The evening passed as it had passed a hundred times before; and having smoked a pipe at the barracks, Captain Frere returned home. His home was a cottage on the New Town Road — a cottage which he had occupied since his appointment as Assistant Police Magistrate1, an appointment given to him as a reward for his exertions2 in connection with the Osprey mutiny. Captain Maurice Frere had risen in life. Quartered in Hobart Town, he had assumed a position in society, and had held several of those excellent appointments which in the year 1834 were bestowed3 upon officers of garrison4. He had been Superintendent5 of Works at Bridgewater, and when he got his captaincy, Assistant Police Magistrate at Bothwell. The affair of the Osprey made a noise; and it was tacitly resolved that the first “good thing” that fell vacant should be given to the gallant6 preserver of Major Vickers’s child.
Major Vickers also prospered7. He had always been a careful man, and having saved some money, had purchased land on favourable8 terms. The “assignment system” enabled him to cultivate portions of it at a small expense, and, following the usual custom, he stocked his run with cattle and sheep. He had sold his commission, and was now a comparatively wealthy man. He owned a fine estate; the house he lived in was purchased property. He was in good odour at Government House, and his office of Superintendent of Convicts caused him to take an active part in that local government which keeps a man constantly before the public. Major Vickers, a colonist9 against his will, had become, by force of circumstances, one of the leading men in Van Diemen’s Land. His daughter was a good match for any man; and many ensigns and lieutenants11, cursing their hard lot in “country quarters”, many sons of settlers living on their father’s station among the mountains, and many dapper clerks on the civil establishment envied Maurice Frere his good fortune. Some went so far as to say that the beautiful daughter of “Regulation Vickers” was too good for the coarse red-faced Frere, who was noted12 for his fondness for low society, and overbearing, almost brutal13 demeanour. No one denied, however, that Captain Frere was a valuable officer. It was said that, in consequence of his tastes, he knew more about the tricks of convicts than any man on the island. It was said, even, that he was wont14 to disguise himself, and mix with the pass-holders and convict servants, in order to learn their signs and mysteries. When in charge at Bridgewater it had been his delight to rate the chain-gangs in their own hideous15 jargon16, and to astound17 a new-comer by his knowledge of his previous history. The convict population hated and cringed to him, for, with his brutality18, and violence, he mingled19 a ferocious20 good humour, that resulted sometimes in tacit permission to go without the letter of the law. Yet, as the convicts themselves said, “a man was never safe with the Captain”; for, after drinking and joking with them, as the Sir Oracle21 of some public-house whose hostess he delighted to honour, he would disappear through a side door just as the constables22 burst in at the back, and show himself as remorseless, in his next morning’s sentence of the captured, as if he had never entered a tap-room in all his life. His superiors called this “zeal”; his inferiors “treachery”. For himself, he laughed. “Everything is fair to those wretches,” he was accustomed to say.
As the time for his marriage approached, however, he had in a measure given up these exploits, and strove, by his demeanour, to make his acquaintances forget several remarkable25 scandals concerning his private life, for the promulgation26 of which he once cared little. When Commandant at the Maria Island, and for the first two years after his return from the unlucky expedition to Macquarie Harbour, he had not suffered any fear of society’s opinion to restrain his vices27, but, as the affection for the pure young girl, who looked upon him as her saviour28 from a dreadful death, increased in honest strength, he had resolved to shut up those dark pages in his colonial experience, and to read therein no more. He was not remorseful29, he was not even disgusted. He merely came to the conclusion that, when a man married, he was to consider certain extravagances common to all bachelors as at an end. He had “had his fling, like all young men”, perhaps he had been foolish like most young men, but no reproachful ghost of past misdeeds haunted him. His nature was too prosaic30 to admit the existence of such phantoms31. Sylvia, in her purity and excellence32, was so far above him, that in raising his eyes to her, he lost sight of all the sordid33 creatures to whose level he had once debased himself, and had come in part to regard the sins he had committed, before his redemption by the love of this bright young creature, as evil done by him under a past condition of existence, and for the consequences of which he was not responsible. One of the consequences, however, was very close to him at this moment. His convict servant had, according to his instructions, sat up for him, and as he entered, the man handed him a letter, bearing a superscription in a female hand.
“Who brought this?” asked Frere, hastily tearing it open to read. “The groom34, sir. He said that there was a gentleman at the ‘George the Fourth’ who wished to see you.”
Frere smiled, in admiration35 of the intelligence which had dictated36 such a message, and then frowned in anger at the contents of the letter. “You needn’t wait,” he said to the man. “I shall have to go back again, I suppose.”
