And on the desk there was a stack of letters which had also been delivered to him the day before. The letters had been written to one of McGuire’s own colleagues by a certain very beautiful lady of the town, of whom it is only necessary to say that she was not McGuire’s wife and that he had known her for a long time. The huge man — curiously3 enough, not only a devoted4 father and a loyal husband, but a creature whose devotion to his family had been desperately5 intensified6 by the bitter sense of his one unfaith — had been for many years obsessed7 by one of those single, fatal and irremediable passions which great creatures of this sort feel only once in life, and for just one woman. Now the obsession8 of that mad fidelity9 was gone — exploded in an instant by a spidery scheme of words upon a page, a packet of torn letters in a woman’s hand. Hence, this sense now of a stolid10, slow, and cureless anguish11 in the man, the brutal12 deliberation of his drunkenness. Since finding these letters upon his desk when he had returned at seven o’clock the night before from his visit to Gant, McGuire had not left his office or moved in his chair, except to bend with a painful grunt13 from time to time, feel between his legs with a fat hand until he found the jug, and then, holding it with a bear-like solemnity between his paws, drink long and deep of the raw, fiery14, and colourless liquid in the jug. He had done this very often, and now the jug was two-thirds empty. As he read, his mouth was half open and a cigarette was stuck on the corner of one fat lip, a look that suggested a comical drunken stupefaction. The hospital had long since gone to sleep, and in the little office there was no sound save the ticking of a clock and McGuire’s short, thick, and stertorous15 breathing. Then when he had finished a letter, he would fold it carefully, put it back in its envelope, rub his thick fingers across the stubble of brown-reddish beard that covered his bloated and discoloured face, reach with a painful grunt for the glass jug, drink, and open up another letter.
And from time to time he would put a letter down before he had finished reading it, take up a pen, and begin to write upon a sheet of broad hospital stationery16, of which there was a pad upon his desk. And McGuire wrote as he read, slowly, painfully, carefully, with a fixed17 and drunken attentiveness18, no sound except the minute and careful scratching of the pen in his fat hands, and the short, thick stertorous breathing as he bent19 over the tablet, his cigarette plastered comically at the edge of one fat lip.
McGuire would read the letters over and over, slowly, carefully, and solemnly. Burly, motionless and with no sound save for the short and stertorous labour of his breath, he stared with drunken fixity at the pages which he held close before his yellowed eyes, his bloated face. He had read each letter at least a dozen times during the course of the long evening. And each time that he finished reading it, he would fold it carefully with his thick fingers, put it back into its envelope, bend and reach down between his fat legs with a painful grunt, fumble20 for the liquor jug, and then drink long and deep.
It seemed that a red-hot iron had been driven through his heart and twisted there; the liquor burned in his blood and stomach like fire; and each time that he had finished reading that long letter, he would grunt, reach for the jug again, and then slowly and painfully begin to scrawl21 some words down on the pad before him.
He had done this at least a dozen times that night, and each time after a few scrawled22 lines he would grunt impatiently, wad the paper up into a crumpled23 ball and throw it into the waste-paper basket at his side. Now, a little after three o’clock in the morning, he was writing steadily24; there was no sound now in the room save for the man’s thick short breathing and the minute scratching of his pen across the paper. An examination of these wadded balls of paper, however, in the order in which they had been written, would have revealed perfectly25 the successive states of feeling in the man’s spirit.
The first, which was written after his discovery of the letters, was just a few scrawled words without punctuation26 or grammatical coherence27, ending abruptly28 in an explosive splintered movement of the pen, and read simply and expressively29 as follows:
“You bitch you damned dirty trollop of a lying whore you —”
And this ended here in an explosive scrawl of splintered ink, and had been wadded up and thrown away into the basket.
点击收听单词发音
1 sprawled | |
v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词);蔓延;杂乱无序地拓展;四肢伸展坐着(或躺着) | |
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2 jug | |
n.(有柄,小口,可盛水等的)大壶,罐,盂 | |
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3 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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4 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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5 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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6 intensified | |
v.(使)增强, (使)加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7 obsessed | |
adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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8 obsession | |
n.困扰,无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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9 fidelity | |
n.忠诚,忠实;精确 | |
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10 stolid | |
adj.无动于衷的,感情麻木的 | |
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11 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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12 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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13 grunt | |
v.嘟哝;作呼噜声;n.呼噜声,嘟哝 | |
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14 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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15 stertorous | |
adj.打鼾的 | |
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16 stationery | |
n.文具;(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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17 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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18 attentiveness | |
[医]注意 | |
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19 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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20 fumble | |
vi.笨拙地用手摸、弄、接等,摸索 | |
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21 scrawl | |
vt.潦草地书写;n.潦草的笔记,涂写 | |
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22 scrawled | |
乱涂,潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23 crumpled | |
adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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24 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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25 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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26 punctuation | |
n.标点符号,标点法 | |
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27 coherence | |
n.紧凑;连贯;一致性 | |
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28 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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29 expressively | |
ad.表示(某事物)地;表达地 | |
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