The Angel Islington was dreaming A dark and rushing dream.
Huge waves were rising and crashing over the city; the night sky was rent with forks of white lightning from horizon to horizon; the rain fell in sheets, the city trembled; fires started near the great amphitheater and spread, quickly, through the city, defying the storm. Islington was looking down on everything from far above, hovering1 in the air, as one hovers2 in dreams, as it had hovered3 in those long-ago times. There were buildings in that city that were many hundreds of feet high, but they were dwarfed4 by the gray-green Atlantic waves. And then it heard the people scream. There were four million people in Atlantis, and, in its dream, Islington heard each and every one of their voices, clearly and distinctly, as, one by one, they screamed, and choked, and burned, and drowned, and died. The waves swallowed the city, and, at length, the storm subsided5.
When dawn broke, there was nothing to indicate there had ever been a city there at all, let alone an island twice the size of Greece. Nothing of Atlantis remained but the water-bloated bodies of children, of women and of men, floating on the cold morning waves; bodies the seagulls, gray and white, were already beginning to pick with their cruel beaks6.
And Islington woke. It was standing7 in the octagon of iron pillars, beside the great black door, made of flint and tarnished8 silver. It touched the cold smoothness of the flint, the chill of the metal. It touched the table. It ran its finger lightly along the walls. Then it walked through chambers10 of its hall, one after another, touching11 things, as if to reassure12 itself of their existence, to convince itself it was here, and now. It followed patterns, as it walked, smooth channels its bare feet had worn, over the centuries, in the rock. It stopped when it reached the rock-pool, kneeling down and letting its fingers touch the cold water.
There was a ripple13 in the water, which began with its fingertips and echoed out to the edges. The reflections in the pool, of the angel itself and the candle flames that framed it, shimmered14 and transformed. It was looking into a cellar. The angel concentrated for a moment; it could hear a telephone ring, somewhere in the distance.
Mr. Croup walked over to the telephone and picked up the receiver. He looked rather pleased with himself. "Croup and Vandemar," he barked. "Eyes gouged15, noses twisted, tongues pierced, chins cleft16, throats slit17."
"Mister Croup," said the angel. "They now have the key. I want the girl called Door kept safe on her journey back to me."
"Safe," repeated Mr. Croup, unimpressed. "Right. We'll keep her safe. What a marvelous idea--such originality18. Positively19 astounding20. Most people would be content with hiring assassins for executions, sly killings21, vile23 murders even. Only you, sir, would hire the two finest cutthroats in the whole of space and time, and then ask them to ensure a little girl remains24 unharmed."
"See that she is, Mister Croup. Nothing is to hurt her. Permit her to be harmed in any way and you will displease25 me deeply. Do you understand?"
"Yes." Croup shifted uncomfortably.
"Is there anything else?" asked Islington.
"Yes, sir." Croup coughed into his hand. "Do you remember the marquis de Carabas?"
"Of course."
"I take it that there is no such similar prohibition26 on extirpating27 the marquis . . . ?"
"Not any longer," said the angel. "Just protect the girl."
It removed its hand from the water. The reflection was now merely candle flames and an angel of astonishing, perfectly28 androgynous, beauty. The Angel Islington stood up and returned to its inner chambers to await its eventual29 visitors.
"What did he say?" asked Mr. Vandemar.
"He said, Mister Vandemar, that we should feel free to do whatsoever30 we wished to the marquis."
Vandemar nodded. "Did that include killing22 him painfully?" he asked, a little pedantically31.
"Yes, Mister Vandemar, I would say, on reflection, it did."
"That's good, Mister Croup. Wouldn't like another telling-off." He looked up at the bloody32 thing hanging above them. "Better get rid of the body, then."
One of the front wheels on the supermarket shopping cart squeaked33, and it had a pronounced tendency to pull to the left. Mr. Vandemar had found the metal cart on a grassed-in traffic island, near the hospital. It was, he had realized on seeing it, just the right size for moving a body. He could have carried the body, of course; but then it could have bled on him, or dripped other fluids. And he only had the one suit. So he pushed the shopping cart with the body of the marquis de Carabas in it through the storm drain, and the cart went _squee, squee_ and pulled to the left. He wished that Mr. Croup would push the shopping cart, for a change. But Mr. Croup was talking. "You know, Mister Vandemar," he was saying, "I am currently too overjoyed, too delighted, not to mention too utterly34 and illimitably ecstatic, to grouse35, gripe or grumble--having finally been permitted to do what we do best--'"
Mr. Vandemar negotiated a particularly awkward corner. "Kill someone, you mean?" he asked.
