lost and scornful spirit with the prophecy of its strange fatality. And in that instant as the boy looks at his brother, a knife is driven through his entrails suddenly, for with an instant final certitude, past reason, proof, or any visual evidence, he sees the end and answer of his brother’s life. Already death rests there on his proud head like a coronal. The boy knows in that one instant Ben will die.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
syrup
|
|
| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
awaken
|
|
| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
enchantment
|
|
| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
fathom
|
|
| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
panoply
|
|
| n.全副甲胄，礼服 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
devouring
|
|
| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
scowl
|
|
| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
scowling
|
|
| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
distillation
|
|
| n.蒸馏，蒸馏法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
savage
|
|
| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
protean
|
|
| adj.反复无常的；变化自如的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
tragic
|
|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
hips
|
|
| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
exuberant
|
|
| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
scowls
|
|
| 不悦之色，怒容( scowl的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
fixedly
|
|
| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
briefly
|
|
| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
auditor
|
|
| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
fiat
|
|
| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
accomplished
|
|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
exuberance
|
|
| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
slanting
|
|
| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
slant
|
|
| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
lavish
|
|
| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
homely
|
|
| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
misty
|
|
| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
prodigal
|
|
| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
enchanted
|
|
| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
pitcher
|
|
| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
hawk
|
|
| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
unity
|
|
| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
velvet
|
|
| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
slants
|
|
| （使）倾斜，歪斜( slant的第三人称单数 )； 有倾向性地编写或报道 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
batter
|
|
| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
crouched
|
|
| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
Forsaken
|
|
| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
isolation
|
|
| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
intoxication
|
|
| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
intensity
|
|
| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
nervously
|
|
| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
irritably
|
|
| ad.易生气地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
immediate
|
|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
inscribed
|
|
| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
groove
|
|
| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
partisans
|
|
| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
controversy
|
|
| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
loyalty
|
|
| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
extravagant
|
|
| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
prospect
|
|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
contractor
|
|
| n.订约人，承包人，收缩肌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
derives
|
|
| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
spotted
|
|
| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
obsession
|
|
| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
deficit
|
|
| n.亏空，亏损；赤字，逆差 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
ravenous
|
|
| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
stammering
|
|
| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
curiously
|
|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
incisive
|
|
| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
penetration
|
|
| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
languorously
|
|
| adv.疲倦地，郁闷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
gutter
|
|
| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
stammers
|
|
| n.口吃，结巴( stammer的名词复数 )v.结巴地说出( stammer的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
joyful
|
|
| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
vistas
|
|
| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
curtly
|
|
| adv.简短地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
fatality
|
|
| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
apoplectic
|
|
| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
braced
|
|
| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
bulging
|
|
| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
brutal
|
|
| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
hoarse
|
|
| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
exasperation
|
|
| n.愤慨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
hoarsely
|
|
| adv.嘶哑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
savagely
|
|
| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
swarm
|
|
| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
waning
|
|
| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
streaking
|
|
| n.裸奔（指在公共场所裸体飞跑）v.快速移动( streak的现在分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
fabric
|
|
| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |