He was much better. He was growing fatter and stronger every day, if it was proper to speak of days.
The white light and the humming sound were the same as ever, but the cell was a little more comfortable than the others he had been in. There was a pillow and a mattress1 on the plank2 bed, and a stool to sit on. They had given him a bath, and they allowed him to wash himself fairly frequently in a tin basin. They even gave him warm water to wash with. They had given him new underclothes and a clean suit of overalls3. They had dressed his varicose ulcer4 with soothing5 ointment6. They had pulled out the remnants of his teeth and given him a new set of dentures.
Weeks or months must have passed. It would have been possible now to keep count of the passage of time, if he had felt any interest in doing so, since he was being fed at what appeared to be regular intervals7. He was getting, he judged, three meals in the twenty-four hours; sometimes he wondered dimly whether he was getting them by night or by day. The food was surprisingly good, with meat at every third meal. Once there was even a packet of cigarettes. He had no matches, but the never-speaking guard who brought his food would give him a light. The first time he tried to smoke it made him sick, but he persevered8, and spun9 the packet out for a long time, smoking half a cigarette after each meal.
They had given him a white slate10 with a stump11 of pencil tied to the corner. At first he made no use of it. Even when he was awake he was completely torpid12. Often he would lie from one meal to the next almost without stirring, sometimes asleep, sometimes waking into vague reveries in which it was too much trouble to open his eyes. He had long grown used to sleeping with a strong light on his face. It seemed to make no difference, except that one's dreams were more coherent. He dreamed a great deal all through this time, and they were always happy dreams. He was in the Golden Country, or he was sitting among enormous glorious, sunlit ruins, with his mother, with Julia, with O'Brien -- not doing anything, merely sitting in the sun, talking of peaceful things. Such thoughts as he had when he was awake were mostly about his dreams. He seemed to have lost the power of intellectual effort, now that the stimulus14 of pain had been removed. He was not bored, he had no desire for conversation or distraction15. Merely to be alone, not to be beaten or questioned, to have enough to eat, and to be clean all over, was completely satisfying.
By degrees he came to spend less time in sleep, but he still felt no impulse to get off the bed. All he cared for was to lie quiet and feel the strength gathering16 in his body. He would finger himself here and there, trying to make sure that it was not an illusion that his muscles were growing rounder and his skin tauter17. Finally it was established beyond a doubt that he was growing fatter; his thighs19 were now definitely thicker than his knees. After that, reluctantly at first, he began exercising himself regularly. In a little while he could walk three kilometres, measured by pacing the cell, and his bowed shoulders were growing straighter. He attempted more elaborate exercises, and was astonished and humiliated20 to find what things he could not do. He could not move out of a walk, he could not hold his stool out at arm's length, he could not stand on one leg without falling over. He squatted21 down on his heels, and found that with agonizing22 pains in thigh18 and calf23 he could just lift himself to a standing24 position. He lay flat on his belly25 and tried to lift his weight by his hands. It was hopeless, he could not raise himself a centimetre. But after a few more days -- a few more mealtimes -- even that feat26 was accomplished27. A time came when he could do it six times running. He began to grow actually proud of his body, and to cherish an intermittent28 belief that his face also was growing back to normal. Only when he chanced to put his hand on his bald scalp did he remember the seamed, ruined face that had looked back at him out of the mirror.
His mind grew more active. He sat down on the plank bed, his back against the wall and the slate on his knees, and set to work deliberately29 at the task of re-educating himself.
He had capitulated, that was agreed. In reality, as he saw now, he had been ready to capitulate long before he had taken the decision. From the moment when he was inside the Ministry30 of Love -- and yes, even during those minutes when he and Julia had stood helpless while the iron voice from the telescreen told them what to do -- he had grasped the frivolity31, the shallowness of his attempt to set himself up against the power of the Party. He knew now that for seven years the Thought police had watched him like a beetle32 under a magnifying glass. There was no physical act, no word spoken aloud, that they had not noticed, no train of thought that they had not been able to infer. Even the speck33 of whitish dust on the cover of his diary they had carefully replaced. They had played sound-tracks to him, shown him photographs. Some of them were photographs of Julia and himself. Yes, even ... He could not fight against the Party any longer. Besides, the Party was in the right. It must be so; how could the immortal34, collective brain be mistaken? By what external standard could you check its judgements? Sanity35 was statistical36. It was merely a question of learning to think as they thought. Only!
