“You were asleep,” she said quietly with a grave smile, looking at him in her direct and almost accusing fashion.
“Yes,” he said, breathing a little hoarsely2, “what time is it?”
It was a few minutes before three o’clock in the morning. She looked at the clock and told him the time: he asked where Helen was.
“Why,” said Eliza quickly, “she’s right here in this hall room: I reckon she’s asleep, too. Said she was tired, you know, but that if you woke up and needed her to call her. Do you want me to get her?”
“No,” said Gant. “Don’t bother her. I guess she needs the rest, poor child. Let her sleep.”
“Yes,” said Eliza, nodding, “and that’s exactly what you must do, too, Mr. Gant. You try to go on back to sleep now,” she said coaxingly3, “for that’s what we all need. There’s no medicine like sleep — as the fellow says, it’s Nature’s sovereign remedy,” said Eliza, with that form of sententiousness that she was very fond of — “so you go on, now, Mr. Gant, and get a good night’s sleep, and when you wake up in the morning, you’ll feel like a new man. That’s half the battle — if you can get your sleep, you’re already on the road to recovery.”
“No,” said Gant, “I’ve slept enough.”
He was breathing rather hoarsely and heavily and she asked him if he was comfortable and needed anything. He made no answer for a moment, and then muttered something under his breath that she could not hear plainly, but that sounded like “little boy.”
“Hah? What say? What is it, Mr. Gant?” Eliza said. “Little boy?” she said sharply, as he did not answer.
“Did you see him?” he said.
She looked at him for a moment with troubled eyes, then said:
“Pshaw, Mr. Gant, I guess you must have been dreaming.”
He did not answer, and for a moment there was no sound in the room but his breathing, hoarse1, a little heavy. Then he muttered:
“Did someone come into the house?”
She looked at him sharply, inquiringly again, with troubled eyes:
“Hah? What say? Why, no, I think not,” she said doubtfully, “unless you may have heard Gilmer come in an’ go up to his room.”
And Gant was again silent for several moments, breathing a little heavily and hoarsely, his hands resting with an enormous passive strength upon the bed. Presently he said quietly:
“Where’s Bacchus?”
“Hah? Who’s that?” Eliza said sharply, in a startled kind of tone. “Bacchus? You mean Uncle Bacchus?”
“Yes,” said Gant.
“Why, pshaw, Mr. Gant!” cried Eliza laughing — for a startled moment she had wondered if “his mind was wanderin’,” but one glance at his quiet eyes, the tranquil4 sanity5 of his quiet tone, reassured6 her —
“Pshaw!” she said, putting one finger up to her broad nose-wing and laughing slyly. “You must have been havin’ queer dreams, for a fact!”
“Is he here?”
“Why, I’ll vow7, Mr. Gant!” she cried again. “What on earth is in your mind? You know that Uncle Bacchus is way out West in Oregon — it’s been ten years since he came back home last — that summer of the reunion at Gettysburg.”
“Yes,” said Gant. “I remember now.”
And again he fell silent, staring upward in the semi-darkness, his hands quietly at rest beside him, breathing a little hoarsely, but without pain. Eliza sat in the chair watching him, her hands clasped loosely at her waist, her lips pursed reflectively, and a puzzled look in her eyes. “Now I wonder whatever put that in his mind?” she thought. “I wonder what made him think of Bacchus? Now his mind’s not wanderin’— that’s one thing sure. He knows what he’s doing just as well as I do — I reckon he must have dreamed it — that Bacchus was here — but that’s certainly a strange thing, that he should bring it up like this.”
He was so silent that she thought he might have gone to sleep again, he lay motionless with his eyes turned upward in the semi-darkness of the room, his hands immense and passive at his side. But suddenly he startled her again by speaking, a voice so quiet and low that he might have been talking to himself.
“Father died the year before the war,” he said, “when I was nine years old. I never got to know him very well. I guess Mother had a hard time of it. There were seven of us — and nothing but that little place to live on — and some of us too young to help her much — and George away at war. She spoke8 pretty hard to us sometimes — but I guess she had a hard time of it. It was a tough time for all of us,” he muttered, “I tell you what, it was.”
