Therefore, when he had been awarded the Rhodes scholarship a few months before, during his last year at the university, it seemed that Johnny’s plan of life was marching onto its inevitable6 fulfilment. Everyone had known he would be appointed; it came to pass with an ordained7 precision, and Johnny had announced, just as he should, that he would study “International Law,” and everything was right and proper as it ought to be, and now he was here to march onward8 toward his shining goal, as he had always done.
But, for the first time in his life, something had gone wrong, something had gone terribly, appallingly9 amiss, and Johnny did not yet know what it was. Perhaps he never would, but now he was in the greatest trouble and confusion of his life, and he knew it. His voice was still slow, drawling, and good-natured, he was full of kindly11 warmth and friendliness12 as he had always been, he had responded quickly, dutifully, to all the customs and observances of the new life — had had grey baggy13 trousers and tweed coats made at the tailor’s shop, had made arrangements for trips and walking-tours upon the Continent with his fellows in vacation time, had met his tutors, found out about the proctors and the penalties, learned the system of the college bills and battels, joined the union and learned to go out dutifully for sports in the afternoon — he had even learned the mysterious ceremonial of tea and had it in his rooms each afternoon — all this he had learned and done with a punctilious14 thoroughness; but something had gone wrong.
Everything about Johnny was just as it had always been — his smile, his slow, good-natured voice, his amiable15 warmth and modesty16 and friendliness — all was the same with him except his eyes. But the quiet, thoughtful, tranquilly17 assured expression of his eyes had changed: he had in them the stunned18, bewildered look, full of pain and a groping confusion, of a man who has been brutally19 slugged at the base of the brain and is not yet certain what has happened to him.
His was an impossible situation, a tragic20 ordeal21 of loneliness, strangeness, and bewilderment among all the complex and alien forms of a new life for which nothing in the old had prepared him. Born in a small town in the South, going to school there and at his own State University, he had all his life breathed and lived in a familiar air, heard the familiar words of well-known voices all round him, known and seen nothing but assurance, certitude and success in everything he planned.
And now all this, even the earth beneath his feet, had melted from him like a wisp of smoke, and he was wandering blindly about in a life as strange to him as Asia, as far as the moon, and knew nowhere to turn, nothing to grasp, no door to enter. In his whole life he had never seen or visited a great city, and then had seen New York just for a day or two, and then for seven days had known for the first time the mystery of the sea and a great ship, and now was here in the green English country, in an ancient town, hurled22 cruelly, suddenly, naked and unprepared for it as he was, into a life more subtle, complex and confusing than his placid23 soul had ever dreamed a life could be.
When Eugene asked him if he had stopped in London on his way to Oxford24, the look of pain and bewilderment in his eyes had deepened, and he had answered in a slow confused voice:
“We stopped there overnight but we never got to see much of it. We came on out here the next morning.”
The boy was silent a moment, then he laughed good-naturedly with a troubled and uncertain note.
“It sure looked big enough from what I could see of it. I want to get down there some time to see what it is like. I guess I’ve got a lot to learn,” he said.
He could remember London like a man who is whirled blindly at night through a huge, limitless, smoky kaleidoscope of sound and sight and moving objects, and this memory of that enormous terrifying age-encrusted web of life — that web without end or measure, which seems blackened, soaked, and saturated25 not only in the grey light that falls upon it with its weight of eight million lives, but also by the grey light of compacted centuries and all the countless26 men who lived there and have died — that great grey web appropriately known to seafaring men as “The Smoke” had added measurably to the sense of bewilderment, terror, and naked desolation in him.
And it was pitifully the same with all the rest of them — the little group of Rhodes scholars that gathered together in Johnny’s rooms every afternoon, and who seemed to huddle27 and cling together desperately28 as if they would try to shape, to resurrect, or to create some little pattern of familiar life, some small oasis29 of warmth and friendliness and familiar things to which they turned with desperate relief from all the alien and hostile loneliness of a life which they had never entered, which they could never make their own, which stood against them like a wall they could not pass, closed against them like a door they could not open.
