“What shall I do now? Where shall I go?” They returned to mock his furious prowling of kaleidoscopic9 night with their unsearchable enigmas10 and when this happened, instant, mad, and overwhelming the desire to burst out of these canyoned walls that held him in, this Tantalus mocker of a city that duped his hunger with a thousand phantom11 shapes of impossible desire. And when this blind and furious impulse came to him, he knew only one desire — to escape, to escape instantly from the great well and prison of the city; and he had only one conviction — wild, mad, overmastering in its huge unreason — that escape, fulfilment, a fortunate and impossibly happy fruition lay somewhere out across the dark and lonely continent — was somewhere there in any of its thousand silent sleeping little towns — could be found anywhere, certainly, instantly, by the divining rod of miraculous12 chance, upon the pounding wheels of a great train, at any random13 halt made in the night.
Thus, by an ironic14 twist which at the time he did not see or understand, this youth, who in his childhood, like a million other boys, had dreamed and visioned in the darkness of the shining city, and of the fortunate good and happy life that he would find there, was now fleeing from it to find in unknown little towns the thing that he had come to the great city to possess.
A dozen times that year he made these mad and sudden journeys: to New England many times, to Pennsylvania, or Virginia; and more than once at night up the great river towards the secret North.
One night that year, in the month of March, he was returning from the wintry North — from one of those sudden and furious journeys of caprice, which were decided15 on the impulse of the moment, towards which he was driven by the goadings of desire, and from which he would return, as now, weary, famished16, unassuaged, and driven to seek anew in the city’s life for some appeasement17.
Under an immense, stormy, and tempestuous18 sky the train was rushing across the country with a powerful unperturbed movement; it seemed in this dark and wintry firmament19 of earth and sky that the train was the only fixed20 and timeless object — the land swept past the windows of the train in a level and powerful tide of white fields, clumped21 woodland, and the solid, dark, and warmly grouped buildings of a farm, pierced scarcely by a light. High up, in the immense and tempestuous skies, the clouds were driving at furious speed, in an inexhaustible processional, across the visage of a wild and desolate22 moon, which broke through momently with a kind of savage23 and beleaguered24 reprisal25 to cast upon the waste below a shattered, lost and fiercely ragged26 light. Here then, in this storm-lost desolation of earth and sky, the train hung poised27 as the only motionless and unchanging object, and all things else — the driving and beleaguered moon, the fiercely scudding28 clouds, the immense regimentation29 of heaven which stormed onward30 with the fury of a gigantic and demoniacal cavalry31, and the lonely and immortal32 earth below sweeping33 past with a vast fan-shaped stroke of field and wood and house — had in them a kind of unchanging changefulness, a spoke34-like recurrence35 which, sweeping past into oblivion, would return as on the upstroke of a wheel to repeat itself with an immutable36 precision, an unvarying repetition.
And under the spell of this lonely processional of white field, dark wood and wild driven sky, he fell into a state of strange waking-sleepfulness, a kind of comatose37 perceptiveness38 that the motion of the train at night had always induced in him. In this weary world of sleep and wakefulness and all the flooding visions of old time and memory, he was conscious of the grand enchantments39 of the landscape which is at all times one of the most beautiful and lovely on the continent, and which now, under this wild spell of moon and scudding cloud and moving fields and wintry woods, for ever stroking past the windows of the train, evoked40 that wild and solemn joy — the sense of nameless hope, impossible desire, and man’s tragic41 brevity — which only the wildness, the cruel and savage loveliness of the American earth can give.
Thus, as he lay in his berth42, in this strange state of comatose perceptiveness he was conscious first of the vast level snowclad fields of the Canadian boundaries, the lights of farms, the whipping past of darkened little stations; then of a wooded land, the foothills of the Adirondacks, dark with their wintry foresting, wild with snow; the haunting vistas43 of the Champlain country, strange as time, the noble music of Ticonderoga, with its tread of Indians and old wars, and then the pleasant swelling44 earth and fields and woods and lonely little towns set darkly in the night with a few spare lights; and pauses in the night at Saratoga, and for a moment the casual and familiar voices of America, and people crowding in the windows of the train, and old familiar words and quiet greetings, the sudden thrum and starting of a motor car, and then dark misty45 woods, white fields, a few spare lights and houses, all sweeping past beneath the wild beleaguered moon with the fan-like stroke of the immortal and imperturbable46 earth, with a wild and haunting loneliness, with tragic brevity and strong joy.