“Yes,” Eliza said, “I guess it was. I know, she told me — I talked to her, you know, the time we went there on our honeymoon9 — whew! what about it?” she shrieked10 faintly and put her finger up to her broad nose-wing with the same sly gesture —“it was all I could do to keep a straight face sometimes — why, you know, the way she had of talkin’— the expressions she used — oh! came right out with it, you know — sometimes I’d have to turn my head away so she wouldn’t see me laughin’— says, you know, ‘I was left a widow with seven children to bring up, but I never took charity from no one; as I told ’em all, I’ve crawled under the dog’s belly11 all my life; now I guess I can get over its back.’”
“Yes,” said Gant with a faint grin. “Many’s the time I’ve heard her say that.”
“But she told it then, you know,” Eliza went on in explanatory fashion, “about your father and how he’d done hard labour on a farm all his life and died — well, I reckon you’d call it consumption.”
“Yes,” said Gant. “That was it.”
“And,” Eliza said reflectively, “I never asked — of course, I didn’t want to embarrass her — but I reckon from what she said, he may have been — well, I suppose you might say he was a drinkin’ man.”
“Yes,” said Gant, “I guess he was.”
“And I know she told it on him,” said Eliza, laughing again, and passing one finger slyly at the corner of her broad nose-wing, “how he went to town that time — to Brant’s Mill, I guess it was — and how she was afraid he’d get to drinkin’, and she sent you and Wes along to watch him and to see he got home again — and how he met up with some fellers there and, sure enough, I guess he started drinkin’ and stayed away too long — and then, I reckon he was afraid of what she’d say to him when he got back — and that was when he bought the clock — it’s that very clock upon the mantel, Mr. Gant — but that was when he got the clock, all right — I guess he thought it would pacify12 her when she started out to scold him for gettin’ drunk and bein’ late.”
“Yes,” said Gant, who had listened without moving, staring at the ceiling, and with a faint grin printed at the corners of his mouth, “well do I remember: that was it, all right.”
“And then,” Eliza went on, “he lost the way comin’ home — it had been snowin’, and I reckon it was getting dark, and he had been drinkin’— and instead of turnin’ in on the road that went down by your place he kept goin’ on until he passed Jake Schaefer’s farm — an’ I guess Wes and you, poor child, kept follerin’ where he led, thinkin’ it was all right — and when he realized his mistake he said he was tired an’ had to rest a while and — I’ll vow! to think he’d go and do a thing like that,” said Eliza, laughing again —“he lay right down in the snow, sir, with the clock beside him — and went sound to sleep.”
“Yes,” said Gant, “and the clock was broken.”
“Yes,” Eliza said, “she told me about that too — and how she heard you all come creepin’ in real quiet an’ easy-like about nine o’clock that night, when she and all the children were in bed — an’ how she could hear him whisperin’ to you and Wes to be quiet — an’ how she heard you all come creepin’ up the steps — and how he came tip-toein’ in real easy-like an’ laid the clock down on the bed — I reckon the glass had been broken out of it — hopin’ she’d see it when she woke up in the morning an’ wouldn’t scold him then for stayin’ out —”
“Yes,” said Gant, still with the faint attentive13 grin, “and then the clock began to strike.”
“Whew-w!” cried Eliza, putting her finger underneath14 her broad nose-wing —“I know she had to laugh about it when she told it to me — she said that all of you looked so sheepish when the clock began to strike that she didn’t have the heart to scold him.”
And Gant, grinning faintly again, emitted a faint rusty15 cackle that sounded like “E’God!” and said: “Yes, that was it. Poor fellow.”
“But to think,” Eliza went on, “that he would have no more sense than to do a thing like that — to lay right down there in the snow an’ go to sleep with you two children watchin’ him. And I know how she told it, how she questioned you and Wes next day, and I reckon started in to scold you for not takin’ better care of him, and how you told her, ‘Well, Mother, I thought that it would be all right. I kept steppin’ where he stepped, I thought he knew the way.’ And said she didn’t have the heart to scold you after that — poor child, I reckon you were only eight or nine years old, and boy-like thought you’d follow in your father’s footsteps and that everything would be all right.”