The pencil felt thick and awkward in his fingers. He began to write down the thoughts that came into his head. He wrote first in large clumsy capitals:
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
Then almost without a pause he wrote beneath it:
TWO AND TWO MAKE FIVE
But then there came a sort of check. His mind, as though shying away from something, seemed unable to concentrate. He knew that he knew what came next, but for the moment he could not recall it. When he did recall it, it was only by consciously reasoning out what it must be: it did not come of its own accord. He wrote:
GOD IS POWER
He accepted everything. The past was alterable. The past never had been altered. Oceania was at war with Eastasia. Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia. Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford were guilty of the crimes they were charged with. He had never seen the photograph that disproved their guilt37. It had never existed, he had invented it. He remembered remembering contrary things, but those were false memories, products of selfdeception. How easy it all was! Only surrender, and everything else followed. It was like swimming against a current that swept you backwards38 however hard you struggled, and then suddenly deciding to turn round and go with the current instead of opposing it. Nothing had changed except your own attitude: the predestined thing happened in any case. He hardly knew why he had ever rebelled. Everything was easy, except!
Anything could be true. The so-called laws of Nature were nonsense. The law of gravity was nonsense. 'If I wished,' O'Brien had said, 'I could float off this floor like a soap bubble.' Winston worked it out. 'If he thinks he floats off the floor, and if I simultaneously39 think I see him do it, then the thing happens.' Suddenly, like a lump of submerged wreckage40 breaking the surface of water, the thought burst into his mind: 'It doesn't really happen. We imagine it. It is hallucination.' He pushed the thought under instantly. The fallacy was obvious. It presupposed that somewhere or other, outside oneself, there was a 'real' world where 'real' things happened. But how could there be such a world? What knowledge have we of anything, save through our own minds? All happenings are in the mind. Whatever happens in all minds, truly happens.
He had no difficulty in disposing of the fallacy, and he was in no danger of succumbing41 to it. He realized, nevertheless, that it ought never to have occurred to him. The mind should develop a blind spot whenever a dangerous thought presented itself. The process should be automatic, instinctive42. Crimestop, they called it in Newspeak.
He set to work to exercise himself in crimestop. He presented himself with propositions -- 'the Party says the earth is flat', 'the party says that ice is heavier than water' -- and trained himself in not seeing or not understanding the arguments that contradicted them. It was not easy. It needed great powers of reasoning and improvisation43. The arithmetical problems raised, for instance, by such a statement as 'two and two make five' were beyond his intellectual grasp. It needed also a sort of athleticism44 of mind, an ability at one moment to make the most delicate use of logic45 and at the next to be unconscious of the crudest logical errors. Stupidity was as necessary as intelligence, and as difficult to attain46.
All the while, with one part of his mind, he wondered how soon they would shoot him. 'Everything depends on yourself,' O'Brien had said; but he knew that there was no conscious act by which he could bring it nearer. It might be ten minutes hence, or ten years. They might keep him for years in solitary47 confinement48, they might send him to a labour-camp, they might release him for a while, as they sometimes did. It was perfectly49 possible that before he was shot the whole drama of his arrest and interrogation would be enacted50 all over again. The one certain thing was that death never came at an expected moment. The tradition -- the unspoken tradition: somehow you knew it, though you never heard it said -- was that they shot you from behind; always in the back of the head, without warning, as you walked down a corridor from cell to cell.
One day -- but 'one day' was not the right expression; just as probably it was in the middle of the night: once -- he fell into a strange, blissful reverie. He was walking down the corridor, waiting for the bullet. He knew that it was coming in another moment. Everything was settled, smoothed out, reconciled. There were no more doubts, no more arguments, no more pain, no more fear. His body was healthy and strong. He walked easily, with a joy of movement and with a feeling of walking in sunlight. He was not any longer in the narrow white corridors in the Ministry of Love, he was in the enormous sunlit passage, a kilometre wide, down which he had seemed to walk in the delirium51 induced by drugs. He was in the Golden Country, following the foot-track across the old rabbit-cropped pasture. He could feel the short springy turf under his feet and the gentle sunshine on his face. At the edge of the field were the elm trees, faintly stirring, and somewhere beyond that was the stream where the dace lay in the green pools under the willows52.
Suddenly he started up with a shock of horror. The sweat broke out on his backbone53. He had heard himself cry aloud:
'Julia! Julia! Julia, my love! Julia!'