Curiously30, among this group of five or six Rhodes scholars, which formed the nucleus31 of the group which met in Johnny’s rooms, only two — Johnny and his room-mate, a youth named Price — were first-year men. The others were either in the second or the final year of their appointments, but they seemed to have made no friendships with anyone save with a few of the other Rhodes men, to have no other place to go, and to welcome the hospitality of these two boys with a desperate unspoken gratefulness.
There were, besides Johnny and his room-mate Price, three others who came there every day. One was a chunky, red-faced fellow, with coarse undistinguished features, who parted his short crinkly hair in the middle and had come there from Brown University, where he had been a member of the football team. He was in his second year abroad, and no longer wore his little golden football, but a good deal of his self-satisfied complacency was intact: he was thicker of hide and sense than any of the others, and evidently felt that his three years at Oxford were going to give him a kind of pick-and-choose freedom with any kind of employment when he got back home.
He asked Eugene how much he had been paid by the university in New York City where he had been employed as an instructor33, and when Eugene told him, smiled tolerantly, saying that he wouldn’t mind “trying it for a year after I get back until I have a chance to look round.” He then informed Eugene graciously that he was open to an offer, and would even be willing to work for no more than they paid HIM, while he “looked round.” He added with a little smile:
“I don’t imagine that I’ll have much trouble: a man with an Oxford degree gets snapped up pretty quick over there, doesn’t he? Still,” he went on magnanimously, “I wouldn’t mind living in New York a year or two until I settle down — so you can give my name to them, if you don’t mind.”
The other two in the group that came to Johnny’s rooms were both third-year men. One was a frail34, sensitive, and ?sthetic-looking youth named Sterling35. Although he came from one of the Western states — Arizona or New Mexico — there was nothing in him to suggest the wildness, openness, and grandeur36 of his native scenery. Rather, he was a most precious, a most subtle, elegantly sad, quietly bitter and disdainful fellow: he was quietly, fervently38, subtly a devoted39 follower40 of Mr. T. S. Eliot, and although he revealed his theories sparely, cautiously, and by evasive indirectness, there was in all he said a quiet air of more-inthis-than-meets-the-eye, as if he were saying: “If you want to follow me you’ve got to learn to read between the lines and get my meaning by what is implied rather than by what is said — since there’s no language that can say exactly what my meaning — which is too subtle and exact for any language — is.”
He wore about him always this air of elegant, cold, and slightly disdainful restraint, and he had a habit of looking across his thin arched hands with a faint disdainful smile, and listening coldly, saying nothing, while the others talked, as if the waste-land chatter41 of their tongues, the waste-land vacancy42 of their lost waste-land souls was something that he knew he must endure, but would endure with his cold faint disdainful smile, his soul steeped in cold and patient weariness till death should mercifully release him.
The other man was a Jew named Fried, and that man Eugene could never forget. Eugene didn’t know where he came from, how he got there, who made him a Rhodes scholar, but he knew that of them all, save Johnny, he was the only one who had maintained his integrity, the only one who did not have a spurious, fearful, uneasily evasive quality, the only one who came out with it, the whole packed load of bitterness and hate within him, the only one who had remained himself.
Perhaps it was a bad self to remain: it was certainly a self that was lacking in charm, that had the aggressive, abusive, curiously unrighteous quality of his race — but there he was, terrifically himself and unashamed of it — with a naked formidable integrity of self that blazed with a hard and naked light of a cut jewel, and that Eugene could never forget even when the characters of the rest of them had grown blurred43 and shapeless and obscure.