Suddenly, in the middle of the night, he started up into sharp wakefulness. The train had slackened in its speed, it was slowing for a halt at the outskirts47 of a town: in the distance upon the flanks of low sweeping hills he could see a bracelet48 of hard bright lights, and presently the outposts of the town appeared. And now he saw the spokes49 of empty wintry streets, and hard street lamps that cast a barren light upon the grimy fa?ades of old houses; and now old grimy blocks of buildings of brown stone and brick, all strange and close and near and as familiar as a dream.
And now the train was slowing to its halt; the old red brick of station warehouses50, the worn rust51 and grime of factory walls abutting52 on the tracks with startling nearness, and all of it was as it had always been, as he had always known it, and yet he had not seen the place before.
And now the train had slowed to a full halt; he found himself looking at a wall of old red brick at one of the station’s corners. It was one of the old brick buildings that one sees in the station section of almost any town: in the wall beside the tracks there was a dingy53-looking door and above the door a red electric bulb was burning with a dim but sinister54 invitation. Even as he looked the door opened, a man stepped quickly out, looked quickly to both sides with the furtive55 and uneasy look men have when they come out of a brothel, and then, turning up the collar of his overcoat, he walked rapidly away.
And at the corner, in the first floor of the old brick building, he could see a disreputable old bar-room, and this, too, had this dreamlike, stage-like immediacy, it was so near to him that he could almost have touched the building with his hand, a kind of gigantic theatrical56 setting, overpowering in its immediacy, as strange and as familiar as a dream.
Without moving in his berth he could look through the windows of the bar, which were glazed57 or painted half-way up, and see everything that was going on inside. Despite the lateness of the hour — the round visage of a clock above the bar told him it was just four o’clock — there were several people in the place, and it was doing an open thriving business. Several men, who by their look were probably railway workers, taxi-drivers, and night-time prowlers of the station district —(one even wore black leather leggings and had the fresh red complexion58 and healthy robust59 look of a countryman)— were standing60 at the old dark walnut61 bar and drinking beer. The bartender stood behind the bar with his thick hands stretched out and resting on the bar, and with a wet cloth in one hand. He wore an apron62 and was in his shirtsleeves; he had the dead eyes and heavy sagging63 night-time face that some bartenders have, but he could be seen talking to the men, responding to their jests, with a ready professional cordiality that was nevertheless warily64 ready for any situation that might come up. And further down the bar, another man was drinking beer and with him was a woman. She was one of the heavy coarsely friendly and experienced prostitutes that one also finds in railway sections; she was drinking beer, talking to the man amiably65 and with coarse persuasiveness67, and presently she took his arm with a rude persuasive66 gesture and jerking her head towards the stairs pulled him towards her. Grinning rather sheepishly, with a pleased but foolish look, he went along with her, and they could be seen going upstairs. When they were gone, the other men drinking at the bar spoke quietly to the bartender, and in a moment he could see them shaking with coarse guffawing68 laughter. Behind the bar, in old ornately carved walnut frames, there were big mirrors, and at the top of the central mirror there was an American flag, fluted69 and spread fan-wise, and below this there was a picture of the beetling70 eyebrows71 and nobly Roman features of the President of the United States, Warren G. Harding. The whole place looked very old and shabby, and yet somehow warm; dingy with old lights, and stained with drink and worn with countless72 elbows, and weary and worn and brutal73 with its memories of ten thousand nights of brawls74 and lust75 and drunkenness — its immeasurable age and dateless weariness of violence and desire.
Then the train moved slowly on, and left this scene for ever; it passed the street, and there were lights here, taxis, rows of silent buildings, and then the station, the sight of the baggage room big with trunks, piled with mail sacks, crates76 and boxes, and there were also a few people, a yardman with a lantern, a conductor waiting with a small case in his hand, a few passengers, the brick sides of the station, and the concrete quays77.
Then the train stopped again, and this time it stopped across the street at the other end of the station. And again, from his dark berth, he could see without moving this whole immense and immediate78 theatre of human event, and again it gripped and held him with its dream-like magic, its unbelievable familiarity. At the corner, in another old brick building, there was a little luncheon-room of the kind he had seen ten thousand times before. Several taxi-cabs were drawn up along the curb79, and from the luncheon-room he could hear the hoarse80 wrangling81 voices of the taxi-drivers, joined in their incessant82 and trivial debate, and through the misted window he could see the counterman, young, thin, sallow, wearily attentive83, wearing a dirty apron, and in his shirt-sleeves, leaning back, his thin white arms humbly84 folded as he listened.
And on the corner, just below the window of his berth, there stood a boy of eighteen or twenty years. The boy was tall, thin, and rather fragile-looking, his face had the sullen85, scowling86 almost feverish88 intensity89 that boys have on such occasions; he stood there indecisively, as if trying to make up his mind, resolve himself, towards his next action; he put a cigarette into his mouth and lighted it and as he did so his hands trembled. He turned up the collar of his overcoat impatiently, glanced grudgingly90 and nervously91 about him and stood there smoking.