For a moment he had had an overwhelming hallucination of her presence. She had seemed to be not merely with him, but inside him. It was as though she had got into the texture54 of his skin. In that moment he had loved her far more than he had ever done when they were together and free. Also he knew that somewhere or other she was still alive and needed his help.
He lay back on the bed and tried to compose himself. What had he done? How many years had he added to his servitude by that moment of weakness?
In another moment he would hear the tramp of boots outside. They could not let such an outburst go unpunished. They would know now, if they had not known before, that he was breaking the agreement he had made with them. He obeyed the Party, but he still hated the Party. In the old days he had hidden a heretical mind beneath an appearance of conformity55. Now he had retreated a step further: in the mind he had surrendered, but he had hoped to keep the inner heart inviolate56. He knew that he was in the wrong, but he preferred to be in the wrong. They would understand that -- O'Brien would understand it. It was all confessed in that single foolish cry.
He would have to start all over again. It might take years. He ran a hand over his face, trying to familiarize himself with the new shape. There were deep furrows57 in the cheeks, the cheekbones felt sharp, the nose flattened58. Besides, since last seeing himself in the glass he had been given a complete new set of teeth. It was not easy to preserve inscrutability when you did not know what your face looked like. In any case, mere13 control of the features was not enough. For the first time he perceived that if you want to keep a secret you must also hide it from yourself. You must know all the while that it is there, but until it is needed you must never let it emerge into your consciousness in any shape that could be given a name. From now onwards he must not only think right; he must feel right, dream right. And all the while he must keep his hatred59 locked up inside him like a ball of matter which was part of himself and yet unconnected with the rest of him, a kind of cyst.
One day they would decide to shoot him. You could not tell when it would happen, but a few seconds beforehand it should be possible to guess. It was always from behind, walking down a corridor. Ten seconds would be enough. In that time the world inside him could turn over. And then suddenly, without a word uttered, without a check in his step, without the changing of a line in his face -- suddenly the camouflage60 would be down and bang! would go the batteries of his hatred. Hatred would fill him like an enormous roaring flame. And almost in the same instant bang! would go the bullet, too late, or too early. They would have blown his brain to pieces before they could reclaim61 it. The heretical thought would be unpunished, unrepented, out of their reach for ever. They would have blown a hole in their own perfection. To die hating them, that was freedom.
He shut his eyes. It was more difficult than accepting an intellectual discipline. It was a question of degrading himself, mutilating himself. He had got to plunge62 into the filthiest63 of filth64. What was the most horrible, sickening thing of all? He thought of Big Brother. The enormous face (because of constantly seeing it on posters he always thought of it as being a metre wide), with its heavy black moustache and the eyes that followed you to and fro, seemed to float into his mind of its own accord. What were his true feelings towards Big Brother?
There was a heavy tramp of boots in the passage. The steel door swung open with a clang. O'Brien walked into the cell. Behind him were the waxen-faced officer and the black-uniformed guards.
'Get up,' said O'Brien. 'Come here.'
Winston stood opposite him. O'Brien took Winston's shoulders between his strong hands and looked at him closely.
'You have had thoughts of deceiving me,' he said. 'That was stupid. Stand up straighter. Look me in the face.'
He paused, and went on in a gentler tone:
'You are improving. Intellectually there is very little wrong with you. It is only emotionally that you have failed to make progress. Tell me, Winston -- and remember, no lies: you know that I am always able to detect a lie -- tell me, what are your true feelings towards Big Brother?'
'I hate him.'
'You hate him. Good. Then the time has come for you to take the last step. You must love Big Brother. It is not enough to obey him: you must love him.'
He released Winston with a little push towards the guards.
'Room 101,' he said.