Changing his forage37 cap for a soft hat, and selecting a stick from a miscellaneous collection in a corner, he prepared to retrace38 his steps. “What does she want now?” he asked himself fiercely, as he strode down the moonlit road; but beneath the fierceness there was an under-current of petulance39, which implied that, whatever “she” did want, she had a right to expect.
The “George the Fourth” was a long low house, situated40 in Elizabeth Street. Its front was painted a dull red, and the narrow panes41 of glass in its windows, and the ostentatious affectation of red curtains and homely42 comfort, gave to it a spurious appearance of old English jollity. A knot of men round the door melted into air as Captain Frere approached, for it was now past eleven o’clock, and all persons found in the streets after eight could be compelled to “show their pass” or explain their business. The convict constables were not scrupulous43 in the exercise of their duty, and the bluff44 figure of Frere, clad in the blue serge which he affected45 as a summer costume, looked not unlike that of a convict constable23.
Pushing open the side door with the confident manner of one well acquainted with the house, Frere entered, and made his way along a narrow passage to a glass door at the further end. A tap upon this door brought a white-faced, pock-pitted Irish girl, who curtsied with servile recognition of the visitor, and ushered46 him upstairs. The room into which he was shown was a large one. It had three windows looking into the street, and was handsomely furnished. The carpet was soft, the candles were bright, and the supper tray gleamed invitingly47 from a table between the windows. As Frere entered, a little terrier ran barking to his feet. It was evident that he was not a constant visitor. The rustle48 of a silk dress behind the terrier betrayed the presence of a woman; and Frere, rounding the promontory49 of an ottoman, found himself face to face with Sarah Purfoy.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Pray, sit down.”
This was the only greeting that passed between them, and Frere sat down, in obedience50 to a motion of a plump hand that twinkled with rings.
The eleven years that had passed since we last saw this woman had dealt gently with her. Her foot was as small and her hand as white as of yore. Her hair, bound close about her head, was plentiful51 and glossy52, and her eyes had lost none of their dangerous brightness. Her figure was coarser, and the white arm that gleamed through a muslin sleeve showed an outline that a fastidious artist might wish to modify. The most noticeable change was in her face. The cheeks owned no longer that delicate purity which they once boasted, but had become thicker, while here and there showed those faint red streaks53 — as though the rich blood throbbed54 too painfully in the veins55 — which are the first signs of the decay of “fine” women. With middle age and the fullness of figure to which most women of her temperament56 are prone57, had come also that indescribable vulgarity of speech and manner which habitual58 absence of moral restraint never fails to produce.
Maurice Frere spoke59 first; he was anxious to bring his visit to as speedy a termination as possible. “What do you want of me?” he asked.
Sarah Purfoy laughed; a forced laugh, that sounded so unnatural60, that Frere turned to look at her. “I want you to do me a favour — a very great favour; that is if it will not put you out of the way.”
“What do you mean?” asked Frere roughly, pursing his lips with a sullen61 air. “Favour! What do you call this?” striking the sofa on which he sat. “Isn’t this a favour? What do you call your precious house and all that’s in it? Isn’t that a favour? What do you mean?”
To his utter astonishment62 the woman replied by shedding tears. For some time he regarded her in silence, as if unwilling63 to be softened64 by such shallow device, but eventually felt constrained65 to say something. “Have you been drinking again?” he asked, “or what’s the matter with you? Tell me what it is you want, and have done with it. I don’t know what possessed66 me to come here at all.”
Sarah sat upright, and dashed away her tears with one passionate67 hand.
“I am ill, can’t you see, you fool!” said she. “The news has unnerved me. If I have been drinking, what then? It’s nothing to you, is it?”
“Oh, no,” returned the other, “it’s nothing to me. You are the principal party concerned. If you choose to bloat yourself with brandy, do it by all means.”
“You don’t pay for it, at any rate!” said she, with quickness of retaliation68 which showed that this was not the only occasion on which they had quarrelled.
“Come,” said Frere, impatiently brutal, “get on. I can’t stop here all night.”
She suddenly rose, and crossed to where he was standing69.
“Maurice, you were very fond of me once.”
“Once,” said Maurice.
“Not so very many years ago.”
“Hang it!” said he, shifting his arm from beneath her hand, “don’t let us have all that stuff over again. It was before you took to drinking and swearing, and going raving70 mad with passion, any way.”
“Well, dear,” said she, with her great glittering eyes belying71 the soft tones of her voice, “I suffered for it, didn’t I? Didn’t you turn me out into the streets? Didn’t you lash72 me with your whip like a dog? Didn’t you put me in gaol73 for it, eh? It’s hard to struggle against you, Maurice.”
The compliment to his obstinacy74 seemed to please him — perhaps the crafty75 woman intended that it should — and he smiled.
“Well, there; let old times be old times, Sarah. You haven’t done badly, after all,” and he looked round the well-furnished room. “What do you want?”