Mr. Croup beamed. "Kill someone I mean indeed, Mister Vandemar, brave soul, glittering, noble fellow. However, by now you must have sensed a lurking36 'but' skulking37 beneath my happy, blithe38, and chipper exterior39. A minuscule40 vexation, like the teeniest lump of raw liver sticking to the inside of my boot. You must, I have no doubt, be saying to yourself, 'All is not well in Mister Croup's breast. I shall induce him to unburden himself to me.' "
Mr. Vandemar pondered this while he forced open the round iron door between the storm drain and the sewer41 and clambered through. Then he manhandled the wire cart with the marquis de Carabas's body through the doorway42. And then, more or less certain that he had been thinking nothing of the sort, he said, "No."
Mr. Croup ignored this, and continued, " . . . And, were I then, in response to your pleadings, to divulge43 to you what vexes44 me, I would confess that my soul is irked by the necessity to hide our light under a bushel. We should be hanging the former marquis's sad remains from the highest gibbet in London Below. Not tossing it away, like a used . . . " He paused, searching for the exact simile45.
"Rat?" suggested Mr. Vandemar. "Thumbscrew? Spleen?" _Squee, squee_ went the wheels of the shopping cart.
"Ah well," said Mr. Croup. In front of them was a deep channel of brown water. Drifting on the water's surface were off-white suds of foam46, used condoms, and occasional fragments of toilet paper. Mr. Vandemar stopped the shopping cart. Mr. Croup leaned down and picked up the marquis's head by the hair, hissing47 into its dead ear, "The sooner this business is over and done with, the happier I'll be. There's other times and other places that would properly appreciate two pair of dab48 hands with the garrotting wire and the boning knife."
Then he stood up. "Goodnight, good marquis. Don't forget to write."
Mr. Vandemar tipped over the cart, and the marquis's corpse49 tumbled out and splashed into the brown water below them. And then, because he had come to dislike it intensely, Mr. Vandemar pushed the shopping cart into the sewer as well, and watched the current carry it away.
Then Mr. Croup held his lamp up high, and he stared out at the place in which they stood. "It is saddening to reflect," said Mr. Croup, "that there are folk walking the streets above who will never know the beauty of these sewers50, Mister Vandemar. These red-brick cathedrals beneath their feet."
"Craftsmanship," agreed Mr. Vandemar.
They turned their backs on the brown water and made their way back into the tunnels. "With cities, as with people, Mister Vandemar," said Mr. Croup, fastidiously, "the condition of the bowels51 is all-important."
Door tied the key around her neck with a piece of string that she found in one of the pockets of her leather jacket. "That's not going to be safe," said Richard. The girl made a face at him. "Well," he said. "It's not."
She shrugged52. "Okay," she said. "I'll get a chain for it when we get to the market." They were walking through a maze53 of caves, deep tunnels hacked54 from the limestone55 that seemed almost prehistoric56.
Richard chuckled57. "What's so funny?" Door asked.
He grinned. "I was just thinking of the expression on the marquis's face when we tell him we got the key from the friars without his help."
"I'm sure he'll have something sardonic58 to say about it," she said. "And then, back to the angel. By the 'long and dangerous way.' Whatever that is."
Richard admired the paintings on the cave walls. Russets and ochres and siennas outlined charging boars and fleeing gazelles, woolly mastodons and giant sloths59: he imagined that the paintings had to be thousands of years old, but then they turned a corner, and he noticed that, in the same style, there were lorries, house cats, cars, and--markedly inferior to the other images, as if only glimpsed infrequently, and from a long way away--airplanes.
None of the paintings were very high off the ground. He wondered if the painters were a race of subterranean60 Neanderthal pygmies. It was as likely as anything else in this strange world. "So where is the next market?" he asked.
"No idea," said Door. "Hunter?"
Hunter slipped out of the shadows. "I don't know."
A small figure dashed past them, going back the way they had come. A few moments later another couple of tiny figures came toward them in fell pursuit. Hunter whipped out a hand as they passed, snagging a small boy by the ear. "Ow," he said, in the manner of small boys. "Let me go! She stole my paintbrush."
