IN THE MORNING WHEN he went outside he found that the milk and hamburger were gone.
His eyes rushed over the lawn. There were two women crumpled1 on the grass but the dog wasn't there. A breath of relief passed his lips. Thank God for that, he thought. Then he grinned to himself. If I were religious now, he thought, I'd find in this a vindication2 of my prayer.
Immediately afterward3 he began berating4 himself for not being awake when the dog had come. It must have been after dawn, when the streets were safe. The dog must have evolved a system to have lived so long. But he should have been awake to watch.
He consoled himself with the hope that he was winning the dog over, if only with food. He was briefly5 worried by the idea that the vampires6 had taken the food, and not the dog. But a quick check ended that fear. The hamburger had not been lifted over the garlic ring, but dragged through it along the cement of the porch. And all around the bowl were tiny milk splashes, still moist, that could have been made only by a dog's lapping tongue.
Before he had breakfast he put out more milk and more hamburger, placing them in the shade so the milk wouldn't get too warm. After a moment's deliberation he also put out a bowl of cold water.
Then, after eating, he took the two women to the fire and, returning, stopped at a market and picked up two dozen cans of the best dog food as well as boxes of dog biscuit, dog candy, dog soap, flea8 powder, and a wire brush.
Lord, you'd think I was having a baby or something, he thought as he struggled back to the car with his arms full. A grin faltered9 on his lips. Why pretend? he thought. I'm more excited than I've been in a year. The eagerness he'd felt upon seeing the germ in his microscope was nothing compared with what he felt about the dog.
He drove home at eighty miles an hour, and he couldn't help a groan10 of disappointment when he saw that the meat and drink were untouched. Well, what the hell do you expect? he asked himself sarcastically11. The dog can't eat every hour on the hour.
Putting down the dog food and equipment on the kitchen table, he looked at his watch. Ten-fifteen. The dog would be back when it got hungry again. Patience, he told himself. Get yourself at least one virtue12, anyway.
He put away the cans and boxes. Then he checked the outside of the house and the hothouse. There was a loose board to fasten and a pane13 to repair on the hothouse roof.
While he collected garlic bulbs, he wondered once again why the vampires had never set fire to his house. It seemed such an obvious tactic14. Was it possible they were afraid of matches? Or was it that they were just too stupid? After all, their brains could not be so fully15 operative as they had been before. The change from life to mobile death must have involved some tissue deterioration16.
No, that theory wasn't any good, because there were living ones around his house at night too. Nothing was wrong with their brains, was there?
He skipped it. He was in no mood for problems. He spent the rest of the morning preparing and hanging garlic strands17. Once he wondered about the fact that garlic bulbs worked. In legend it was always the blossoms of the garlic plant He shrugged18. What was the difference? The proof of the garlic was in its chasing ability. He imagined that the blossoms would work too.
After lunch he sat at the peephole looking out at the bowls and the plate. There was no sound anywhere except for the almost inaudible humming of the air-conditioning units in the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen.
The dog came at four. Neville had almost fallen into a doze7 as he sat there before the peephole. Then his eyes blinked and focused as the dog came hobbling slowly across the street, looking at the house with white-rimmed, cautious eyes. He wondered what was wrong with the dog's paw. He wanted very much to fix it and get the dog's affection. Shades of Androcles, he thought in the gloom of his house.
He forced himself to sit still and watch. It was incredible, the feeling of warmth and normality it gave him to see the dog slurping19 up the milk and eating the hamburger, its jaws20 snapping and popping with relish21. He sat there with a gentle smile on his face, a smile he wasn't conscious of. It was such a nice dog.
His throat swallowed convulsively as the dog finished eating and started away from the porch. Jumping up from the stool, he moved quickly for the front door.
Then he held himself back. No, that wasn't the way, he decided22 reluctantly. You'll just scare him if you go out. Let him go now, let him go.
He went back to the peephole and watched the dog wobbling across the street and moving in between those two houses again. He felt a tightness in his throat as he watched it leave. It's all right, he soothed23 himself, he'll be back.
He turned away from the peephole and made himself a mild drink. Sitting in the chair and sipping24 slowly, he wondered where the dog went at night. At first he'd been worried about not having it in the house with him. But then he'd realized that the dog must be a master at hiding itself to have lasted so long.
It was probably, he thought, one of those freak accidents that followed no percentage law. Somehow, by luck, by coincidence, maybe by a little skill, that one dog had survived the plague and the grisly victims of the plague.
That started him thinking. If a dog, with its limited intelligence, could manage to subsist25 through it all, wouldn't a person with a reasoning brain have that much more chance for survival?
