The women hung on doggedly4; Starwick had refused to let them accompany him, and they had asked Eugene to stay with him and try to keep him out of trouble. Eugene, in fact, was only less drunk than his companion, but fortified5 by that sense of pride and duty which a trust imposed by two lovely women can give a young man, he hung on, keeping pace with Starwick, drink for drink, until the whole night fused into a drunken blur6, a rout7 of evil faces, the whole to be remembered later as jags of splintered light upon a chain of darkness, as flying images, fixed8, instant, and intolerably bright, in the great blank of memory. And out of all these blazing pictures of the night and the wild reel of their debauch9, one would remain for ever after to haunt his vision mournfully. It was the memory — or rather the CONSCIOUSNESS— of the two women, Ann and Elinor, waiting in the dark, following the blind weave of their drunken path, all through the mad kaleidoscope of night, never approaching them, but always there. He had not seemed to look at them, to notice them, and yet later he had always known that they were there. And the memory fused to one final mournful image that was to return a thousand times to haunt him in the years to come. He and Starwick had come out of one of the bars that broke the darkness of the long steep hill, and were reeling down past shuttered stores and old dark houses towards the invitation of another blaze of light.
Suddenly he knew that Ann and Elinor were behind them. For a moment he turned, and saw the two women pacing slowly after them, alone, patient, curiously10 enduring. The image of that long silent street of night, walled steeply with old houses and shuttered shops, and of the figures of these two women pacing slowly behind them, in the darkness, seemed in later years to bear the sorrowful legend of what their lives — of what so much of life — was to become. And for this reason it burned for ever in his memory with a mournful, dark and haunting radiance, became, in fact, detached from names and personalities11 and identic histories — became something essential, everlasting12 and immutable13 in life. It was an image of fruitless love and lost devotion, of a love that would never come to anything, and of beautiful life that must be ruinously consumed in barren adoration14 of a lost soul, a cold and unresponding heart. And it was all wrought15 mournfully there into the scheme of night, made legible in the quiet and gracious loveliness of these two women, so strong, so patient, and so infinitely16 loyal, pacing slowly down behind two drunken boys in the slant17 steep street and emptiness of night.
Suddenly the image blazed to the structure of hard actuality: another bar, and all around hoarse18 laughter, high sanguinary voices, a sudden scheme of faces scarred with night, and vivid with night’s radiance — prostitutes, taxi-drivers, negroes, and those other nameless unmistakable ones — who come from somewhere — God knows where — and who live somehow — God knows how — and who recede19 again at morning into unknown cells — but who live here only, brief as moths20, and balefully as a serpent’s eye, in the unwholesome chemistry of night.
He found himself leaning heavily on the zinc21 counter of the bar, staring at a pair of whited, flabby-looking arms, the soiled apron22 and shirt, the soiled night-time face and dark, mistrustful eyes of night’s soiled barman. The blur of hoarse voices, shouts and oaths and laughter fused around him, and suddenly beside him he heard Starwick’s voice, drunken, quiet, and immensely still.
“Monsieur,” it said — its very stillness cut like a knife through all the fog of sound about him —“monsieur, du feu, s’il vous pla?t.”
“But sairtainlee, monsieur,” a droll23 and pleasant-sounding voice said quietly. “W’y not?”
He turned and saw Starwick, a cigarette between his lips, bending awkwardly to get the light from a proffered24 cigarette which a young Frenchman was holding carefully for him. At last he got it; puffing25 awkwardly, and straightening, he slightly raised his hat in salutation, and said with drunken gravity:
“Merci. Vous êtes bien gentil.”
“But,” said the young Frenchman again, drolly26, and with a slight shrug27 of his shoulder, “not at all! Eet ees noz-zing!”
And as Starwick started to look at him with grave drunken eyes, the Frenchman returned his look with a glance that was perfectly28 composed, friendly, good-humoured, and drolly inquiring.
“Monsieur?” he said courteously30, as Starwick continued to look at him.