他好多了。他一天比一天胖起来，一无比一天强壮起来，只是很难区分这一天与下一天而已。
白色的光线和嗡嗡的声音一如既往，不过牢房比以前稍为舒服了一些。木板床上有了床垫，还有个枕头，床边有把板凳可以坐一坐。他好给他洗了一个澡，可以过一阵子用铝盆擦洗一下身子。他们甚至送温水来给他洗。他们给他换了新内衣和一套干净的工作服。他们在静脉曲张的疮口上抹了清凉的油膏。他们把剩下的坏牙都拔了，给他镶了全部假牙。
这么过了几个星期，甚至几个月。如果他有兴趣的话，现在有办法计算时间了，因为他们定时给他送吃的来。他估计，每二十四小时送来三顿饭；有时他也搞不清送饭来的时间是白天还是夜里，伙食好得出奇，每三顿总有一顿有肉。
有一阵子还有香烟。他没有火柴，但是送饭来的那个从来不说话的警卫给他点了火。他第一次抽烟几乎感到恶心要吐，但还是吸了下去，每餐以后吸半支，一盒烟吸了好多天。
他们给他一块白纸板，上面系着一支铅笔。起初他没有用它。他醒着的时候也完全麻木不动。他常常吃完一餐就躺在那里，一动不动地等下一餐，有时睡了过去，有时昏昏沉沉，连眼皮也懒得张开。他早已习惯在强烈的灯光照在脸上的情况下睡觉了。这似乎与在黑暗中睡觉没有什么不同，只是梦境更加清楚而已，在这段时间内他梦得很多，而且总是快活的梦。他梦见自己在黄金乡，坐在阳光映照下的一大片废墟中间，同他的母亲、裘莉亚、奥勃良在一起，什么事情也不干，只是坐在阳光中，谈着家常。他醒着的时候心里想到的也是梦境。致痛的刺激一消除，他似乎已经丧失了思维的能力。他并不是感到厌倦，他只是不想说话或者别的。只要谁都不去惹他，不打他，不问他，够吃，够干净，就完全满足了。
他花在睡觉上的时间慢慢地少了，但是他仍不想起床。他只想静静地躺着，感到身体慢慢恢复体力。他有时常常在这里摸摸那里摸摸，要想弄清楚肌肉确实长得更圆实了，皮肤不再松弛了。最后他确信无疑自己的确长胖了，大腿肯定比膝盖粗了。在此以后，他开始定期做操，不过起先有些勉强。过了不久，他能够一口气走三公里，那是用牢房的宽度来计算的。他的肩膀开始挺直。他做了一些比较复杂的体操，但是发现有的事情不能做，使他感到很奇怪，又感到很难过。比如说，他不能快步走，他不能单手平举板凳，他不能一脚独立。他蹲下来以后要费很大的劲才能站立起来，大腿小腿感到非常酸痛。他想作俯卧撑，一点也不行，连一毫米也撑不起来。但是再过了几天，或者说再过了几顿饭的工夫，这也能做到了。最后他一口气可以撑起六次。他开始真的为自己身体感到骄傲，相信自已的脸也恢复了正常。只有有时偶尔摸到秃光的脑袋时，他才记得那张从镜子中向他凝视的多皱的脸。
他的思想也更加活跃起来。他坐在床上，背靠着墙，膝上放着写字板，着意开始重新教育自己。
他已经投降了；这已是一致的意见。实际上，他回想起来，他在作出这个决定之前很久早已准备投降了。从他一进友爱部开始，是的，甚至在他和裘莉亚束手无策地站在那里听电幕上冷酷的声音吩咐他们做什么的时候，他已经认识到他要想反对党的权力是多么徒劳无益。他现在明白，七年来思想警察就一直监视着他，象放大镜下的小甲虫一样。他们没有不注意到的言行，没有不推想到的思想。甚至他日记本上那粒发白的泥尘，他们也小心地放回在原处。他们向他放了录音带。给他看了照片。有些是裘莉亚和他在一起的照片。是的，甚至……他无法再同党作斗争了。此外，党是对的。这绝对没有问题，不朽的集体的头脑怎么会错呢？你有什么外在标准可以衡量它的判断是否正确呢？神志清醒是统计学上的概念。这只不过是学会按他们的想法去想问题。
只是——！
他的手指缝里的铅笔使他感到又粗又笨。他开始写下头脑里出现的思想。他先用大写字母笨拙地写下这几个字：
自由即奴役。
接着他又在下面一口气写下：
二加二等于五。
但是接着稍微停了一下。他的脑子有些想要躲开什么似的不能集中思考。他知道自己知道下一句话是什么，但是一时却想不起来。等到他想起来的时候，完全是靠有意识的推理才想起来的，而不是自发想起来的。他写道：
权力即上帝。
他什么都接受。过去可以窜改。过去从来没有窜改过。
大洋国同东亚国在打仗。大洋国一直在同东亚国打仗。琼斯、阿隆逊、鲁瑟福犯有控告他们的罪行。他从来没有见到过证明他们没有罪的照片。它从来没有存在过；这是他控造的。
他记得曾经记起过相反的事情，但这些记忆都是不确实的、自我欺骗的产物。这一切是多么容易！只要投降以后，一切迎刃而解。就象逆流游泳，不论你如何挣扎，逆流就是把你往后冲，但是一旦他突然决定掉过头来，那就顺流而下，毫不费力。除了你自已的态度之外，什么都没有改变；预先注定的事情照样发生。他也不知道自己为什么要反叛。一切都很容易，除了——
什么都可能是确实的。所谓自然规律纯属胡说八道。地心吸力也是胡说八道。奥勃良说过，“要是我愿意的话，可以象肥皂泡一样离地飘浮起来。”温斯顿依此推理：“如果他认为(thinks)他已离地飘浮起来，如果我同时认为(think) 我看到他离地飘浮起来，那么这件事就真的发生了。”突然，象一条沉船露出水面一样，他的脑海里出现了这个想法：“这并没有真的发生。是我们想象出来的。这是幻觉。”他立刻把这想法压了下去。这种想法之荒谬是显而易见的。它假定在客观上有一个“实际的”世界，那里发生着“实际的”事情。但是怎么可能有这样一个世界呢？除了通过我们自己的头脑之外，我们对任何东西有什么知识呢？一切事情都发生在我们的头脑里。凡是在头脑里发生的事情，都真的发生了。
他毫无困难地驳倒了这个谬论，而且也没有会发生相信这个谬论的危险。但是他还是认为不应该想到它。凡是有危险思想出现的时候，自己的头脑里应该出现一片空白。这种过程应该是自动的，本能的。新话里叫犯罪停止(Crimestop)。