"That's right," said a piping voice from further down the corridor. "She did."
"I didn't," came an even higher and more piping voice, from even further down the corridor.
Hunter pointed61 to the paintings on the cave wall. "You did these?" she asked.
The boy had the towering arrogance62 only seen in the greatest of artists and all nine-year-old boys. "Yeah," he said, truculently63. "Some of them."
"Not bad," said Hunter. The boy glared at her.
"Where's the next Floating Market?" asked Door.
"Belfast," said the boy. "Tonight."
"Thanks," said Door. "Hope you get your paintbrush back. Let him go, Hunter."
Hunter let go of the boy's ear. He did not move. He looked her up and down, then made a face, to indicate that he was, without any question at all, unimpressed. "_You're_ Hunter?" he asked. She smiled down at him, modestly. He sniffed64. "_You're_ the best bodyguard65 in the Underside?"
"So they tell me."
The boy reached one hand back and forward again, in one smooth movement. He stopped, puzzled, and opened his hand, examined his palm. Then he looked up at Hunter, confused. Hunter opened her hand to reveal a small switchblade with a wicked edge. She held it up, out of the boy's reach. He wrinkled his nose. "How'd you do that?"
"Scram," said Hunter. She closed the knife and tossed it back to the boy, who took off down the corridor without a backward glance, in pursuit of his paintbrush.
The body of the marquis de Carabas drifted east, through the deep sewer, face down.
London's sewers had begun their lives as rivers and streams, flowing north to south (and, south of the Thames, south to north) carrying garbage, animal carcasses, and the contents of chamber9 pots into the Thames, which would, for the most part, carry the offending substances out to sea. This system had more or less worked for many years, until, in 1858, the enormous volume of effluent produced by the people and industries of London, combined with a rather hot summer, produced a phenomenon known at the time as the Great Stink66: the Thames itself had become an open sewer. People who could leave London, left it; the ones who stayed wrapped cloths doused67 in carbolic around their faces and tried not to breathe through their noses. Parliament was forced to recess68 early in 1858, arid69 the following year it ordered that a programme of sewer-building begin. The thousands of miles of sewers that were built were constructed with a gentle slope from the west to the east, and, somewhere beyond Greenwich, they were pumped into the Thames Estuary70, and the sewage was swept off into the North Sea. It was this journey that the body of the late marquis de Carabas was making, traveling west to east, toward the sunrise and the sewage works.
Rats on a high brick ledge71, doing the things that rats do when no people are watching, saw the body go by. The largest of them, a big black male, chittered. A smaller brown female chittered back, then she leapt down from the ledge onto the marquis's back and rode it down the sewer a little way, sniffing72 at the hair and the coat, tasting the blood, and then, precariously73, leaning over, and scrutinizing74 what could be seen of the face.
She hopped75 off the head into the filthy77 water and swam industriously78 to the side, where she clambered up the slippery brickwork. She hurried back a long a beam, and rejoined her companions.
"Belfast?" asked Richard.
Door smiled, impishly, and would say nothing more than, "You'll see," when he pressed her about it.
He changed his tack79. "How do you know that kid was telling you the truth about the market?" he asked.
"It's not something anyone down here ever lies about. I . . . don't think we _can_ lie about it." She paused. "The market's special."
"How did that kid know where it was?"
"Someone told him," said Hunter.
Richard brooded on this for a moment. "How did they know?"
"Someone told them," explained Door.
"But . . . " He wondered who chose the locations in the first place, how the knowledge was spread, trying to frame the question in such a way that he did not sound stupid.
A rich female voice asked from the darkness, "Hss. Any idea when the next market is?"
She stepped into the light. She wore silver jewelry80, and her dark hair was perfectly coifed. She was very pale, and her long dress was jet black velvet81. Richard knew immediately that he had seen her before, but it took him a few moments to place her: the first Floating Market, that was it--in Harrods. She had smiled at him.
"Tonight," said Hunter. "Belfast."
"Thank you," said the woman. She had the most amazing eyes, thought Richard. They were the color of foxgloves.
"I'll see you there," she said, and she looked at Richard as she said it. Then she looked away, a little shyly; she stepped into the shadows, and she was gone.
"Who was that?" asked Richard.
"They call themselves Velvets," said Door. "They sleep down here during the day, and walk the Up-world at night."
"Are they dangerous?" asked Richard.