“I think,” said Starwick slowly, with the strangely mannered and almost womanish intonation31 in his voice, “I think I like you VERY much. You are VERY kind, and VERY generous, and altogether a VERY grand person. I am ENORMOUSLY grateful to you.”
“But,” the Frenchman said, with droll surprise, and a slight astonished movement of his shoulders, “I ‘ave done noz-zing! You ask for du feu — a light — and I geev to you. I am glad eef you like — bot —” again he shrugged32 his shoulders with a cynical33 but immensely engaging humour —“eet ees not so ver-ree grand.”
He was a young man, not more than thirty years old, somewhat above middle height, with a thin, nervously34 active figure, and thin, pointedly35 Gallic features. It was a pleasant, most engaging face, full of a sharply cynical intelligence; the thin mouth was alive with humour — with the witty37 and politely cynical disbelief of his race, and his tone, his manner — everything about him — was eloquent38 with this racial quality of disbelief, a quality that was perfectly courteous29, that would raise its pointed36 eyebrows39 and say politely, “You s’ink so”— but that accepted without assent40, was politely non-committal without agreement.
He was dressed as many young Frenchmen of that period dressed:— a style that served to combine the sinister41 toughness of the Apache with a rather gaudy42 and cheap enhancement of the current fashions. His clothes were neat but cheaply made; he wore a felt hat with a wide brim, creased43, French fashion, up the sides, an overcoat with padded shoulders, cut in sharply at the waist, his trousers had a short and skimpy look, and barely covered the tops of his shoes. He wore spats44, and a rather loud-coloured scarf which he knotted loosely, cravat-fashion, and which thus concealed45 his collar and his shirt. Finally, when he smoked a cigarette, he drew the smoke in slowly, languorously46, knowingly, with lidded eyes, and a cruel and bitter convulsion of his thin lips that gave his sharp face a sinister Apache expression.
Starwick was now crying out in a high drunken tone of passionate48 assurance:
“But yes! Yes! Yes! — You are a GRAND person — a SWELL49 person — I like you ENORMOUSLY . . . .”
“I am glad,” said the Frenchman politely, with another almost imperceptible movement of the shoulders.
“But yes! You are my friend!” Starwick cried in a high passionate tone. “I like you — you must drink with me.”
“Eef you like — of course!” the Frenchman politely agreed. Turning to the soiled barman who continued to look at them with dark mistrustful eyes, he said, in a hard, sharp voice, “Une fine. . . . And you, monsieur?” he turned inquiringly toward Eugene, “I s’ink you have another drink?”
“No, not now”— his glass was not yet empty. “We — we have both already had something to drink.”
“I can see,” the Frenchman said politely, but with a swift flicker50 of cynical mirth across his thin mouth, that needed no translation. Raising his glass, he said courteously:
“A votre santé, messieurs,” and drank.
“Look!” cried Starwick. “You are our friend now, and you must call us by our names. My name is Frank; his is Eugene — what is yours?”
“My name ees Alec,” said the young Frenchman smiling. “Zat ees w’at zey call me.”
“But it’s perfect!” Starwick cried enthusiastically. “It’s a SWELL name — a WONDERFUL name! Alec! — Ecoute!” he said to the soiled barman with the ugly eye, “Juh pawnse qu’il faut — encore du cognac,” he said drunkenly, making a confused and maudlin51 gesture with his arm. “Encore du cognac, s’il vous pla?t!” And as the barman silently and sullenly52 filled the three glasses from a bottle on the bar, Starwick turned to Alec, shouting with dangerous hilarity53: “Cognac for ever, Alec, Alec! — Cognac for you and me and all of us for ever! — Nothing but drunkenness — glorious drunkenness — divine poetic54 drunkenness for ever!”
“Eef you like,” said Alec, with a polite and acquiescent55 shrug. He raised his glass and drank.
It was four o’clock when they left the place. Arm in arm they reeled out into the street, Starwick holding on to Alec for support and shouting drunkenly:
“Nous sommes des amis! — Nous sommes des amis éternels! Mais oui! Mais oui!”
