Spring winked1 a vitreous optic at Editor Westbrook of the Minerva Magazine, and deflected2 him from his course. He had lunched in his favorite corner of a Broadway hotel, and was returning to his office when his feet became entangled3 in the lure4 of the vernal coquette. Which is by way of saying that he turned eastward5 in Twenty-sixth Street, safely forded the spring freshet of vehicles in Fifth Avenue, and meandered6 along the walks of budding Madison Square.
The lenient7 air and the settings of the little park almost formed a pastoral; the color motif8 was green - the presiding shade at the creation of man and vegetation.
The callow grass between the walks was the color of verdigris9, a poisonous green, reminiscent of the horde10 of derelict humans that had breathed upon the soil during the summer and autumn. The bursting tree buds looked strangely familiar to those who had botanized among the garnishings of the fish course of a forty-cent dinner. The sky above was of that pale aquamarine tint11 that ballroom12 poets rhyme with "true" and "Sue" and "coo." The one natural and frank color visible was the ostensible13 green of the newly painted benches - a shade between the color of a pickled cucumber and that of a last year's fast-black cravenette raincoat. But, to the city-bred eye of Editor Westbrook, the landscape appeared a masterpiece.
And now, whether you are of those who rush in, or of the gentle concourse that fears to tread, you must follow in a brief invasion of the editor's mind.
Editor Westbrook's spirit was contented14 and serene15. The April number of the Minerva had sold its entire edition before the tenth day of the month - a newsdealer in Keokuk had written that he could have sold fifty copies more if he had 'em. The owners of the magazine had raised his (the editor's) salary; he had just installed in his home a jewel of a recently imported cook who was afraid of policemen; and the morning papers had published in full a speech he had made at a publishers' banquet. Also there were echoing in his mind the jubilant notes of a splendid song that his charming young wife had sung to him before he left his up-town apartment that morning. She was taking enthusiastic interest in her music of late, practising early and diligently16. When he had complimented her on the improvement in her voice she had fairly hugged him for joy at his praise. He felt, too, the benign17, tonic18 medicament of the trained nurse, Spring, tripping softly adown the wards19 of the convalescent city.
While Editor Westbrook was sauntering between the rows of park benches (already filling with vagrants20 and the guardians21 of lawless childhood) he felt his sleeve grasped and held. Suspecting that he was about to be panhandled, he turned a cold and unprofitable face, and saw that his captor was - Dawe - Shackleford Dawe, dingy23, almost ragged24, the genteel scracely visible in him through the deeper lines of the shabby.
While the editor is pulling himself out of his surprise, a flashlight biography of Dawe is offered.
He was a fiction writer, and one of Westbrook's old acquaintances. At one time they might have called each other old friends. Dawe had some money in those days, and lived in a decent apartment house near Westbrook's. The two families often went to theatres and dinners together. Mrs. Dawe and Mrs. Westbrook became "dearest" friends. Then one day a little tentacle25 of the octopus26, just to amuse itself, ingurgitated Dawe's capital, and he moved to the Gramercy Park neighborhood where one, for a few groats per week, may sit upon one's trunk under eight-branched chandeliers and opposite Carrara marble mantels and watch the mice play upon the floor. Dawe thought to live by writing fiction. Now and then he sold a story. He submitted many to Westbrook. The Minerva printed one or two of them; the rest were returned. Westbrook sent a careful and conscientious27 personal letter with each rejected manuscript, pointing out in detail his reasons for considering it unavailable. Editor Westbrook had his own clear conception of what constituted good fiction. So had Dawe. Mrs. Dawe was mainly concerned about the constituents28 of the scanty29 dishes of food that she managed to scrape together. One day Dawe had been spouting30 to her about the excellencies of certain French writers. At dinner they sat down to a dish that a hungry schoolboy could have encompassed31 at a gulp32. Dawe commented.
"It's Maupassant hash," said Mrs. Dawe. "It may not be art, but I do wish you would do a five-course Marion Crawford serial33 with an Ella Wheeler Wilcox sonnet34 for dessert. I'm hungry."
As far as this from success was Shackleford Dawe when he plucked Editor Westbrook's sleeve in Madison Square. That was the first time the editor had seen Dawe in several months.
"Why, Shack22, is this you?" said Westbrook, somewhat awkwardly, for the form of his phrase seemed to touch upon the other's changed appearance.
"Sit down for a minute," said Dawe, tugging35 at his sleeve. "This is my office. I can't come to yours, looking as I do. Oh, sit down - you won't be disgraced. Those half-plucked birds on the other benches will take you for a swell36 porch-climber. They won't know you are only an editor."
"Smoke, Shack?" said Editor Westbrook, sinking cautiously upon the virulent37 green bench. He always yielded gracefully38 when he did yield.