"Everybody's dangerous," said Hunter.
"Look," said Richard. "Going back to the market. Who decides where it gets held, and when? And how do the first people find out where it's being held?" Hunter shrugged. "Door?" he asked.
"I've never thought about it." They turned a corner. Door held up her lamp. "Not bad at all," said Door.
"And fast, too," said Hunter. She touched the painting on the rock wall with her fingertip. The paint was still wet. It was a painting of Hunter and Door and Richard. It was not flattering.
The black rat entered the lair82 of the Golden deferentially83, his head lowered, ears back. He crawled forward, squeeing and chittering.
The Golden had made their lair in a pile of bones. This pile of bones had once belonged to a woolly mammoth84, back in the cold times when the great hairy beasts walked across the snowy tundra85 of the south of England as if, in the opinion of the Golden, they owned the place. This particular mammoth, at least, had been disabused86 of that idea rather thoroughly87 and quite terminally by the Golden.
The black rat made its obeisance88 at the base of the bone pile. Then he lay on his back with his throat exposed, closed his eyes, and waited. After a while a chittering from above told him that he could roll over.
One of the Golden crawled out of the mammoth skull89, on top of the heap of bones. It crawled along the old ivory tusk90, a golden-furred rat with copper-colored eyes, the size of a large house cat.
The black rat spoke91. The Golden thought, briefly92, and chattered93 an order. The black rat rolled on his back, exposing his throat again, for a moment. Then a twist and a wriggle94, and he was on his way.
There had been Sewer Folk before the Great Stink, of course, living in the Elizabethan sewers, or the Restoration sewers, or the Regency sewers, as more and more of London's waterways were forced into pipes and covered passages, as the expanding population produced more filth76, more rubbish, more effluent; but after the Great Stink, after the great plan of Victorian sewer-building, that was when the Sewer Folk came into their own. They could be found anywhere in the length and breadth of the sewers, but they made their permanent homes in some of the churchlike red-brick vaults95 toward the east, at the confluence96 of many of the churning foamy97 waters. There they would sit, rods and nets and improvised98 hooks beside them, and watch the surface of the brown water.
They wore clothes--brown and green clothes, covered in a thick layer of something that might have been mold and might have been a petrochemical ooze99, and might, conceivably, have been something much worse. They wore their hair long and matted. They smelled more or less as one would imagine. Old storm lanterns were hung about the tunnel. Nobody knew what the Sewer Folk used for fuel, but their lanterns burned with a rather noxious100 blue-and-green flame.
It was not known how the Sewer Folk communicated among themselves. In their few dealings with the outside world, they used a kind of sign language. They lived in a world of gurgles and drips, the men, the women, and the silent little sewer children.
Dunnikin spotted101 something in the water. He was the chief of the Sewer Folk, the wisest and the oldest. He knew the sewers better than their original builders did. Dunnikin reached for a long shrimping net; one practiced hand movement and he was fishing out a rather bedraggled mobile telephone from the water. He walked over to a small heap of rubbish in the corner and put the telephone down with the rest of their haul. The day's catch so far consisted of two odd gloves, a shoe, a cat skull, a sodden102 packet of cigarettes, an artificial leg, a dead cocker spaniel, a pair of antlers (mounted), and the bottom half of a baby carriage.
It had not been a good day. And tonight was a market night, in the open air. So Dunnikin kept his eyes on the water. You never knew what would turn up.
Old Bailey was hanging his wash out to dry. Blankets and sheets fluttered and blew in the wind on the top of Centre Point, the ugly and distinctive103 sixties skyscraper104 that marks the eastern end of Oxford105 Street, far above Tottenham Court Road Station. Old Bailey did not care very much for Centre Point itself, but, as he'd often tell the birds, the view from the top was without compare, and, furthermore, the top of Centre Point was one of the few places in the West End of London where you did not have to look at Centre Point itself.
The wind ripped feathers from Old Bailey's coat and blew them away, off over London. He did not mind. As he also often told his birds, there were more where those came from.
A large black rat crawled out through a ripped air-vent cover, looked around, then came over to Old Bailey's bird-spattered tent. It ran up the side of the tent, then along the top of Old Bailey's washing line. It squealed106 at him, urgently.