The whole dark and silent street rang and echoed with his drunken outcry. “Alec et moi — nous sommes des frères-nous sommes des artistes! Nothing shall part us! Non — jamais! Jamais!”
A taxi, which had been waiting in the darkness several doors away, now drove up swiftly and stopped before them at the kerb. Ann and Elinor were inside: Elinor opened the door and spoke56 gently:
“Frank, get in the taxi now, we’re going home.”
“Mais jamais! Jamais!” Starwick yelled hysterically57. “I go nowhere without Alec! — We are brothers — friends — he has a poet’s soul.”
“Frank, don’t be an idiot!” Elinor spoke quietly, but with crisp authority. “You’re drunk; get in the taxi; we’re going home.”
“Mais oui!” he shouted. “Je suis ivre! I am drunk! I will always be drunk — nothing but drunkenness for ever for Alec and me!”
“Listen!” Elinor spoke quietly, pleasantly to the Frenchman. “Won’t you go away, please, and leave him now? He is drunk, he does not know what he is doing; he really must go home now.”
“But, of course, madame,” said Alec courteously, “I go now.” He turned to Starwick and spoke quietly, with his thin, engaging smile: “I s’ink, Frank, eet ees bettaire eef you go home now, non?”
“But no! But no!” cried Starwick passionately58. “I will go nowhere without Alec. . . . Alec!” he cried, clutching him with drunken desperation. “You cannot go! You must not go! You cannot leave me!”
“Tomorrow, perhaps,” said Alec, smiling. “Ees eet not bettaire eef we go to-gezzer tomorrow? — I s’ink zen you feel motch bettaire.”
“No! No!” Starwick cried obstinately59. “Now! Now! Alec, you cannot leave me! We are brothers, we must tell each other everything. . . . You must show me all you know, all you have seen — you must teach me to smoke opium60 — take me where the opium-smokers go — Alec! Alec! J’ai la nostalgic pour la boue . . . .”
“Oh, Frank, quit talking like a drunken idiot! Get in the car, we’re going home . . . .”
“But no! But no!” Starwick raved61 on in his high drunken voice. “Alec and I are going on together — he has promised to take me to the places that he knows — to show me the dark mysteries — the lower depths . . . .”
“Oh, Frank, for God’s sake get in the car; you’re making a damned fool of yourself!”
“— But no! I will not go without Alec — he must come with us — he is going to show me . . . .”
“But I show you, Frank,” said Alec smoothly62. “Tonight, non!” He spoke firmly, waved a hand. “Eet ees impossible. I wet ’ere for someone. I must meet, I ‘ave engagement — yes. Tomorrow, eef you like, I meet you ’ere! Tonight, non!” His voice was harsh, sharp with irrevocable refusal. “I cannot. Eet ees impossible.”
By dint63 of infinite prayers and persuasions64, and by Alec’s promises that he would meet him next day to take him on a tour of “the lower depths,” they finally got Starwick into the taxi. All the way down the hill, however, as the taxi sped across Paris, through the darkened silent streets, and across the Seine into the Latin Quarter, Starwick raved on madly about his eternal friendship with Alec, from whom he could never more be parted. The taxi turned swiftly into the dark and empty little Rue47 des Beaux–Arts and halted before Eugene’s hotel. The two women waited in nervous and impatient haste for Eugene to get out, Elinor giving his arm a swift squeeze and saying:
“Good night, darling. We’ll see you tomorrow morning. Don’t forget our trip to Rheims.”
When he got out, however, Starwick followed him, and began to run drunkenly towards the corner, smashing at the shutters65 of the shops with his cane66 and screaming at the top of his voice:
“Alec! Alec! Où est Alec? Alec! Alec! Mon ami Alec! Où êtes-vous?”
Eugene ran after Starwick and caught him just as he was disappearing round the corner into the Rue Bonaparte, headed for the Seine. By main strength and pleading he brought him back, and managed to get him into the taxi again, which had followed his pursuit in swift watchful67 reverse. He slammed the door upon that raving68 madman, and as the taxi drove off he heard, through a fog of drunkenness, Elinor’s swift “Thank you, darling. You behaved magnificently — tomorrow —” and Starwick raving:
“Alec! Alec! Where is Alec?”