“Yes,” said Gant, with the faint grin again, “I kept stretchin’ my legs to put my feet down in his tracks — it was all I could do to keep up with him. . . . Ah, Lord,” he said, and in a moment said in a faint low voice, “how well I can remember it. That was just the winter before he died.”
“And you’ve had that old clock ever since,” Eliza said. “That very clock upon the mantel, sir — at least, you’ve had it ever since I’ve known you, and I reckon you had it long before that — for I know you told me how you brought it South with you. And that clock must be all of sixty or seventy years old — if it’s a day.”
“Yes,” said Gant, “it’s all of that.”
And again he was silent, and lay so still and motionless that there was no sound in the room except his faint and laboured breathing, the languid stir of the curtains in the cool night breeze, and the punctual tocking of the old wooden clock. And presently, when she thought that he might have gone off to sleep again, he spoke, in the same remote and detached voice as before:
“Eliza,”— he said — and at the sound of that unaccustomed word, a name he had spoken only twice in forty years — her white face and her worn brown eyes turned toward him with the quick and startled look of an animal —“Eliza,” he said quietly, “you have had a hard life with me, a hard time. I want to tell you that I’m sorry.”
And before she could move from her white stillness of shocked surprise, he lifted his great right hand and put it gently down across her own. And for a moment she sat there bolt upright, shaken, frozen, with a look of terror in her eyes, her heart drained of blood, a pale smile trembling uncertainly and foolishly on her lips. Then she tried to withdraw her hand with a clumsy movement, she began to stammer16 with an air of ludicrous embarrassment17, she bridled18, saying —“Aw-w, now, Mr. Gant. Well, now, I reckon,”— and suddenly these few simple words of regret and affection did what all the violence, abuse, drunkenness and injury of forty years had failed to do. She wrenched19 her hand free like a wounded creature, her face was suddenly contorted by that grotesque20 and pitiable grimace21 of sorrow that women have had in moments of grief since the beginning of time, and digging her fist into her closed eye quickly with the pathetic gesture of a child, she lowered her head and wept bitterly.
“It was a hard time, Mr. Gant,” she whispered, “a hard time, sure enough. . . . It wasn’t all the cursin’ and the drinkin’— I got used to that. . . . I reckon I was only an ignorant sort of girl when I met you and I guess,” she went on with a pathetic and unconscious humour, “I didn’t know what married life was like . . . but I could have stood the rest of it . . . the bad names an’ all the things you called me when I was goin’ to have another child . . . but it was what you said when Grover died . . . accusin’ me of bein’ responsible for his death because I took the children to St. Louis to the Fair —” and at the words as if an old and lacerated wound had been reopened raw and bleeding, she wept hoarsely, harshly, bitterly —“that was the worst time that I had — sometimes I prayed to God that I would not wake up — he was a fine boy, Mr. Gant, the best I had — like the write-up in the paper said he had the sense an’ judgment22 of one twice his age . . . an’ somehow it had grown a part of me, I expected him to lead the others — when he died it seemed like everything was gone . . . an’ then to have you say that I had —” her voice faltered23 to a whisper, stopped: with a pathetic gesture she wiped the sleeve of her old frayed24 sweater across her eyes and, already ashamed of her tears, said hastily:
“Not that I’m blamin’ you, Mr. Gant. . . . I reckon we were both at fault . . . we were both to blame . . . if I had it to do all over I know I could do better . . . but I was so young and ignorant when I met you, Mr. Gant . . . knew nothing of the world . . . there was always something strange-like about you that I didn’t understand.”
Then, as he said nothing, but lay still and passive, looking at the ceiling, she said quickly, drying her eyes and speaking with a brisk and instant cheerfulness, the undaunted optimism of her ever-hopeful nature:
“Well, now, Mr. Gant, that’s all over, and the best thing we can do is to forget about it. . . . We’ve both made our mistakes — we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t — but now we’ve got to profit by experience — the worst of all this trouble is all over — you’ve got to think of getting well now, that’s the only thing you’ve got to do, sir,” she said pursing her lips and winking25 briskly at him — “just set your mind on getting well — that’s all you’ve got to do now, Mr. Gant — and the battle is half won. For half our ills and troubles are all imagination,” she said sententiously, “and if you’ll just make up your mind now that you’re going to get well — why, sir, you’ll do it,” and she looked at him with a brisk nod. “And we’ve both got years before us, Mr. Gant — for all we know, the best years of our life are still ahead of us — so we’ll both go on and profit by the mistakes of the past and make the most of what time’s left,” she said. “That’s just exactly what we’ll do!”