Dawe snapped at the cigar as a kingfisher darts39 at a sunperch, or a girl pecks at a chocolate cream.
"I have just -" began the editor.
"Oh, I know; don't finish," said Dawe. "Give me a match. You have just ten minutes to spare. How did you manage to get past my office-boy and invade my sanctum? There he goes now, throwing his club at a dog that couldn't read the 'Keep off the Grass' signs."
"How goes the writing?" asked the editor.
"Look at me," said Dawe, "for your answer. Now don't put on that embarrassed, friendly-but-honest look and ask me why I don't get a job as a wine agent or a cab driver. I'm in the fight to a finish. I know I can write good fiction and I'll force you fellows to admit it yet. I'll make you change the spelling of 'regrets' to 'c-h-e-q-u-e' before I'm done with you."
Editor Westbrook gazed through his nose-glasses with a sweetly sorrowful, omniscient41, sympathetic, skeptical42 expression - the copyrighted expression of the editor beleagured by the unavailable contributor.
"Have you read the last story I sent you - 'The Alarum of the Soul'?" asked Dawe.
"Carefully. I hesitated over that story, Shack, really I did. It had some good points. I was writing you a letter to send with it when it goes back to you. I regret -"
"Never mind the regrets," said Dawe, grimly. "There's neither salve nor sting in 'em any more. What I want to know is why. Come now; out with the good points first."
"The story," said Westbrook, deliberately43, after a suppressed sigh, "is written around an almost original plot. Characterization - the best you have done. Construction - almost as good, except for a few weak joints44 which might be strengthened by a few changes and touches. It was a good story, except -"
"I can write English, can't I?" interrupted Dawe.
"I have always told you," said the editor, "that you had a style."
"Then the trouble is -"
"Same old thing," said Editor Westbrook. "You work up to your climax45 like an artist. And then you turn yourself into a photographer. I don't know what form of obstinate46 madness possesses you, but that is what you do with everything that you write. No, I will retract47 the comparison with the photographer. Now and then photography, in spite of its impossible perspective, manages to record a fleeting48 glimpse of truth. But you spoil every denouement49 by those flat, drab, obliterating50 strokes of your brush that I have so often complained of. If you would rise to the literary pinnacle51 of your dramatic senses, and paint them in the high colors that art requires, the postman would leave fewer bulky, self-addressed envelopes at your door."
"Oh, fiddles52 and footlights!" cried Dawe, derisively53. "You've got that old sawmill drama kink in your brain yet. When the man with the black mustache kidnaps golden-haired Bessie you are bound to have the mother kneel and raise her hands in the spotlight54 and say: 'May high heaven witness that I will rest neither night nor day till the heartless villain55 that has stolen me child feels the weight of another's vengeance56!'"
Editor Westbrook conceded a smile of impervious57 complacency.
"I think," said he, "that in real life the woman would express herself in those words or in very similar ones."
"Not in a six hundred nights' run anywhere but on the stage," said Dawe hotly. "I'll tell you what she'd say in real life. She'd say: 'What! Bessie led away by a strange man? Good Lord! It's one trouble after another! Get my other hat, I must hurry around to the police-station. Why wasn't somebody looking after her, I'd like to know? For God's sake, get out of my way or I'll never get ready. Not that hat - the brown one with the velvet58 bows. Bessie must have been crazy; she's usually shy of strangers. Is that too much powder? Lordy! How I'm upset!'
"That's the way she'd talk," continued Dawe. "People in real life don't fly into heroics and blank verse at emotional crises. They simply can't do it. If they talk at all on such occasions they draw from the same vocabulary that they use every day, and muddle59 up their words and ideas a little more, that's all."
"Shack," said Editor Westbrook impressively, "did you ever pick up the mangled60 and lifeless form of a child from under the fender of a street car, and carry it in your arms and lay it down before the distracted mother? Did you ever do that and listen to the words of grief and despair as they flowed spontaneously from her lips?"
"I never did," said Dawe. "Did you?"
"Well, no," said Editor Westbrook, with a slight frown. "But I can well imagine what she would say."
"So can I," said Dawe.
And now the fitting time had come for Editor Westbrook to play the oracle61 and silence his opinionated contributor. It was not for an unarrived fictionist to dictate62 words to be uttered by the heroes and heroines of the Minerva Magazine, contrary to the theories of the editor thereof.
"My dear Shack," said he, "if I know anything of life I know that every sudden, deep and tragic63 emotion in the human heart calls forth64 an apposite, concordant, conformable and proportionate expression of feeling. How much of this inevitable65 accord between expression and feeling should be attributed to nature, and how much to the influence of art, it would be difficult to say. The sublimely66 terrible roar of the lioness that has been deprived of her cubs67 is dramatically as far above her customary whine68 and purr as the kingly and transcendent utterances69 of Lear are above the level of his senile vaporings. But it is also true that all men and women have what may be called a sub-conscious dramatic sense that is awakened70 by a sufficiently71 deep and powerful emotion - a sense unconsciously acquired from literature and the stage that prompts them to express those emotions in language befitting their importance and histrionic value."