They sped off up the silent empty street, a narrow ribbon lit sparsely69 by a few lamps, and walled steeply with its high old shuttered houses. Eugene walked back to his hotel, rang the night bell, and was let in. As he stumbled up the circuitous70 and perilous71 ascent73 of five flights, he caught a moment’s glimpse of the little concierge74 and his wife, startled from their distressful75 sleep, clutching each other together in a protective embrace, as they peered out at him from the miserable76 little alcove77 where they slept — a moment’s vision of their pale, meagre faces and frightened eyes.
He climbed the winding78 flights of stairs, and let himself into his room, switching on the light, and flinging himself down upon the bed immediately in a stupor79 of drunken exhaustion80.
It seemed to him he had not lain there five minutes before he heard Starwick smashing at the street door below, and shouting drunkenly his own name and that of Alec. In another minute he heard Starwick stumbling up the stairs; he went to the door, opened it, and caught him just as he came stumbling in. Starwick was raving, demented, no longer conscious of his acts: he began to smash and beat at the bed with his stick, crying:
“There! — And there! — And there! — Out, out, damned spot, and make an end to you. . . . The stranger — the one I never knew — the stranger you have become — out! Out! Out!”
Turning to Eugene then, he peered at him with drunken bloodshot eyes, and said:
“Who are you? — Are you the stranger? — Are you the one I never knew? — Or are you . . .?” His voice trailed off feebly, and he sank down into a chair, sobbing81 drunkenly.
And getting to his feet at length he looked about him wildly, smote82 the bed again with his stick, and cried out loudly:
“Where is Eugene? Where is the Eugene that I knew? — Where? — Where? — Where?” He staggered to the door and flung it open, screaming: “Alec! Where are you?”
He reeled out into the hall, and for a moment hung dangerously against the stair rail, peering drunkenly down into the dizzy pit five flights below. Eugene ran after him, seized him by the arm and, together, they fell or reeled to the bottom. It was a journey as distorted and demented as a dream — a descent to be remembered later as a kind of corkscrew nightmare, broken by blind lurchings into a creaking rail, by the rattling83 of Starwick’s stick upon the banisters, by blind sprawls84, and stumblings, and by blobs and blurs85 of frightened faces at each landing, where Monsieur Gely’s more sober patrons waited in breath-caught silence at their open doors. They reached the bottom finally amid such universal thanksgiving, such prayers for their safety, as Gely’s hotel had never known before.
A vast sigh, a huge and single respiration86 of relief rustled87 up the steep dark pit of the winding stairs. But another peril72 lay before them. At the foot of the stairs there stood a monstrous88 five-foot vase which, by its lustre89 and the loving care with which it was polished every day by Marie, the maid, must have been the pride of the establishment. Starwick reeled blindly against it as he went past, the thing rocked sickeningly, and even as it tottered90 slowly over, Eugene heard Madame Gely’s gasp91 of terror, heard her low “Mon Dieu! Ca tombe, ?a tombe!” and a loud united “Ah-h-h!” of thankfulness as he caught it in his hands, and gently, safely, with such inner triumph as a man may feel who leaps through space and lands safely hanging to a flying trapeze, restored it to its former position. As he looked up he saw old Gely and his wife peering from their quarters with fat perturbed92 faces, and the little concierge and his wife still clutched together, peering through their curtains in a covert93 of bright frightened eyes.
They got out into the street at last. In the Rue Bonaparte they stopped a taxi drilling through. When they reached Montmartre again the night was breaking in grey light behind the Church of Sacré-C?ur. After further drinks of strong bad cognac, they piled out of the place into another taxi, and went hurtling back through Paris. By the time they arrived at the studio full light had come.