And quietly, kindly26, without moving, and with the impassive and limitless regret of a man who knows that there is no return, he answered:
“Yes, Eliza. That is what we’ll do.”
“And now,” she went on coaxingly, “why don’t you go on back to sleep now, Mr. Gant? There’s nothin’ like sleep to restore a man to health — as the feller says, it’s Nature’s sovereign remedy, worth all the doctors and all the medicine on earth,” she winked27 at him, and then concluded on a note of cheerful finality; “so you go on and get some sleep now, and tomorrow you will feel like a new man.”
And again he shook his head in an almost imperceptible gesture of negation28:
“No,” he said, “not now. Can’t sleep.”
He was silent again, and presently, his breath coming somewhat hoarse and laboured, he cleared his throat, and put one hand up to his throat, as if to relieve himself of some impediment.
Eliza looked at him with troubled eyes and said:
“What’s the matter, Mr. Gant? There’s nothing hurtin’ you?”
“No,” he said. “Just something in my throat. Could I have some water?”
“Why, yes, sir! That’s the very thing!” She got up hastily, and looking about in a somewhat confused manner, saw behind her a pitcher29 of water and a glass upon his old walnut30 bureau, and saying “This very minute, sir!” started across the room.
And at the same moment, Gant was aware that someone had entered the house, was coming towards him through the hall, would soon be with him. Turning his head towards the door he was conscious of something approaching with the speed of light, the instancy of thought, and at that moment he was filled with a sense of inexpressible joy, a feeling of triumph and security he had never known. Something immensely bright and beautiful was converging31 in a flare32 of light, and at that instant, the whole room blurred33 around him, his sight was fixed34 upon that focal image in the door, and suddenly the child was standing35 there and looking towards him.
And even as he started from his pillows, and tried to call his wife he felt something thick and heavy in his throat that would not let him speak. He tried to call to her again but no sound came, then something wet and warm began to flow out of his mouth and nostrils36, he lifted his hands up to his throat, the warm wet blood came pouring out across his fingers; he saw it and felt joy.
For now the child — or someone in the house was speaking, calling to him; he heard great footsteps, soft but thunderous, imminent37, yet immensely far, a voice well known, never heard before. He called to it, and then it seemed to answer him; he called to it with faith and joy to give him rescue, strength, and life, and it answered him and told him that all the error, old age, pain and grief of life were nothing but an evil dream; that he who had been lost was found again, that his youth would be restored to him and that he would never die, and that he would find again the path he had not taken long ago in a dark wood.
And the child still smiled at him from the dark door; the great steps, soft and powerful, came ever closer, and as the instant imminent approach of that last meeting came intolerably near, he cried out through the lake of jetting blood, “Here, Father, here!” and heard a strong voice answer him, “My son!”
At that instant he was torn by a rending38 cough, something was wrenched loose in him, the death-gasp rattled39 through his blood, and a mass of greenish matter foamed40 out through his lips. Then the world was blotted41 out, a blind black fog swam up and closed above his head, someone seized him, he was held, supported in two arms, he heard someone’s voice saying in a low tone of terror and of pity, “Mr. Gant! Mr. Gant! Oh, poor man, poor man! He’s gone!” And his brain faded into night. Even before she lowered him back upon the pillows, she knew that he was dead.
Eliza’s sharp scream brought three of her children — Daisy, Steve, and Luke, and the nurse, Bessie Gant, who was the wife of Gant’s nephew Ollie — running from the kitchen. At the same moment Helen, who had taken an hour’s sleep — her first in two days — in the little hall-bedroom off the porch, was wakened by her mother’s cry, the sound of a screen-door slammed, and the sound of footsteps running past her window on the porch. Then, for several minutes she had no consciousness of what she did, and later she could not remember it. Her actions were those of a person driven by a desperate force, who acts from blind intuition, not from reason. Instantly, the moment that she heard her mother scream, the slam of the screen-door, and the running feet, she knew what had happened, and from that moment she knew only one frenzied42 desire; somehow to get to her father before he died.