他开始锻炼犯罪停止。他向自己提出一些提法：——“党说地球是平的，”“党说冰比水重，”——然后训练自己不去看到或者了解与此矛盾的说法。这可不容易。这需要极大的推理和临时拼凑的能力。例如。“二加二等于五”这句话提出的算术问题超过他的智力水平。这也需要一种脑力体操的本领，能够一方面对逻辑进行最微妙的运用，接着又马上忘掉最明显的逻辑错误。愚蠢和聪明同样必要，也同样难以达到。
在这期间，他的脑海里仍隐隐地在思量，不知他们什么时候就会枪毙他。奥勃良说过，“一切都取决于你、”但是他知道他没有什么办法可以有意识地使死期早些来临。可能是在十分钟之后，也可能是在十年之后。他们可能长年把他单独监禁；他们可能送他去劳动营；他们可能先释放他一阵子，他们有时是这样做的。很有可能，在把他枪决以前会把整个逮捕和拷问的这场戏全部重演一遍。唯一可以肯定的事情是，死期决不会事先给你知道的。传统是——不是明言的传统，你虽然没有听说过，不过还是知道——在你从一个牢房走到另一个牢房去时，他们在走廊里朝你脑后开枪，总是朝你脑后，事先不给警告。
有一天——但是“一天”这话不确切，因为也很可能是在半夜里；因此应该说有一次——他沉溺在一种奇怪的、幸福的幻觉之中。他在走廊中走过去，等待脑后的子弹。他知道这颗子弹马上就要来了。一切都已解决，调和了。不再有怀疑，不再有争论，不再有痛苦，不再有恐惧。他的身体健康强壮。他走路很轻快，行动很高兴，有一种在阳光中行走的感觉。他不再是在友爱部的狭窄的白色走廊里，而是在一条宽阔的阳光灿烂的大道上，有一公里宽，他似乎是吃了药以后在神志昏迷中行走一样。他身在黄金乡，在兔子出没甚多的牧场中，顺着一条足迹踩出来的小径上往前走。他感到脚下软绵绵的短草，脸上和煦的阳光。在草地边上有榆树，在微风中颤动，远处有一条小溪，有雅罗鱼在柳树下的绿水潭中游泳。
突然他惊醒过来，心中一阵恐怖。背上出了一身冷汗。
原来他听见自己在叫：
“裘莉亚！裘莉亚！裘莉亚，我的亲人！裘莉亚！”
他一时觉得她好象就在身边，这种幻觉很强烈。她似乎不仅在他身边，而且还在他的体内。她好象进了他的皮肤的组织。在这一刹那，他比他们在一起自由的时候更加爱她了。
他也明白，不知在什么地方，她仍活着，需要他的帮助。
他躺在床上，尽力使自已安定下来。他干了什么啦？这一刹那的软弱增加了他多少年的奴役呀？
再过一会儿，他就会听到牢房外面的皮靴声。他们不会让你这么狂叫一声而不惩罚你的。他们要是以前不知道的话，那么现在就知道了，他打破了他们之间的协议。他服从党，但是他仍旧仇恨党。在过去，他在服从的外表下面隐藏着异端的思想。现在他又倒退了一步；在思想上他投降了，但是他想保持内心的完整无损。他知道他自己不对，但是他宁可不对。他们会了解的。奥勃良会了解的。这一切都在那一声愚蠢的呼喊中招认了。
他得再从头开始来一遍。这可能需要好几年。他伸手摸一下脸，想熟悉自己的新面貌。脸颊上有很深的皱纹。颧骨高耸，鼻子塌陷。此外，自从上次照过镜子以后，他们给他镶了一副新的假牙。你不知道自已的容貌是什么样子，是很难保持外表高深莫测的。反正，仅仅控制面部表情是不够的。他第一次认识到，你如果要保持秘密，必须也对自己保密。你必须始终知道有这个秘密在那里，但是非到需要的时候，你绝不可以让它用任何一种可以叫上一个名称的形状出现在你的意识之中，从今以后，他不仅需要正确思想，而且要正确感觉，正确做梦。而在这期间，他要始终把他的仇恨锁在心中，成为自己身体的一部分，而又同其他部分不发生关系，就象一个囊丸一样。
他们终有一天会决定枪毙他。你不知道什么时候会发生这件事情，但是在事前几秒钟是可以猜想到的。这总是从脑后开的枪，在你走在走廊里的时候。十秒钟就够了。在这十秒钟里，他的内心世界就会翻了一个个儿。那时，突然之间，嘴上不用说一句话，脚下不用停下步，脸上也不用改变一丝表情，突然之间，伪装就撕了下来，砰的一声，他的仇恨就会开炮。仇恨会象一团烈焰把他一把烧掉。也就是在这一刹那，子弹也会砰的一声打出来，可是太迟了，要不就是太早了。他们来不及改造就把他的脑袋打得粉碎。异端思想会不受到惩罚，不得到悔改，永远不让他们碰到。他们这样等于是在自己的完美无缺中打下一个漏洞。仇恨他们而死，这就是自由。
他闭上眼睛。这比接受思想训练还困难。这是一个自己糟蹋自己、自己作践自己的问题。他得投到最最肮脏的污秽中去。什么事情是最可怕、最恶心的事情呢？他想到老大哥。那张庞大的脸(由于他经常在招贴画上看到，他总觉得这脸有一公尺宽)，浓浓的黑胡子，盯着你转的眼睛，好象自动地浮现在他的脑海里。他对老大哥的真心感情是什么？
过道里有一阵沉重的皮靴声。铁门喳的打开了。奥勃良走了进来，后面跟着那个蜡像面孔的军官和穿黑制服的警卫。
“起来，”奥勃良说，“到这里来。”
温斯顿站在他的面前。奥勃良的双手有力地抓住了温斯顿的双肩，紧紧地看着他。
“你有过欺骗我的想法，”他说，“这很蠢。站得直一些。
对着我看好。”
他停了一下，然后用温和一些的口气说：
“你有了进步。从思想上来说，你已没有什么问题了。只是感情上你没有什么进步。告诉我，温斯顿——而且要记住，不许说谎；你知道我总是能够察觉你究竟是不是在说谎的——告诉我，你对老大哥的真实感情是什么？”
“我恨他。”
“你恨他。那很好，那么现在是你走最后一步的时候了。
你必须爱老大哥。服从他还不够；你必须爱他。”
他把温斯顿向警察轻轻一推。
“101号房，”他说。
收听单词发音 |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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ulcer
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| n.溃疡，腐坏物 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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tauter
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| adj.紧的( taut的比较级 )；绷紧的；（指肌肉或神经）紧张的；整洁的 | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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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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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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statistical
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| adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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succumbing
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的现在分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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improvisation
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| n.即席演奏(或演唱)；即兴创作 | |
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athleticism
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| n.运动竞赛，崇尚运动，竞技热 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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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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50
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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56
inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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58
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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camouflage
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| n./v.掩饰，伪装 | |
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reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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62
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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filthiest
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| filthy（肮脏的，污秽的）的最高级形式 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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