The women were waiting up for them. Starwick mumbled94 something and, holding his hand over his mouth, rushed across the room into the bathroom and vomited95. When he was empty, he staggered out, reeled towards the couch where Ann slept, and toppled on it, and was instantly sunk in senseless sleep.
Elinor regarded him for a while with an air at once contemplative and amused. “And now,” she said cheerfully, “to awake the Sleeping Beauty from his nap.” She smiled her fine bright smile, but the lines about her mouth were grimly set, and her eyes were hard. She approached the couch, and looking down upon Starwick’s prostrate96 and bedraggled form, she said sweetly: “Get up, darling. It’s breakfast-time.”
He groaned97 feebly and rolled over on his side.
“Up, up, up, my lamb!” Her tone was dulcet98, but the hand that grasped his collar and pulled him to a sitting position was by no means gentle. “We are waiting for you, darling. The day’s at morn, the hour draws close, it’s almost time. Remember, dear, we’re starting out for Rheims at nine o’clock.”
“Oh, God!” groaned Starwick wretchedly. “Don’t ask me to do that! Anything, anything but that. I can’t! I’ll go anywhere with you if you just leave me alone until tomorrow.” He flopped99 back on the bed again.
“Sorry, precious,” she said in a light and cheerful tone, as hard as granite100, “but it’s too late now! You should have thought of that before. Our plans are made, we’re going — and YOU,” suddenly her voice hardened formidably, “YOU’RE coming with us.” She looked at him a moment longer with hard eyes, bent101 and grasped him by the collar, and roughly jerked him up to a sitting position again.
“Francis,” she said sternly, “pull yourself together now and get up! We’re going to have no more of this nonsense!”
He groaned feebly and staggered to his feet. He seemed to be on the verge102 of collapse103, his appearance was so pitiable that Ann, coming from the bathroom at this moment, flushed with hot sympathy as she saw him, and cried out angrily, accusingly, to Elinor:
“Oh, leave him alone! Let him sleep if he wants to. Can’t you see he is half dead? Why should we drag him along to Rheims if he doesn’t feel like going? We can put the trip off until tomorrow, anyway. What does it matter when we go?”
Elinor smiled firmly and shook her head with a short inflexible104 movement. “No, sir,” she said quietly. “Nothing is going to be put off. We are going today, as we planned. And Mr. Starwick is going with us! He may go willingly or against his will, he may be conscious or unconscious when he gets there, but, alive or dead, he’s going!”
At these unhappy tidings, Starwick groaned miserably105 again. She turned to him and, her voice deepening to the authority of indignation, she said:
“Frank! You’ve GOT to see this through! There’s no getting out of it now! If you don’t feel well, that’s just too bad — but you’ve got to see this thing through, anyway! You’ve known about this trip for the past week — if you chose to spend last night making the rounds of every joint106 in Montmartre you’ve no one to blame for it but yourself! But you’ve GOT to go. You’re not going to let us down this time!”
And steeled and wakened by the challenge of her tone — that challenge which one meets so often in people who have let their whole life go to hell, and lacking stamina107 for life’s larger consequences insist on it for trivialities — he raised his head, looked at her with angry, bloodshot eyes, and said quietly:
“Very well, I’ll go. But I resent your asking it VERY much!”
“All right, my dear,” she said quietly. “If you resent it, you resent it — and that’s that! Only, when you make a promise to your friends they expect you to live up to it.”
“Ace,” said Starwick coldly. “Quite.”
“And now,” she spoke more kindly108, “why don’t you go into the bathroom, Frank, and straighten up a bit? A little cold water across your head and shoulders would do you no end of good.” She turned to Ann and said quietly: “Did you finish in there?”
“Yes,” said Ann curtly109, “it’s all right now. I’ve cleaned it up.” For a minute she stared sullenly at the older woman, and suddenly burst into her short and angry laugh:
“God!” she said, with a rich, abrupt110, and beautifully coarse humanity. “I never saw the like of it in my life! I don’t see where he put it all!” Her voice trembled with a full, rich, infuriated kind of humour. “Everything was there!” she cried, “except the kitchen sink!”