Meanwhile a young prostitute, still slender and good-looking, came out of the back room, strolled over to the corner and stood there indolently, looking round with an innocent and yet impudent92 look, appearing not to look directly at the boy, or openly to invite him, but plainly waiting for him to speak to her.
And all the time his efforts to make up his mind, to come to a decision, were comically evident. He kept puffing93 nervously and rapidly at his cigarette, glancing at the girl out of the corner of his eye from time to time, pretending not to notice her, and all the time steeling himself to a decisive action.
But even as he stood there in this temper, trying to focus his wavering decision on a conclusive94 act, another man came up and took the girl away from him. The other man was much older than the boy; he was in his middle thirties, he was powerfully built and well, though somewhat flashily dressed. He wore a grey felt hat, set at a smart angle on his head, a well-fitting and expensive-looking overcoat cut in at the waist in the “snappy” Broadway fashion, and he looked like a prosperous Greek; he had a strong, swarthy, brutal face, full of sensual assurance; he came walking along the narrow sidewalk beside the tracks, and when he saw the girl, he approached her instantly, with a swaggering assurance, began to talk to her, and in a moment walked away with her.
And again, the effect of this incident upon the boy was comically, pathetically, apparent. He did not appear to notice the girl and the Greek as they walked off together, but when they had gone, his lean young face hardened suddenly, the scowl87 deepened, and with a sudden angry movement he flung his cigarette into the gutter95, turned, and with the sudden resolution of a man who is ashamed of his cowardly procrastination96 and indecision, he began to walk rapidly along the dark and narrow little sidewalk that ran down beside the tracks and along a row of shabby station tenements97.
And again, that strange and stage-like panorama98 of human comedy was fantastically repeated: the train began to move, and the boy kept pace with it, below the windows of the berth. Immediately they began to pass the row of shabby old wooden brothels that bordered on the tracks; the windows were closely shuttered, but through the shutters99 there flamed hot exciting bars of reddish light, and in the doorway100 entrances the small red lights were burning. At the third house the boy paused, turned, ran swiftly up the wooden steps and rang the bell; almost instantly a small slot-like peep-hole in the door was opened, an inquiring beak-like nose, a wisp of blondined hair peered out, the door was opened, the boy entered in a glow of reddish light, the door was closed behind him, and the train, gathering101 rapidly in speed now, went on, past the police station where the night-time cops were sitting, past spokes of brown streets, old buildings, warehouses, factories, station tenements, the sudden barren glare of corner lamps — the grimy fa?ade of old rusty102 buildings — the single substance and the million patterns of America!
And now the train had left the town, and now there was a vast and distant flare103, incredible in loveliness, the enormous train yards of the night, great dings and knellings on the tracks, the flare and sweep of mighty104 rails, the huge and sudden stirrings of the terrific locomotives.
And then there was just loneliness and earth and night, and presently the river, the great and silent river, the noble, spacious105, kingly river sweeping on for ever through the land at night to wash the basal cliffs and ramparts of the terrific city, to flow for ever round its million-celled and prisoned sleepers106, and in the night-time, in the dark, in all the sleeping silence of our lives to go flowing by us, by us, by us, to the sea.
That vision haunted him. He could not forget it. That boy who stood there on the corner in that lonely little town at night became the image of his own desire, of the desire of every youth that ever lived, of all the lonely, secret, and unsleeping desire of America, that lives for ever in the little towns at night, that wakes at times, a lively, small, and savage flame, while all the sleepers sleep, that burns there, unimprisoned and alone, beneath immense and timeless skies, upon the dark and secret visage of the continent, that prowls for ever past the shuttered fa?ades of the night, and furious, famished, unassuaged and driven as it is, lives alone in darkness and will not die.
That urge held and drew him with a magnetic power. Eight times that spring he made that wild journey of impulse and desire up the river. Eight times in darkness over pounding wheel and rod he saw the wild and secret continent of night, the nocturnal sweep and flow of the great river, and felt the swelling of the old, impossible and savage joy within him. That little town, seen first with such a charm and dream-like casualness out of the windows of a passing train, became part of the structure of his life, carved upon the tablets of his brain indelibly.
Eight times that year he saw it in every light and weather: in blown drifts of sleeting107 snow, in spouting108 rain, in bleak109 and wintry darkness, and when the first grey light of day was breaking haggardly against its ridge110 of eastern hills. And its whole design — each grimy brick and edge and corner of its shabby pattern — became familiar to him as something he had known all his life.