“There was a transport came in this morning.”
“Well?”
“You know who was on board her, Maurice!”
Maurice brought one hand into the palm of the other with a rough laugh.
“Oh, that’s it, is it! ’Gad, what a flat I was not to think of it before! You want to see him, I suppose?” She came close to him, and, in her earnestness, took his hand. “I want to save his life!”
“Oh, that be hanged, you know! Save his life! It can’t be done.”
“You can do it, Maurice.”
“I save John Rex’s life?” cried Frere. “Why, you must be mad!”
“He is the only creature that loves me, Maurice — the only man who cares for me. He has done no harm. He only wanted to be free — was it not natural? You can save him if you like. I only ask for his life. What does it matter to you? A miserable76 prisoner — his death would be of no use. Let him live, Maurice.”
Maurice laughed. “What have I to do with it?”
“You are the principal witness against him. If you say that he behaved well — and he did behave well, you know: many men would have left you to starve — they won’t hang him.”
“Oh, won’t they! That won’t make much difference.”
“Ah, Maurice, be merciful!” She bent77 towards him, and tried to retain his hand, but he withdrew it.
“You’re a nice sort of woman to ask me to help your lover — a man who left me on that cursed coast to die, for all he cared,” he said, with a galling78 recollection of his humiliation79 of five years back. “Save him! Confound him, not I!”
“Ah, Maurice, you will.” She spoke with a suppressed sob80 in her voice. “What is it to you? You don’t care for me now. You beat me, and turned me out of doors, though I never did you wrong. This man was a husband to me — long, long before I met you. He never did you any harm; he never will. He will bless you if you save him, Maurice.”
Frere jerked his head impatiently. “Bless me!” he said. “I don’t want his blessings81. Let him swing. Who cares?”
Still she persisted, with tears streaming from her eyes, with white arms upraised, on her knees even, catching82 at his coat, and beseeching83 him in broken accents. In her wild, fierce beauty and passionate abandonment she might have been a deserted84 Ariadne — a suppliant85 Medea. Anything rather than what she was — a dissolute, half-maddened woman, praying for the pardon of her convict husband.
Maurice Frere flung her off with an oath. “Get up!” he cried brutally86, “and stop that nonsense. I tell you the man’s as good as dead for all I shall do to save him.”
At this repulse87, her pent-up passion broke forth88. She sprang to her feet, and, pushing back the hair that in her frenzied89 pleading had fallen about her face, poured out upon him a torrent90 of abuse. “You! Who are you, that you dare to speak to me like that? His little finger is worth your whole body. He is a man, a brave man, not a coward, like you. A coward! Yes, a coward! a coward! A coward! You are very brave with defenceless men and weak women. You have beaten me until I was bruised91 black, you cur; but who ever saw you attack a man unless he was chained or bound? Do not I know you? I have seen you taunt92 a man at the triangles, until I wished the screaming wretch24 could get loose, and murder you as you deserve! You will be murdered one of these days, Maurice Frere — take my word for it. Men are flesh and blood, and flesh and blood won’t endure the torments93 you lay on it!”
“There, that’ll do,” says Frere, growing paler. “Don’t excite yourself.”
“I know you, you brutal coward. I have not been your mistress — God forgive me!— without learning you by heart. I’ve seen your ignorance and your conceit94. I’ve seen the men who ate your food and drank your wine laugh at you. I’ve heard what your friends say; I’ve heard the comparisons they make. One of your dogs has more brains than you, and twice as much heart. And these are the men they send to rule us! Oh, Heaven! And such an animal as this has life and death in his hand! He may hang, may he? I’ll hang with him, then, and God will forgive me for murder, for I will kill you!”
Frere had cowered95 before this frightful96 torrent of rage, but, at the scream which accompanied the last words, he stepped forward as though to seize her. In her desperate courage, she flung herself before him. “Strike me! You daren’t! I defy you! Bring up the wretched creatures who learn the way to Hell in this cursed house, and let them see you do it. Call them! They are old friends of yours. They all know Captain Maurice Frere.”
“Sarah!”
“You remember Lucy Barnes — poor little Lucy Barnes that stole sixpennyworth of calico. She is downstairs now. Would you know her if you saw her? She isn’t the bright-faced baby she was when they sent her here to ‘reform’, and when Lieutenant10 Frere wanted a new housemaid from the Factory! Call for her!— call! do you hear? Ask any one of those beasts whom you lash and chain for Lucy Barnes. He’ll tell you all about her — ay, and about many more — many more poor souls that are at the bidding of any drunken brute97 that has stolen a pound note to fee the Devil with! Oh, you good God in Heaven, will You not judge this man?”