Starwick flushed deeply, and looking at her, said, quietly, gravely: “I’m sorry, Ann. I’m TERRIBLY, TERRIBLY sorry!”
“Oh, it’s all right,” she said shortly, yet with a kind of tenderness. “I’m used to it. Don’t forget that I served three years’ training in a hospital once. You get so you don’t notice those things.”
“You are a VERY swell person,” he said slowly and distinctly. “I’m TERRIBLY grateful.”
She flushed and turned away, saying curtly: “Sit down, Frank. You’ll feel better when you have some coffee. I’m making it now.” And in her silent and competent way she set to work.
In these few commonplace words all that was strong, grand, and tender in Ann’s soul and character was somehow made evident. Brusque and matter of fact as her words had been when she referred to the disgusting task just performed, their very curtness111, and the rich and coarse humanity of her sudden angry laugh, had revealed a spirit of noble tenderness and strength, a spirit so strong and sweet and full of love that it had risen triumphant112 not only over the stale, dead and snobbish113 little world from which she came, but also over the squeamishness which such a task would have aroused in most of the people who made up that world.
To Starwick, she symbolized114 certain divinities known to his art and his experience: Maya, or one of the great Earth–Mothers of the ancients, or the goddess of Compassionate115 Mercy of the Chinese, to whom he often likened her.
But to the other youth, her divinity was less mythical116, more racial and mundane117. She seemed to fulfil in part his vision of the grand America, to make palpable the female quality of that fortunate, good, and happy life of which he had dreamed since childhood — to evoke118 the structure of that enchanted119 life of which every American has dreamed as a child. It is a life that seems for ever just a hand’s-breadth off and instantly to be grasped and made our own, the moment that we find the word to utter it, the key to open it. It is a world distilled120 of our own blood and earth, and qualified121 by all our million lights and weathers, and we know that it will be noble, intolerably strange and lovely, when we find it. Finally, she was the incarnation of all the secret beauty of New England, the other side of man’s dark heart, the buried loveliness that all men long for.
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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stews
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| n.炖煮的菜肴( stew的名词复数 )；烦恼，焦虑v.炖( stew的第三人称单数 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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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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debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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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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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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zinc
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| n.锌；vt.在...上镀锌 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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drolly
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| adv.古里古怪地；滑稽地；幽默地；诙谐地 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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33
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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34
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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35
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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36
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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37
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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38
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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39
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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40
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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41
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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42
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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43
creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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44
spats
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| n.口角( spat的名词复数 )；小争吵；鞋罩；鞋套v.spit的过去式和过去分词( spat的第三人称单数 )；口角；小争吵；鞋罩 | |
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45
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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46
languorously
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| adv.疲倦地，郁闷地 | |
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47
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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48
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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49
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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50
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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51
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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52
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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53
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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54
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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55
acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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56
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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57
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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58
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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59
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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60
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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61
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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62
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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63
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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65
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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66
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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68
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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69
sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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71
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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72
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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73
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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74
concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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75
distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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76
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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77
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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78
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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79
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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80
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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81
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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82
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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83
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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84
sprawls
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| n.（城市）杂乱无序拓展的地区( sprawl的名词复数 )；随意扩展；蔓延物v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的第三人称单数 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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85
blurs
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| n.模糊( blur的名词复数 )；模糊之物；（移动的）模糊形状；模糊的记忆v.（使）变模糊( blur的第三人称单数 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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86
respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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87
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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89
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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90
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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91
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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92
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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94
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
vomited
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96
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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97
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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98
dulcet
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| adj.悦耳的 | |
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99
flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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100
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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101
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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102
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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103
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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104
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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105
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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106
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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107
stamina
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| n.体力；精力；耐力 | |
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108
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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109
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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110
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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111
curtness
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| n.简短；草率；简略 | |
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112
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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113
snobbish
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| adj.势利的，谄上欺下的 | |
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114
symbolized
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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116
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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117
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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118
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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119
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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120
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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121
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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