Eugene didn’t know where he came from, but he was sure it was from one of the great cities of the Atlantic seaboard — from New York, Boston, Baltimore or Philadelphia. He had seen his face, his figure, and his kind a million times upon the pavements of those cities and incredibly now, that dark unhappy face which never before had seemed to him to be a face at all, nothing but a tidal flood of nameless faces, that strident and abusive tongue which had never before seemed to him to be a single tongue, but just a common, nameless, and unnumbered ugliness of rasping voices, an anathema44 of bitter cries and harsh derisions — a constant phrase, a dissonance, a weather of the city’s life — all that had been nameless, faceless, characterless and obscure — the look, the sound, the smell of the man-swarm ciphers45 of the city as dark-eyed, dark-faced, and bitter-tongued they swarmed46 along the pavements of the cities — all this, in that strange place, was suddenly, weirdly47, resumed into a single character — a character that was hard, bitter, unforgettably itself, and that no change of sky or land or custom, nor the huge impact of all the alien and formidable pageantry of the earth, could ever alter by a jot48.
Theirs was a wretched, hopeless, lonely life, a futile49, feeble, barren life, an impossible, groping, wretched insecure life — and Fried was the only one of them to meet it, to admit it, to denounce it with all the bitterness of his bitter soul, and to remain himself against it. The rest were frightened, bitter, lonely, homesick, and afraid — afraid of everything, afraid of their own loneliness and their own dismal50 unsuccess, afraid to confess the desolation of their souls, the bitter disappointment of their hopes, afraid to laugh too loud, to show too much exuberance51 or enthusiasm for anything, lest someone should consider them a “hearty,” and pin that feared and hated label on them.
They were afraid to express any native extravagance in dress, speech or manner lest they be branded as “bounders,” afraid to talk their natural speech in their own manner lest they seem too crudely, raucously53 and offensively American, and afraid to imitate too studiously the language of the nation for fear that their own fellows would sneer54 at them for servile snobbishness55, for “speaking with an English accent.” Thus, caught in the web of a thousand fears, the meshes56 of a thousand impossible restraints, trying to maintain their lives, their characters, their native dignities even while they tried to subdue57 them by a thousand small half-mimicries, to be themselves even while they tried to shape themselves to something else, their characters finally, strained through the impossible weavings of this mad design, teetering frantically58 to maintain a crazy balance on a thousand wires, were reduced at last to the consistency59 of blubber — and trying to be everything, they succeeded finally in being nothing.
Oh, it was a wretched, futile, hopeless kind of life, and in their hearts they knew it, but could only speak casually60, smile feebly, speak falsely, yet never lay their hearts bare boldly and admit the truth. None of them liked Fried; they were ashamed of him, they turned on him at times in force, argued with him, denounced him, jeered61 at him, but at the bottom of their hearts they had a strange, secret, and unwilling62 respect for him, and finally grew silent and listened when he talked.
It was astonishing to watch the effect of that man’s bitter tirades63 on that forlorn group. For where at first they would protest, remonstrate65, sharply caution him, laugh uneasily and look fearfully toward the door as his harsh rasping voice mounted and grew high and snarling66 with its packed anathema of bitterness and hate, they would at length grow silent and look at him with fascinated eyes, and listen to that snarling and savage67 indictment68 with a kind of feeding gluttony of satisfaction, as if into that single naked and abusive tongue had been packed the whole huge weight of misery69 that had sweltered in their hearts, but to which they had never dared, themselves, to give utterance70.
Eugene had asked Sterling how much longer he would remain abroad and he had answered:
“Just ten months more. This is my last year. I am going home next August.” He was silent for a moment, then he added with a faint, regretful smile: “In another year I suppose, I’ll be wondering if all this has ever happened. It will seem strange and beautiful,” he said softly, “like some impossible dream!”
“Yeah!” snarled71 Fried, with a harsh interruption at this point. “An impossible dream! Jesus! An impossible nightmare! — that’s what you’d better say!”