Frere trembled. He had often witnessed this creature’s whirlwinds of passion, but never had he seen her so violent as this. Her frenzy98 frightened him. “For Heaven’s sake, Sarah, be quiet. What is it you want? What would you do?”
“I’ll go to this girl you want to marry, and tell her all I know of you. I have seen her in the streets — have seen her look the other way when I passed her — have seen her gather up her muslin skirts when my silks touched her — I that nursed her, that heard her say her baby-prayers (O Jesus, pity me!)— and I know what she thinks of women like me. She is good — and virtuous99 — and cold. She would shudder100 at you if she knew what I know. Shudder! She would hate you! And I will tell her! Ay, I will! You will be respectable, will you? A model husband! Wait till I tell her my story — till I send some of these poor women to tell theirs. You kill my love; I’ll blight101 and ruin yours!”
Frere caught her by both wrists, and with all his strength forced her to her knees. “Don’t speak her name,” he said in a hoarse102 voice, “or I’ll do you a mischief103. I know all you mean to do. I’m not such a fool as not to see that. Be quiet! Men have murdered women like you, and now I know how they came to do it.”
For a few minutes a silence fell upon the pair, and at last Frere, releasing her hands, fell back from her.
“I’ll do what you want, on one condition.”
“What?”
“That you leave this place.”
“Where for?”
“Anywhere — the farther the better. I’ll pay your passage to Sydney, and you go or stay there as you please.”
She had grown calmer, hearing him thus relenting. “But this house, Maurice?”
“You are not in debt?”
“No.”
“Well, leave it. It’s your own affair, not mine. If I help you, you must go.”
“May I see him?”
“No.”
“Ah, Maurice!”
“You can see him in the dock if you like,” says Frere, with a laugh, cut short by a flash of her eyes. “There, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Offend me! Go on.”
“Listen here,” said he doggedly104. “If you will go away, and promise never to interfere105 with me by word or deed, I’ll do what you want.”
“What will you do?” she asked, unable to suppress a smile at the victory she had won.
“I will not say all I know about this man. I will say he befriended me. I will do my best to save his life.”
“You can save it if you like.”
“Well, I will try. On my honour, I will try.”
“I must believe you, I suppose?” said she doubtfully; and then, with a sudden pitiful pleading, in strange contrast to her former violence, “You are not deceiving me, Maurice?”
“No. Why should I? You keep your promise, and I’ll keep mine. Is it a bargain?”
“Yes.”
He eyed her steadfastly106 for some seconds, and then turned on his heel. As he reached the door she called him back. Knowing him as she did, she felt that he would keep his word, and her feminine nature could not resist a parting sneer107.
“There is nothing in the bargain to prevent me helping108 him to escape!” she said with a smile.
“Escape! He won’t escape again, I’ll go bail109. Once get him in double irons at Port Arthur, and he’s safe enough.”
The smile on her face seemed infectious, for his own sullen features relaxed. “Good night, Sarah,” he said.
She put out her hand, as if nothing had happened. “Good night, Captain Frere. It’s a bargain, then?”
“A bargain.”
“You have a long walk home. Will you have some brandy?”
“I don’t care if I do,” he said, advancing to the table, and filling his glass. “Here’s a good voyage to you!”
Sarah Purfoy, watching him, burst into a laugh. “Human beings are queer creatures,” she said. “Who would have thought that we had been calling each other names just now? I say, I’m a vixen when I’m roused, ain’t I, Maurice?”
“Remember what you’ve promised,” said he, with a threat in his voice, as he moved to the door. “You must be out of this by the next ship that leaves.”
“Never fear, I’ll go.”
Getting into the cool street directly, and seeing the calm stars shining, and the placid110 water sleeping with a peace in which he had no share, he strove to cast off the nervous fear that was on him. That interview had frightened him, for it had made him think. It was hard that, just as he had turned over a new leaf, this old blot111 should come through to the clean page. It was cruel that, having comfortably forgotten the past, he should be thus rudely reminded of it.
收听单词发音 |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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colonist
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| n.殖民者，移民 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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astound
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| v.使震惊，使大吃一惊 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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promulgation
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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48
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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49
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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50
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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51
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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52
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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53
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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54
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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55
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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56
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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57
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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58
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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59
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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60
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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61
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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63
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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64
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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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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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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71
belying
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| v.掩饰，与…不符，使…失望；掩饰( belie的现在分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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72
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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73
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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74
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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75
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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78
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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80
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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81
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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82
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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83
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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84
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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85
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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86
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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87
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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88
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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89
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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90
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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91
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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92
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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93
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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94
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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95
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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96
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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97
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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98
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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99
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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100
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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101
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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102
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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103
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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104
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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105
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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106
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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107
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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108
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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109
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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110
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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111
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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