"Slower, slower," said Old Bailey. The rat repeated itself, at a lower pitch, but just as urgently. "Bless me," said Old Bailey. He ran into his tent and returned with weapons--his toasting fork and a coal shovel107. Then he hurried back into the tent again and came out with some bargaining tools. And then he walked back into the tent for the last time, and opened his wooden chest, and pocketed the silver box. "I really don't have time for this tomfoolery," he told the rat, on his final exit from the tent. "I'm a very busy man. Birds don't catch themselves, y'know."
The rat squeaked at him. Old Bailey was unfastening the coil of rope around his middle. "Well," he told the rat, "there's others could get the body. I'm not as young as I was. I don't like the under-places. I'm a roof-man, I am, born and bred."
The rat made a rude noise.
"More haste, less speed," replied Old Bailey. "I'm goin'. Young whippersnapper. I knew your great-great-grandfather, young feller-me-rat, so don't you try putting on airs . . . Now, where's the market going to be?" The rat told him. Then Old Bailey put the rat in his pocket and climbed over the side of the building.
Sitting on the ledge beside the sewer, in his plastic lawn chair, Dunnikin was overcome by a presentiment108 of wealth and prosperity. He could feel it drifting from west to east, toward them.
He clapped his hands, loudly. Other men ran to him, and the women, and the children, seizing hooks and nets and lines as they did so. They assembled along the slippery sewer ledge, in the sputtering109 green light of their lanterns. Dunnikin pointed, and they waited, in silence, which is how the Sewer Folk wait.
The body of the marquis de Carabas came floating facedown along the sewer, the current carrying him as slow and stately as a funeral barge110. They pulled it in with their hooks and their nets, in silence, and soon had it up on the ledge. They removed the coat, the boots, the gold pocket-watch, and the contents of the coat pockets, although they left the rest of the clothes on the corpse.
Dunnikin beamed at the loot. He clapped again, and the Sewer Folk began to ready themselves for the market. Now they truly had something of value to sell.
"Are you sure the marquis will be at the market?" Richard asked Door, as the path began, slowly, to climb.
"He won't let us down," she said, as confidently as she could. "I'm sure he'll be there."
收听单词发音 |
1
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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beaks
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| n.鸟嘴( beak的名词复数 )；鹰钩嘴；尖鼻子；掌权者 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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shimmered
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gouged
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| v.凿( gouge的过去式和过去分词 )；乱要价；（在…中）抠出…；挖出… | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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killings
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| 谋杀( killing的名词复数 )； 突然发大财，暴发 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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extirpating
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| v.消灭，灭绝( extirpate的现在分词 )；根除 | |
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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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eventual
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| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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pedantically
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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38
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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39
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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40
minuscule
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| adj.非常小的；极不重要的 | |
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41
sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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42
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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43
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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44
vexes
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| v.使烦恼( vex的第三人称单数 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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45
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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46
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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47
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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48
dab
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| v.轻触，轻拍，轻涂；n.(颜料等的)轻涂 | |
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49
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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50
sewers
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| n.阴沟，污水管，下水道( sewer的名词复数 ) | |
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51
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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52
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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53
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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54
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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55
limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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56
prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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57
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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59
sloths
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| 懒散( sloth的名词复数 )； 懒惰； 树獭； （经济）停滞。 | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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61
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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62
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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63
truculently
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64
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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65
bodyguard
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| n.护卫，保镖 | |
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66
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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67
doused
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| v.浇水在…上( douse的过去式和过去分词 )；熄灯[火] | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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69
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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estuary
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| n.河口，江口 | |
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71
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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precariously
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| adv.不安全地；危险地；碰机会地；不稳定地 | |
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scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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75
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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76
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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77
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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78
industriously
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79
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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80
jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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81
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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82
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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83
deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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84
mammoth
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| n.长毛象；adj.长毛象似的，巨大的 | |
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85
tundra
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| n.苔原，冻土地带 | |
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86
disabused
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| v.去除…的错误想法( disabuse的过去式和过去分词 )；使醒悟 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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88
obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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89
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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90
tusk
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| n.獠牙，长牙，象牙 | |
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91
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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92
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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93
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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94
wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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95
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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96
confluence
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| n.汇合，聚集 | |
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97
foamy
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| adj.全是泡沫的，泡沫的，起泡沫的 | |
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98
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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99
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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100
noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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101
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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102
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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103
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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104
skyscraper
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| n.摩天大楼 | |
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105
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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106
squealed
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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108
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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109
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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110
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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