Sterling looked at him silently for a moment over his thin arched hands. He smiled faintly, disdainfully, and made no answer. In a moment he turned quietly to Eugene again, and dismissing the other man with the cold contempt of silence, continued:
“Sometimes it’s hard for me to realize I ever lived there. Can there be such a place as America, I wonder?” he said with a sad faint smile. “After all this,” he gestured slightly, pausing, “it will seem so strange to be a part of”— he paused carefully “— THAT again. . . . Skyscrapers72, subways, elevated trains —” he paused again, with a faint smile —“Tell me,” he said, turning toward Eugene, “do such things REALLY exist?”
“Do they REALLY exist!” Fried now snarled with a jeering73 laugh. “Do they REALLY exist! I’ll tell the cock-eyed world that they exist!” he rasped. “You can bet your ——— that they exist! . . . Do they exist!” he snorted to himself derisively74. “Jesus!”
Sterling stared coldly at him and said nothing. For a moment Fried’s hard, dark, embittered75 face, the feverish76 eyes, stared balefully at the fragile and sensitive face of the other youth, set disdainfully against him over his arched hands.
“Where do you get that stuff?” Fried said at length with harsh contempt. “You may kid these guys who never saw the place until a week ago, but you don’t kid me, Sterling. Christ! I know what kind of a dream it’s been — and so do you!”
Sterling did not deign77 to answer, but continued to look at him with cold faint disdain37, and after another baleful and disgusted stare, Fried rasped out bitterly again:
“I suppose it was a dream your first term here when you tried to suck around those English guys and you thought they were going to take you right into the family, didn’t you?” he sneered78. “You thought you were sittin’ pretty, didn’t you? You were goin’ to pal10 around with the Duke of What’s-His–Name and get invited home wit’ him for the Christmas holidays and make a big play for his sister, weren’t you? Yes, you were!” He jeered, “You saw how far it got you, didn’t you? Those guys took you for a ride and played you for a sucker, an’ when they’d had all the fun wit’ you they could, they dropped you like a ton of bricks! You thought that you were pretty wise, didn’t you?” he snarled bitterly. “You thought that you were goin’ places, didn’t you? You were goin’ to do something big, you were! Well, I’ll tell you what you did! You handed them a laugh — see? You handed those guys a great big laugh — yes! a laugh!” he shouted violently. “And, I’ll tell you something else! They’re still laughin’ at you! I saw you, Sterling. I know what you did. But you didn’t see me, did you? Couldn’t see me in those days, could you?”
“I can’t see you now,” said Sterling coldly. “I never could see you!”
“Is that so?” the Jew said bitterly. “Now, isn’t that too bad! . . . Well, I’ll tell you one time that you saw me, Sterling. . . . That’s when those guys had left you flat. . . . You could see me then, couldn’t you? You don’t remember, do you?” he jeered. “Well, I’ll tell you when it was. . . . It was when you came back here that year for the spring term and you found they didn’t know you when you went around. It was when your tail was dragging the ground and you didn’t have a friend in the world — you could see me then, all right. Couldn’t you? . . . I wasn’t good enough before when you were trying to break into High Society — but I was good enough to see after they gave you the big go-by, wasn’t I? . . . Sure! Sure!” he said with an air of derision, addressing himself more quietly now to the rest of the group. “I usta go by this guy when he was running around wit’ his English friends — and did he see me?” he jibed79 savagely80. “Not so you could notice it! . . . ‘Who is that common person who just spoke32 to you, Mr. Sterling?’ ‘O, THAT! O, I cannot say, old chap — some low fellow that was on the boat wit’ me when I came ovah! . . . Really cawn’t recall his name! A beastly boundah, I believe!’ . . . Sure! Sure!” he nodded. “That was it! High-hattin’ me, you know! I wasn’t good enough! And all the time these English guys were laughin’ up their sleeve at him!”
They had been stunned by the snarling fury of his assault, silenced by the hypnotic compulsion of his dark, hard face, his feverish eyes, the rasping bitterness of his voice that at the end grew strident, high, and gasping81 from his effort to release in one explosive tirade64 the whole packed weight of misery, disappointment, and defeat that sweltered poisonously in his heart. Now, however, as he paused there, dark and hard and full of bitterness, surveying them balefully with toxic82 eyes, silenced by lack of breath rather than by lack of further curses, they gathered themselves together and went for him in a mass.