The breath caught hoarse and sharp in her throat in a kind of nervous sob43, it seemed that her heart had stopped beating and that her whole life-force was paralyzed; but she was out of her bed with a movement that left the old springs rattling44, and she came across the back-porch with a kind of tornado-like speed that just came instantly from nowhere: in a moment she was standing in the open door with the sudden bolted look of a person who had been shot through the heart, staring at the silent group of people, and at the figure on the bed, with a dull strained stare of disbelief and horror.
All the time, although she was not conscious of it, her breath kept coming in a kind of hoarse short sob, her large big-boned face had an almost animal look of anguish45 and surprise, her mouth was partly open, her large chin hung down, and at this moment, as they turned towards her she began to moan, “Oh-h, oh-h, oh-h, oh-h!” in the same unconscious way, like a person who has received a heavy blow in the pit of the stomach. Then her mouth gaped46 open, a hoarse and ugly cry was torn from her throat — a cry not of grief but loss — and she rushed forward like a mad woman. They tried to stop her, to restrain her, she flung them away as if they had been rag dolls and hurled47 herself down across the body on the bed, raving48 like a maniac49.
“Oh, Papa, Papa. . . . Why didn’t they tell me? . . . Why didn’t they let me know? . . . Why didn’t they call me? . . . Oh, Papa, Papa, Papa! . . . dead, dead, dead . . . and they didn’t tell me . . . they didn’t let me know . . . they let you die . . . and I wasn’t here! . . . I wasn’t here!”— and she wept harshly, horribly, bitterly, rocking back and forth50 like a mad woman, with a dead man in her arms. She kept moaning, “ . . . They didn’t tell me . . . they let you die without me . . . I wasn’t here . . . I wasn’t here . . .”
And even when they lifted her up from the bed, detached her arms from the body they had held in such a desperate hug, she still kept moaning in a demented manner, as if talking to the corpse51, and oblivious52 of the presence of these living people:
“They never told me . . . they never told me. . . . They let you die here all by yourself . . . and I wasn’t here . . . I wasn’t here.”
All of the women, except Bessie Gant, had now begun to weep hysterically53, more from shock, exhaustion54, and the nervous strain than from grief, and now Bessie Gant’s voice could be heard speaking to them sharply, coldly, peremptorily55, as she tried to bring back order and calmness to the distracted scene:
“Now, you get out of here — all of you! . . . There’s nothing more any of you can do — I’ll take care of all the rest of it! . . . Get out, now . . . I can’t have you in the room while there’s work to do. . . . Helen, go on back to bed and get some sleep. . . . You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“They never told me! . . . They never told me,” she turned and stared stupidly at Bessie Gant with dull glazed56 eyes. “Can’t you do something? . . . Where’s MacGuire? Has anyone called him yet?”
“No,” said the nurse sharply and angrily, “and no one’s going to. You’re not going to get that man out of bed at this hour of the night when there’s nothing to be done. . . . Get out of here, now, all of you,” she began to push and herd57 them towards the door. “I can’t be bothered with you. . . . Go somewhere — anywhere — get drunk — only don’t come back in here.”
The whole house had come to life; in the excitement, shock, and exhaustion of their nerves the dead man still lying there in such a grotesque and twisted position, was forgotten. One of Eliza’s lodgers58, a man named Gilmer, who had been in the house for years, was wakened, went out, and got a gallon of corn whisky; everyone drank a great deal, became, in fact, somewhat intoxicated59; when the undertakers came to take Gant away, none of the family was present. No one saw it. They were all in the kitchen seated around Eliza’s battered60 old kitchen table, with the jug61 of whisky on the table before them. They drank and talked together all night long until dawn came.
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1
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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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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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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bridled
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的过去式和过去分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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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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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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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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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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maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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