He made himself think about something else. It was dangerous to hope. That was a truism he had long accepted.
The next morning the dog came again. This time Robert Neville opened the front door and went out. The dog immediately bolted away from the dish and bowls, right ear flattened26 back, legs scrambling27 frantically29 across the street.
Neville twitched30 with the repressed instinct to pursue.
As casually31 as he could manage, he sat down on the edge of the porch.
Across the street the dog ran between the houses again and disappeared. After fifteen minutes of sitting, Neville went in again.
After a small breakfast he put out more food.
The dog came at four and Neville went out again, this time making sure that the dog was finished eating.
Once more the dog fled. But this time, seeing that it was not pursued, it stopped across the street and looked back for a moment.
"It's all right, boy," Neville called but, but at the sound of his voice the dog ran away again.
Neville sat on the porch stiffly, teeth gritted32 with impatience33. Goddamn it, what's the matter with him? he thought. The damn mutt!
He forced himself to think of what the dog must have gone through. The endless nights of groveling in the blackness, hidden God knew where, its gaunt chest laboring34 in the night while all around its shivering form the vampires walked. The foraging35 for food and water, the struggle for life in a world without masters, housed in a body that man had made dependent on himself.
Poor little fella, he thought, I'll be good to you when you come and live with me.
Maybe, the thought came then, a dog had more chance of survival than a human. Dogs were smaller, they could hide in places the vampires couldn't go. They could probably sense the alien nature of those about them, probably smell it.
That didn't make him any happier. For always, in spite of reason, he had clung to the hope that someday he would find someone like himself—a man, a woman, a child, it didn't matter. Sex was fast losing its meaning without the endless prodding36 of mass hypnosis. Loneliness he still felt.
Sometimes he had indulged in daydreams37 about finding someone. More often, though, he had tried to adjust to what he sincerely believed was the inevitable—that he was actually the only one left in the world. At least in as much of the world as he could ever hope to know.
Thinking about it, he almost forgot that nightfall was approaching.
With a start he looked up and saw Ben Cortman running at him from across the street.
"Neville!"
He jumped up from the porch and ran into the house, locking and bolting the door behind him with shaking hands.
For a certain period he went out on the porch just as the dog had finished eating. Every time he went out the dog ran away, but as the days passed it ran with decreasing speed, and soon it was stopping halfway38 across the street to look back and bark at him. Neville never followed, but sat down on the porch and watched. It was a game they played.
Then one day Neville sat on the porch before the dog came. And, when it appeared across the street, he remained seated.
For about fifteen minutes the dog hovered39 near the curb40 suspiciously, unwilling41 to approach the food. Neville edged as far away from the food as he could in order to encourage the dog. Unthinking, he crossed his legs, and the dog shrank away at the unexpected motion. Neville held himself quietly then and the dog kept moving around restlessly in the street, its eyes moving from Neville to the food and back again.
"Come on, boy," Neville said to it. "Eat your food, that's a good dog."
Another ten minutes passed. The dog was now on the lawn, moving in concentric arcs that became shorter and shorter.
The dog stopped. Then slowly, very slowly, one paw at a time, it began moving up on the dish and bowls, its eyes never leaving Neville for a second.
"That's the boy," Neville said quietly.
This time the dog didn't flinch42 or back away at the sound of his voice. Still Neville made sure he sat motionless so that no abrupt43 movement would startle the dog.
The dog moved yet closer, stalking the plate, its body tense and waiting for the least motion from Neville.
"That's right," Neville told the dog.
Suddenly the dog darted44 in and grabbed the meat. Neville's pleased laughter followed its frantically erratic45 wobble across the street.
"You little son of a gun," he said appreciatively.
Then he sat and watched the dog as it ate. It crouched46 down on a yellow lawn across the street, its eyes on Neville while it wolfed down the hamburger. Enjoy it, he thought, watching the dog. From now on you get dog food. I can't afford to let you have any more fresh meat.
When the dog had finished it straightened up and came across the street again, a little less hesitantly. Neville still sat there, feeling his heart thud nervously47. The dog was beginning to trust him, and somehow it made him tremble. He sat there, his eyes fastened on the dog.
"That's tight, boy," he heard himself saying aloud. "Get your water now, that's a good dog."
A sudden smile of delight raised his lips as he saw the dog's good ear stand up. He's listening! he thought excitedly. He hears what I say, the little son of a gun!
"Come on, boy." He went on talking eagerly. "Get your water and your milk now, that's a good boy. I won't hurt you. Atta boy."
The dog went to the water and drank gingerly, its head lifting with sudden jerks to watch him, then dipping down again.