In another moment the last vestige83 of restraint, gentlemanly decorum, urbane84 and tolerant sophistication with which they had clothed themselves had vanished, and they were yelping85, snarling, shouting, accusing and denying, inextricably mixed-up in one general and inglorious dogfight; taunts86, curses, insults, and indictments87 filled the air, all of them were shouting at the same time, and out of that roaring brawl88 all one could decipher were the ragged89 barbs90 and ends of their abuse — a tumult91 of bitter and strident voices characterized by such phrases as —“You never belonged here in the first place!” “It’s fellows like you who give all the rest of us a bad name!” “Why the hell should the rest of us have to suffer for it because you talk and act like an East Side gangster92?” “They think all Americans are a bunch of roughnecks because they meet a few like you.” “Ah, g’wan! youse guys! You give me a pain. You all feel the same way as I do but none of you has guts93 enough to say so!” “You’re just sore because these English boys never had anything to do with you — that’s all you’re sore about!” “Yeah? They had a hell of a lot to do wit’ you, didn’t they? — even if you did try to talk wit’ an English accent.” “You’re a damned liar4! I never tried to talk with an English accent!” “Sure you did! Everybody hoid you! You coulda cut yoeh accent wit’ a hatchet94! You were tryin’ to suck aroun’ that gang at Christ’s the first year you were here!” “Who says I was?” “I say so — that’s who! You an’ Tommy Woodson both —” “Don’t mix my name with Tommy Woodson, now! You’re not going to include me with that horse’s neck!” “Oh, yeah? Since when did you staht callin’ him a horse’s neck?” “I always called him one! He IS one!” “Sure he is — but you didn’t think so, did you, that first year that you was heah? You was pallin’ around wit’ him an’ wouldn’t have anything to do wit’ the rest of us! You thought it was goin’ to get you somewhere, didn’t you? You saw how quick he dropped you after he got in wit’ those guys at Christ’s! He gave you the big go-by then, didn’t he? That’s when you stahted callin’ him a horse’s neck!” “It’s a lie! I didn’t!” “Sure you did!”
The snarling medley95 of bitter tongues rose, mounted; they vented96 their weight of insult, misery, and reproach on one another and at length subsided97, checked by exhaustion98 rather than by some more charitable cause. And as the tumult died away Sterling, two spots of colour burning on his pallid99 face, goaded100 completely from his former affectation of coldly elegant disdain, could be heard saying to Fried in a high, excited, almost hysterical101 tone:
“The kind of attack you make is simply stupid! It doesn’t get you anywhere! And it’s so crude! So raucous52! After all, there’s no reason why you’ve always got to be so raucous!”— the way he said the word was “raw-kus,” his thin hands were trembling, and the two spots of colour burned fiercely in his thin pale face; in this and the bitter way in which he said “raucous” there was finally something pitiable and futile.
And at the end, when all their strident cries had died away, the dark embittered visage of the Jew surveyed them wearily, and held them in its sway again. For as if conceding now what was most evident — that his savage, disappointed spirit had a hard integrity, an unashamed conviction, an ugly, snarling but most open courage which they lacked, they sat there, and looked at him in silence, somehow conveying by that silence a sense of bitter and unwilling respect for him, a final admission of agreement and defeat.
And he, too, when he spoke now, spoke wearily, with a bitter resignation, as if he realized the futility102 of his victory over them, the futility of hurling103 further insults, oaths, and accusations104 at people who knew the bitter truth of his complaint as well as he.