He came to know its times, its movements, and its people — its station workers, railwaymen, and porters; the night-time litter of the station derelicts and vagabonds themselves, as he was blown past this little town in darkness.
And he came to know all the prowlers of the night that walk and wait and wear the slow grey ash of time away in little towns — and this, too, was like something he had known for ever. He came to know them all by sight and word and name: the taxi-drivers, luncheon-room countermen, the soiled and weary-looking night-time Greeks, and all the others who inhabit the great shambles111 of the night.
Finally, and as a consequence of these blind voyages, he came to know all the prostitutes that lived there in that little row of wooden tenements beside the tracks. Eight times, at the end of night, he came again into the last commerce of their fagged embrace; eight times he left those shabby shuttered little houses in grey haggard light; and eight times that year, as morning came, he again made the journey down the river.
And later he could forget none of it. It became part of a whole design — all of its horror and its beauty, its grime and rustiness112 of stark113 red brick, its dark and secret loneliness of earth, the thrill and magic of his casual friendly voices, and the fagged yet friendly commerce of the prostitutes, the haggard light of morning at the ridges114 of the hills, and that great enchanted115 river greening into May — all this was one and single, woven of the same pattern, and coherent to the same design — and that design was somehow beautiful.
That spring, along the noble sweep of the great river, he returned at morning to the city many times. He saw April come, with all its sudden patches of shrewd green, and May, with all its bloom, its lights of flowers, its purity of first light and the bird-song waking in young feathered trees, its joy of morning-gold on the great river’s tide.
Eight times that spring, after all the fury, wildness and debauch116 of night, he rode back at morning towards the city in a world of waking men: they were for the most part railwaymen — engineers, firemen, brakesmen, switchmen, and guards, on their way to work. And their homely117, seamed and pungent118 comradeship filled him with the health of morning and with joy.
And his memory of these journeys of the night, and these wonderful returns at morning, was haunted always by the vision of a single house. It was a great white house set delicate and gleaming in frail119 morning light upon a noble hill that swept back from the river, and it was shaded by the silent stature120 of great trees, and vast swards of velvet121 lawn swept round it, and morning was always there and the tender purity of light.
That house haunted his memory like a dream: he could not forget it. But he did not know, he could not have foreseen, by what strange and dreamlike chance he would later come to it.
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1
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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labyrinthine
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| adj.如迷宫的；复杂的 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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kaleidoscopic
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| adj.千变万化的 | |
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enigmas
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| n.难于理解的问题、人、物、情况等，奥秘( enigma的名词复数 ) | |
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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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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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appeasement
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| n.平息，满足 | |
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tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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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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clumped
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| adj.[医]成群的v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的过去式和过去分词 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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beleaguered
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| adj.受到围困[围攻]的；包围的v.围攻( beleaguer的过去式和过去分词)；困扰；骚扰 | |
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reprisal
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| n.报复，报仇，报复性劫掠 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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regimentation
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| n.编组团队；系统化，组织化 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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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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recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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comatose
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| adj.昏睡的，昏迷不醒的 | |
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perceptiveness
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| n.洞察力强，敏锐，理解力 | |
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enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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vistas
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| 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 | |
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44
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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spokes
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| n.（车轮的）辐条( spoke的名词复数 )；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 | |
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50
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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51
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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52
abutting
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| adj.邻接的v.（与…）邻接( abut的现在分词 )；（与…）毗连；接触；倚靠 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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56
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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57
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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58
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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59
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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60
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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61
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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62
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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63
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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64
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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65
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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66
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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67
persuasiveness
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| 说服力 | |
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68
guffawing
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| v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的现在分词 ) | |
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69
fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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70
beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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71
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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72
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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73
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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74
brawls
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| 吵架，打架( brawl的名词复数 ) | |
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75
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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76
crates
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| n. 板条箱, 篓子, 旧汽车 vt. 装进纸条箱 | |
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77
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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78
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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79
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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80
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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81
wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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82
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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83
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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85
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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86
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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87
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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88
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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89
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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90
grudgingly
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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93
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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94
conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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95
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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procrastination
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| n.拖延，耽搁 | |
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97
tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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100
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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101
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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102
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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103
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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104
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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105
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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106
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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107
sleeting
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| 下雨夹雪，下冻雨( sleet的现在分词 ) | |
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108
spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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109
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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110
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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111
shambles
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| n.混乱之处；废墟 | |
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112
rustiness
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| 生锈，声音沙哑； 荒疏； 锈蚀 | |
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113
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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114
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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115
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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116
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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117
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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118
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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119
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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120
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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121
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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