"I'm not doing anything," Neville told the dog.
He couldn't get over how odd his voice sounded. When a man didn't hear the sound of his own voice for almost a year, it sounded very strange to him. A year was a long time to live in silence. When you come live with me, he thought, I'll talk your ear off. The dog finished the water.
"Come `ere, boy." Neville said invitingly48, patting his leg. "Come on."
The dog looked at him curiously49, its good ear twitching50 again. Those eyes, Neville thought. What a world of feeling in those eyes! Distrust, fear, hope, loneliness—all etched in those big brown eyes. Poor little guy.
"Come on, boy, I won't hurt you," he said gently.
Then he stood up and the dog ran away. Neville stood there looking at the fleeing dog shaking his head slowly.
More days passed. Each day Neville sat on the porch while the dog ate, and before long the dog approached the dish and bowls without hesitation51, almost boldly, with the assurance of the dog that knows its human conquest.
And all the time Neville would talk to it.
"That's a good boy. Eat up the food. That's good food, isn't it? Sure it is. I'm your friend. I gave you that food. Eat it up, boy, that's right. That's a good dog," endlessly cajoling, praising, pouring soft words into the dog's frightened mind as it ate.
And every day he sat a little bit closer to it, until the day came when he could have reached out and touched the dog if he'd stretched a little. He didn't, though. I'm not taking any chances, he told himself. I don't want to scare him.
But it was hard to keep his hands still. He could almost feel them twitching empathically with his strong desire to reach out and stroke the dog's head. He had such a terrible yearning52 to love something again, and the dog was such a beautifully ugly dog.
He kept talking to the dog until it became quite used to the sound of his voice. It hardly looked up now when he spoke53. It came and went without trepidation54, eating and barking its curt55 acknowledgment from across the street. Soon now, Neville told himself, I'll be able to pat his head. The days passed into pleasant weeks, each hour bringing him closer to a companion.
Then one day the dog didn't come.
Neville was frantic28. He'd got so used to the dog's coming and going that it had become the fulcrum56 of his daily schedule, everything fitting around the dog's mealtimes, investigation57 forgotten, everything pushed aside but his desire to have the dog in his house.
He spent a nerve-racked afternoon searching the neighborhood, calling out in a loud voice for the dog. But no amount of searching helped, and he went home to a tasteless dinner. The dog didn't come for dinner that night or for breakfast the next morning. Again Neville searched, but with less hope. They've got him, he kept hearing the words in his mind, the dirty bastards58 have got him. But he couldn't really believe it. He wouldn't let himself believe it.
On the afternoon of the third day he was in the garage when he heard the sound of the metal bowl clinking outside. With a gasp59 he ran out into the daylight.
"You're back!" he cried.
The dog jerked away from the plate nervously, water dripping from its jaws.
Neville's heart leaped. The dog's eyes were glazed60 and it was panting for breath, its dark tongue hanging out.
"No," he said, his voice breaking. "Oh, no."
The dog still backed across the lawn on trembling stalks of legs. Quickly Neville sat down on the porch steps and stayed there trembling. Oh, no, he thought in anguish61, oh, God, no.
He sat there watching it tremble fitfully as it lapped up the water. No. No. It's not true.
"Not true," he murmured without realizing it.
Then, instinctively62, he reached out his hand. The dog drew back a little, teeth bared in a throaty snarl63.
"It's all right, boy," Neville said quietly. "I won't hurt you." He didn't even know what he was saying.
He couldn't stop the dog from leaving. He tried to follow it, but it was gone before he could discover where it hid. He'd decided it must be under a house somewhere, but that didn't do him any good.
He couldn't sleep that night. He paced restlessly, drinking pots of coffee and cursing the sluggishness64 of time. He had to get hold of the dog, he had to. And soon. He had to cure it.
But how? His throat moved. There had to be a way. Even with the little he knew there must be a way.
The next morning he sat tight beside the bowl and he felt his lips shaking as the dog came limping slowly across the street. It didn't eat anything. Its eyes were more dull and listless than they'd been the day before. Neville wanted to jump at it and try to grab hold of it, take it in the house, nurse it.
But he knew that if he jumped and missed he might undo65 everything. The dog might never return.
All through the meal his hand kept twitching out to pat the dog's head. But every time it did, the dog cringed away with a snarl. He tried being forceful. "Stop that!" he said in a firm, angry tone, but that only frightened the dog more and it drew away farther from him. Neville had to talk to it for fifteen minutes, his voice a hoarse66, trembling sound, before the dog would return to the water.