"And in the name of the seven sacred saddle-blankets of Sagittarius, where did the stage and literature get the stunt72?" asked Dawe.
"From life," answered the editor, triumphantly73.
The story writer rose from the bench and gesticulated eloquently74 but dumbly. He was beggared for words with which to formulate75 adequately his dissent76.
On a bench nearby a frowzy77 loafer opened his red eyes and perceived that his moral support was due a downtrodden brother.
"Punch him one, Jack," he called hoarsely78 to Dawe. "W'at's he come makin' a noise like a penny arcade79 for amongst gen'lemen that comes in the square to set and think?"
Editor Westbrook looked at his watch with an affected80 show of leisure.
"Tell me," asked Dawe, with truculent81 anxiety, "what especial faults in 'The Alarum of the Soul' caused you to throw it down?"
"When Gabriel Murray," said Westbrook, "goes to his telephone and is told that his fiancee has been shot by a burglar, he says - I do not recall the exact words, but -"
"I do," said Dawe. "He says: 'Damn Central; she always cuts me off.' (And then to his friend) 'Say, Tommy, does a thirty-two bullet make a big hole? It's kind of hard luck, ain't it? Could you get me a drink from the sideboard, Tommy? No; straight; nothing on the side.'"
"And again," continued the editor, without pausing for argument, "when Berenice opens the letter from her husband informing her that he has fled with the manicure girl, her words are - let me see -"
"She says," interposed the author: "'Well, what do you think of that!'"
"Absurdly inappropriate words," said Westbrook, "presenting an anti-climax - plunging82 the story into hopeless bathos. Worse yet; they mirror life falsely. No human being ever uttered banal83 colloquialisms84 when confronted by sudden tragedy."
"Wrong," said Dawe, closing his unshaven jaws85 doggedly86. "I say no man or woman ever spouts87 'high-falutin' talk when they go up against a real climax. They talk naturally and a little worse."
The editor rose from the bench with his air of indulgence and inside information.
"Say, Westbrook," said Dawe, pinning him by the lapel, "would you have accepted 'The Alarum of the Soul' if you had believed that the actions and words of the characters were true to life in the parts of the story that we discussed?"
"It is very likely that I would, if I believed that way," said the editor. "But I have explained to you that I do not."
"If I could prove to you that I am right?"
"I'm sorry, Shack, but I'm afraid I haven't time to argue any further just now."
"I don't want to argue," said Dave. "I want to demonstrate to you from life itself that my view is the correct one."
"How could you do that?" asked Westbrook, in a surprised tone.
"Listen," said the writer, seriously. "I have thought of a way. It is important to me that my theory of true-to-life fiction be recognized as correct by the magazines. I've fought for it for three years, and I'm down to my last dollar, with two months' rent due."
"I have applied88 the opposite of your theory," said the editor, "in selecting the fiction for the Minerva Magazine. The circulation has gone up from ninety thousand to -"
"Four hundred thousand," said Dawe. "Whereas it should have been boosted to a million."
"You said something to me just now about demonstrating your pet theory."
"I will. If you'll give me about half an hour of your time I'll prove to you that I am right. I'll prove it by Louise."
"Your wife!" exclaimed Westbrook. "How?"
"Well, not exactly by her, but with her," said Dawe. "Now, you know how devoted89 and loving Louse has always been. She thinks I'm the only genuine preparation on the market that bears the old doctor's signature. She's been fonder and more faithful than ever, since I've been cast for the neglected genius part."
"Indeed, she is a charming and admirable life companion," agreed the editor. "I remember what inseparable friends she and Mrs. Westbrook once were. We are both lucky chaps, Shack, to have such wives. You must bring Mrs. Dawe up some evening soon, and we'll have one of those informal chafing-dish suppers that we used to enjoy so much."
"Later," said Dawe. "When I get another shirt. And now I'll tell you my scheme. When I was about to leave home after breakfast - if you can call tea and oatmeal breakfast - Louise told me she was going to visit her aunt in Eighty-ninth Street. She said she would return at three o'clock. She is always on time to a minute. It is now -"
Dawe glanced toward the editor's watch pocket.
"Twenty-seven minutes to three," said Westbrook, scanning his time-piece.
"We have just enough time," said Dawe. "We will go to my flat at once. I will write a note, address it to her and leave it on the table where she will see it as she enters the door. You and I will be in the dining-room concealed90 by the portieres. In that note I'll say that I have fled from her forever with an affinity91 who understands the need of my artistic92 soul as she never did. When she reads it we will observe her actions and hear her words. Then we will know which theory is the correct one - yours or mine."