“Nah!” he said quietly in a moment, with this same note of bitter, weary resignation in his voice. “To hell wit’ it! Wat t’ hell’s the use of tryin’ to pretend it isn’t so? You guys all know the way things are! You come over here and you think you’re sittin’ pretty right on top of the world! You think these guys are goin’ to throw their ahms around your neck and kiss you, because they love Americans so much! And what happens?” He laughed bitterly. “Are you telling ME? Christ! You can stay here for three years and none of them will ever give a tumble to you! You can eat your heart out for all they care, and when you leave here you’ll know no more about them than when you came. And what does it getcha? What’s it all about? Wat t’ hell do you get out of it that’s so wonderful?”
“I thought,” one of the first-year men suggested mildly, and a trifle piously105, as if he were quoting one of the articles of faith, “that you were supposed to get out of it a better understanding of the relations between the two great English-speaking nations.”
“The two great English-speaking nations!” Fried answered harshly with a jeering laugh. “Jesus! That’s a good one! WHAT two English-speaking nations do you mean?” he went on belligerently106. “England and what other country?” he demanded. “You don’t think WE speak the same language as THEY do, do you? Christ! The first year I was here they might have been talkin’ Siamese so far as I was concerned! It wasn’t any language that I’d evah hoid before. . . . Yeah, I know,” he went on wearily in a moment, “they fed me all that bunk107, too, before I came over. . . . English-speakin’ nations! . . . Goin’ back to your old home! our old home! For Christ’s sake!” he said bitterly. “Christ! It never was a home to me! I’d have felt more at home if they had sent me to Siberia! . . . Home! The rest of you guys can make believe it’s home if you want to! . . . I know what you’ll do,” he muttered. “You’ll stick it out and hate it like the rest of them. . . . Then you’ll go back home an’ high-hat everyone and tell them all how wonderful it was, and what a fine time you had when you were here, and how you hated to leave it! . . . Not for me! I’m goin’ home where I can see someone that I know some time who’s not too good to talk to me . . . and talk to someone who understands what I’m tryin’ to say once in a while . . . and pay my little nickel for the big ride in the subway . . . and listen to the kids playin’ in the street . . . an’ go to sleep wit’ the old elevated bangin’ in my ears! . . . That’s home!” he cried. “That’s home enough for me.”
“A hell of a home,” said someone quietly.
“Don’t I know it!” snarled the man. “But it’s the only home I got! It’s better than no home at all!”
And for a moment he smoked darkly, bitterly, in silence.
“Nah! To hell wit’ it!” he muttered. “To hell wit’ it! I’ll be glad when it’s all over! I’m sorry that I ever came!”
And he was silent then, and the others looked at him, and had no more to say, and were silent.
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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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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appallingly
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| 毛骨悚然地 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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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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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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ordeal
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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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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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Oxford
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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countless
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huddle
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desperately
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oasis
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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31
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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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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instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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34
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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36
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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41
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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42
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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43
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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44
anathema
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| n.诅咒；被诅咒的人(物)，十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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ciphers
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| n.密码( cipher的名词复数 )；零；不重要的人；无价值的东西 | |
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46
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 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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weirdly
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| 古怪地 | |
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48
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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52
raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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raucously
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| adv.粗声地；沙哑地 | |
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54
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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snobbishness
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| 势利； 势利眼 | |
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meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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59
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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tirades
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| 激烈的长篇指责或演说( tirade的名词复数 ) | |
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tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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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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indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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skyscrapers
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| n.摩天大楼 | |
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jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
jibed
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| v.与…一致( jibe的过去式和过去分词 )；（与…）相符；相匹配 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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81
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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toxic
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| adj.有毒的，因中毒引起的 | |
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83
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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84
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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85
yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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86
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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87
indictments
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| n.（制度、社会等的）衰败迹象( indictment的名词复数 )；刑事起诉书；公诉书；控告 | |
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88
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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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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barbs
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| n.（箭头、鱼钩等的）倒钩( barb的名词复数 )；带刺的话；毕露的锋芒；钩状毛 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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92
gangster
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| n.匪徒，歹徒，暴徒 | |
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93
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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94
hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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95
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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96
vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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98
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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99
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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100
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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101
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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102
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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103
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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104
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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105
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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106
belligerently
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107
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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