This time he managed to follow the slow-moving dog and saw which house it squirmed under. There was a little metal screen he could have put up over the opening, but he didn't. He didn't want to frighten the dog. And besides, there would be no way of getting the dog then except through the floor, and that would take too long. He had to get the dog fast.
When the dog didn't return that afternoon, he took a dish of milk and put it under the house where the dog was. The next morning the bowl was empty. He was going to put more milk in it when he realized that the dog might never leave his lair67 then. He put the bowl back in front of his house and prayed that the dog was strong enough to reach it. He was too warned even to criticize his inept68 prayer.
When the dog didn't come that afternoon he went back and looked in. He paced back and forth69 outside the opening and almost put milk there anyway. No, the dog would never leave then.
He went home and spent a sleepless70 night. The dog didn't come in the morning. Again he went to the house. He listened at the opening but couldn't hear any sound of breathing. Either it was too far back for him to hear or...
He went back to the house and sat on the porch. He didn't have breakfast or lunch. He just sat there.
That afternoon, late, the dog came limping out between the houses, moving slowly on its bony legs. Neville forced himself to sit there without moving until the dog had reached the food. Then, quickly, he reached down and picked up the dog.
Immediately it tried to snap at him, but he caught its jaws in his tight hand and held them together. its lean, almost hairless body squirmed feebly in his grasp and pitifully terrified whines71 pulsed in its throat.
"It's all tight," he kept saying. "it's all right, boy."
Quickly he took it into his room and put it down on the little bed of blankets he'd arranged for the dog. As soon as he took his hand off its jaws the dog snapped at him and he jerked his hand back. The dog lunged over the linoleum72 with a violent scrabbling of paws, heading for the door. Neville jumped up and blocked its way. The dog's legs slipped on the smooth surface, then it got a little traction73 and disappeared under the bed.
Neville got on his knees and looked under the bed. In the gloom there he saw the two glowing coals of eyes and heard the fitful panting.
"Come on, boy," he pleaded unhappily. "I won't hurt you. You're sick. You need help."
The dog wouldn't budge74. With a groan Neville got up finally and went out, closing the door behind him. He went and got the bowls and filled them with milk and water. He put them in the bedroom near the dog's bed.
He stood by his own bed a moment, listening to the panting dog, his face lined with pain.
"Oh," he muttered plaintively75, "why don't you trust me?"
He was eating dinner when he heard the horrible crying and whining76.
Heart pounding, he jumped up from the table and raced across the living room. He threw open the bedroom door and flicked77 on the light.
Over in the corner by the bench the dog was trying to dig a hole in the floor.
Terrified whines shook its body as its front paws clawed frenziedly at the linoleum, slipping futilely78 on the smoothness of it.
"Boy, it's all right!" Neville said quickly.
The dog jerked around and backed into the corner, hackles rising, jaws drawn79 back all the way from its yellowish-white teeth, a half-mad sound quivering in its throat.
Suddenly Neville knew what was wrong. It was nighttime and the terrified dog was trying to dig itself a hole to bury itself in.
He stood there helplessly, his brain refusing to work properly as the dog edged away from the corner, then scuttled80 underneath81 the workbench.
An idea finally came. Neville moved to his bed quickly and pulled off the top blanket. Returning to the bench, he crouched down and looked under it.
The dog was almost flattened against the wall, its body shaking violently, guttural snarls82 bubbling in its throat.
"All right, boy," he said. "All right."
The dog shrank back as Neville stuck the blanket underneath the bench and then stood up. Neville went over to the door and remained there a minute looking back. If only I could do something, he thought helplessly. But I can't even get close to him.
Well, he decided grimly, if the dog didn't accept him soon, he'd have to try a little chloroform. Then he could at least work on the dog, fix its paw and try somehow to cure it.
He went back to the kitchen but he couldn't eat. Finally he dumped the contents of his plate into the garbage disposal and poured the coffee back into the pot. In the living room he made himself a drink and downed it. It tasted flat and unappetizing. He put down the glass and. went back to the bedroom with a somber83 face.
The dog had dug itself under the folds of the blanket and there it was still shaking, whining ceaselessly. No use trying to work on it now, he thought; it's too frightened.
He walked back to the bed and sat down. He ran his hands through his hair and then put them over his face. Cure it, cure it, he thought, and one of his hands bunched into a fist to strike feebly at the mattress84.
Reaching out abruptly85, he turned off the light and lay down fully clothed. Still lying down, he worked off his sandals and listened to them thump86 on the floor.
Silence. He lay there staring at the ceiling. Why don't I get up? he wondered. Why don't I try to do something?