"Oh, never!" exclaimed the editor, shaking his head. "That would be inexcusably cruel. I could not consent to have Mrs. Dawe's feelings played upon in such a manner."
"Brace93 up," said the writer. "I guess I think as much of her as you do. It's for her benefit as well as mine. I've got to get a market for my stories in some way. It won't hurt Louise. She's healthy and sound. Her heart goes as strong as a ninety-eight-cent watch. It'll last for only a minute, and then I'll step out and explain to her. You really owe it to me to give me the chance, Westbrook."
Editor Westbrook at length yielded, though but half willingly. And in the half of him that consented lurked94 the vivisectionist that is in all of us. Let him who has not used the scalpel rise and stand in his place. Pity 'tis that there are not enough rabbits and guinea-pigs to go around.
The two experimenters in Art left the Square and hurried eastward and then to that south until they arrived in the Gramercy neighborhood. Within its high iron railings the little park had put on its smart coat of vernal green, and was admiring itself in its fountain mirror. Outside the railings the hollow square of crumbling95 houses, shells of a bygone gentry96, leaned as if in ghostly gossip over the forgotten doings of the vanished quality. Sic transit97 gloria urbis.
A block or two north of the Park, Dawe steered98 the editor again eastward, then, after covering a short distance, into a lofty but narrow flathouse burdened with a floridly over-decorated fa,cade. To the fifth story they toiled99, and Dawe, panting, pushed his latch-key into the door of one of the front flats.
When the door opened Editor Westbrook saw, with feelings of pity, how meanly and meagerly the rooms were furnished.
"Get a chair, if you can find one," said Dawe, "while I hunt up pen and ink. Hello, what's this? Here's a note from Louise. She must have left it there when she went out this morning."
He picked up an envelope that lay on the centre-table and tore it open. He began to read the letter that he drew out of it; and once having begun it aloud he so read it through to the end. These are the words that Editor Westbrook heard:
"Dear Shackleford:
"By the time you get this I will be about a hundred miles away and still a-going. I've got a place in the chorus of the Occidental Opera Co., and we start on the road to-day at twelve o'clock. I didn't want to starve to death, and so I decided100 to make my own living. I'm not coming back. Mrs. Westbrook is going with me. She said she was tired of living with a combination phonograph, iceberg101 and dictionary, and she's not coming back, either. We've been practising the songs and dances for two months on the quiet. I hope you will be successful, and get along all right! Good-bye.
"Louise."
Dawe dropped the letter, covered his face with his trembling hands, and cried out in a deep, vibrating voice:
"My God, why hast thou given me this cup to drink? Since she is false, then let Thy Heaven's fairest gifts, faith and love, become the jesting by-words of traitors102 and fiends!"
Editor Westbrook's glasses fell to the floor. The fingers of one hand fumbled103 with a button on his coat as he blurted104 between his pale lips:
"Say, Shack, ain't that a hell of a note? Wouldn't that knock you off your perch40, Shack? Ain't it hell, now, Shack - ain't it?"
收听单词发音 |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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deflected
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| 偏离的 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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meandered
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| （指溪流、河流等）蜿蜒而流( meander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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motif
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| n.(图案的)基本花纹，(衣服的)花边；主题 | |
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verdigris
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| n.铜锈；铜绿 | |
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horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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vagrants
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| 流浪者( vagrant的名词复数 )； 无业游民； 乞丐； 无赖 | |
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guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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tentacle
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| n.触角，触须，触手 | |
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octopus
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| n.章鱼 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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constituents
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| n.选民( constituent的名词复数 )；成分；构成部分；要素 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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omniscient
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| adj.无所不知的；博识的 | |
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skeptical
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| adj.怀疑的，多疑的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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49
denouement
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| n.结尾，结局 | |
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50
obliterating
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| v.除去( obliterate的现在分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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52
fiddles
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| n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 )；欺诈；（需要运用手指功夫的）细巧活动；当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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53
derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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54
spotlight
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| n.公众注意的中心，聚光灯，探照灯，视听，注意，醒目 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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56
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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60
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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62
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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sublimely
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| 高尚地，卓越地 | |
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cubs
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| n.幼小的兽，不懂规矩的年轻人( cub的名词复数 ) | |
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whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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72
stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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frowzy
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| adj.不整洁的；污秽的 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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82
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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84
colloquialisms
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| n.俗话，白话，口语( colloquialism的名词复数 ) | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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86
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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87
spouts
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| n.管口( spout的名词复数 )；（喷出的）水柱；（容器的）嘴；在困难中v.（指液体）喷出( spout的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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95
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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96
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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97
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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98
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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99
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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100
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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101
iceberg
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| n.冰山，流冰，冷冰冰的人 | |
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102
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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103
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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104
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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