He turned on his side. Get some sleep. The words came automatically. He knew he wasn't going to sleep, though. He lay in the darkness listening to the dog's whimpering.
Die, it's going to die, he kept thinking, there's nothing in the world I can do.
At last, unable to bear the sound, he reached over and switched on the bedside lamp. As he moved across the room in his stocking feet, he heard the dog trying suddenly to jerk loose from the blanketing. But it got all tangled87 up in the folds and began yelping88, terror-stricken, while its body flailed89 wildly under the wool.
Neville knelt beside it and put his hands on its body. He heard the choking snarl and the muffled90 click of its teeth as it snapped at him through the blanket.
"All right," he said. "Stop it now."
The dog kept struggling against him, its high-pitched whining never stopping, its gaunt body shaking without control. Neville kept his hands firmly on its body, pinning it down, talking to it quietly, gently.
"It's all right now, fella, all right. Nobody's going to hurt you. Take it easy, now. Come on, relax, now. Come on, boy. Take it easy. Relax. That's tight, relax. That's it. Calm down. Nobody's going to hurt you. We'll take care of you."
He went on talking intermittently91 for almost an hour, his voice a low, hypnotic murmuring in the silence of the room. And slowly, hesitantly, the dog's trembling eased off. A smile faltered on Neville's lips as he went on talking, talking.
"That's right. Take it easy, now. We'll take care of you."
Soon the dog lay still beneath his strong hands, the only movement its harsh breathing. Neville began patting its head, began running his right hand over its body, stroking and soothing92.
"That's a good dog," he said softly. "Good dog. I'll take care of you now. Nobody will hurt you. You understand, don't you, fella? Sure you do. Sure. You're my dog, aren't you?"
Carefully he sat down on the cool linoleum, still patting the dog.
"You're a good dog, a good dog."
His voice was calm, it was quiet with resignation.
After about an hour he picked up the dog. For a moment it struggled and started whining, but Neville talked to it again and it soon calmed down.
He sat down on his bed and held the blanket-covered dog in his lap. He sat there for hours holding the dog, patting and stroking and talking. The dog lay immobile in his lap, breathing easier.
It was about eleven that night when Neville slowly undid93 the blanket folds and exposed the dog's head.
For a few minutes it cringed away from his hand, snapping a little. But he kept talking to it quietly, and after a while his hand rested on the warm neck and he was moving his fingers gently, scratching and caressing94.
He smiled down at the dog, his throat moving.
"You'll be all better soon," he whispered. "Real soon." The dog looked up at him with its dulled, sick eyes and then its tongue faltered out and licked roughly and moistly across the palm of Neville's hand.
Something broke in Neville's throat. He sat there silently while tears ran slowly down his cheeks.
In a week the dog was dead.
收听单词发音 |
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crumpled
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vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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berating
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| v.严厉责备，痛斥( berate的现在分词 ) | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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vampires
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| n.吸血鬼( vampire的名词复数 )；吸血蝠；高利贷者；（舞台上的）活板门 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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tactic
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| n.战略，策略；adj.战术的，有策略的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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deterioration
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| n.退化；恶化；变坏 | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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slurping
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| v.啜食( slurp的现在分词 ) | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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twitched
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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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gritted
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的过去式和过去分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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foraging
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| v.搜寻（食物），尤指动物觅（食）( forage的现在分词 )；（尤指用手）搜寻（东西） | |
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36
prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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daydreams
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| n.白日梦( daydream的名词复数 )v.想入非非，空想( daydream的第三人称单数 ) | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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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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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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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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50
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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fulcrum
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| n.杠杆支点 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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bastards
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| 私生子( bastard的名词复数 )； 坏蛋； 讨厌的事物； 麻烦事 （认为别人走运或不幸时说）家伙 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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sluggishness
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| 不振，萧条，呆滞；惰性；滞性；惯性 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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inept
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| adj.不恰当的，荒谬的，拙劣的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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whines
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| n.悲嗥声( whine的名词复数 )；哀鸣者v.哀号( whine的第三人称单数 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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72
linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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traction
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| n.牵引；附着摩擦力 | |
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74
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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77
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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futilely
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| futile（无用的）的变形； 干 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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82
snarls
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| n.（动物的）龇牙低吼( snarl的名词复数 )；愤怒叫嚷（声）；咆哮（声）；疼痛叫声v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的第三人称单数 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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83
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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84
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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85
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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86
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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89
flailed
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| v.鞭打( flail的过去式和过去分词 )；用连枷脱粒；（臂或腿）无法控制地乱动；扫雷坦克 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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91
intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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92
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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93
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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94
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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