It had been quite a long time since I had visited Whitehaven Mansions2. Some years ago it hadbeen an outstanding building of modern flats. Now there were many other more imposing3 andeven more modern blocks of buildings flanking it on either side. Inside, I noted4, it had recently hada face-lift. It had been repainted in pale shades of yellow and green.
I went up in the lift and pressed the bell of Number 203. It was opened to me by that impeccablemanservant, George. A smile of welcome came to his face.
“Mr. Colin! It’s a long time since we’ve seen you here.”
“Yes, I know. How are you, George?”
“I am in good health, I am thankful to say, sir.”
I lowered my voice. “And how’s he?”
George lowered his own voice, though that was hardly necessary since it had been pitched in amost discreet5 key from the beginning of our conversation.
“I think, sir, that sometimes he gets a little depressed6.”
I nodded sympathetically.
“If you will come this way, sir—” He relieved me of my hat.
“Announce me, please, as Mr. Colin Lamb.”
“Very good, sir.” He opened a door and spoke7 in a clear voice. “Mr. Colin Lamb to see you,sir.”
He drew back to allow me to pass him and I went into the room.
My friend, Hercule Poirot, was sitting in his usual large, square armchair in front of thefireplace. I noted that one bar of the rectangular electric fire glowed red. It was early September,the weather was warm, but Poirot was one of the first men to recognize the autumn chill, and totake precautions against it. On either side of him on the floor was a neat pile of books. More booksstood on the table at his left side. At his right hand was a cup from which steam rose. A tisane, Isuspected. He was fond of tisanes and often urged them on me. They were nauseating8 to taste andpungent to smell.
“Don’t get up,” I said, but Poirot was already on his feet. He came towards me on twinkling,patent-leather shod feet with outstretched hands.
“Aha, so it is you, it is you, my friend! My young friend Colin. But why do you call yourself bythe name of Lamb? Let me think now. There is a proverb or a saying. Something about muttondressed as lamb. No. That is what is said of elderly ladies who are trying to appear younger thanthey are. That does not apply to you. Aha, I have it. You are a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Is that it?”
“Not even that,” I said. “It’s just that in my line of business I thought my own name might berather a mistake, that it might be connected too much with my old man. Hence Lamb. Short,simple, easily remembered. Suiting, I flatter myself, my personality.”
“Of that I cannot be sure,” said Poirot. “And how is my good friend, your father?”
“The old man’s fine,” I said. “Very busy with his holly-hocks—or is it chrysanthemums9? Theseasons go by so fast I can never remember what it is at the moment.”
“He busies himself then, with the horticulture?”
“Everyone seems to come to that in the end,” I said.
“Not me,” said Hercule Poirot. “Once the vegetable marrows10, yes—but never again. If you wantthe best flowers, why not go to the florist’s shop? I thought the good Superintendent11 was going towrite his memoirs12?”
“He started,” I said, “but he found that so much would have to be left out that he finally came tothe conclusion that what was left in would be so unbearably13 tame as not to be worth writing.”
“One has to have the discretion14, yes. It is unfortunate,” said Poirot, “because your father couldtell some very interesting things. I have much admiration15 for him. I always had. You know, hismethods were to me very interesting. He was so straightforward16. He used the obvious as no manhas used it before. He would set the trap, the very obvious trap and the people he wished to catchwould say ‘it is too obvious, that. It cannot be true’ and so they fell into it!”
I laughed. “Well,” I said, “it’s not the fashion nowadays for sons to admire their fathers. Mostof them seem to sit down, venom17 in their pens, and remember all the dirty things they can and putthem down with obvious satisfaction. But personally, I’ve got enormous respect for my old man. Ihope I’ll even be as good as he was. Not that I’m exactly in his line of business, of course.”
“But related to it,” said Poirot. “Closely related to it, though you have to work behind the scenesin a way that he did not.” He coughed delicately. “I think I am to congratulate you on having had arather spectacular success lately. Is it not so? The affaire Larkin.”
“It’s all right so far as it goes,” I said. “But there’s a good deal more that I’d like to have, just toround it off properly. Still, that isn’t really what I came here to talk to you about.”
“Of course not, of course not,” said Poirot. He waved me to a chair and offered me some tisane,which I instantly refused.
George entered at the apposite moment with a whisky decanter, a glass and a siphon which heplaced at my elbow.
“And what are you doing with yourself these days?” I asked Poirot.
Casting a look at the various books around him I said: “It looks as though you are doing a littleresearch?”
Poirot sighed. “You may call it that. Yes, perhaps in a way it is true. Lately I have felt verybadly the need for a problem. It does not matter, I said to myself, what the problem is. It can belike the good Sherlock Holmes, the depth at which the parsley has sunk in the butter. All thatmatters is that there should be a problem. It is not the muscles I need to exercise, you see, it is thecells of the brain.”
“Just a question of keeping fit. I understand.”
“As you say.” He sighed. “But problems, mon cher, are not so easy to come by. It is true thatlast Thursday one presented itself to me. The unwarranted appearance of three pieces of driedorange peel in my umbrella stand. How did they come there? How could they have come there? Ido not eat oranges myself. George would never put old pieces of orange peel in the umbrellastand. Nor is a visitor likely to bring with him three pieces of orange peel. Yes, it was quite aproblem.”
“And you solved it?”
“I solved it,” said Poirot.
He spoke with more melancholy18 than pride.
“It was not in the end very interesting. A question of a remplacement of the usual cleaningwoman and the new one brought with her, strictly19 against orders, one of her children. Although itdoes not sound interesting, nevertheless it needed a steady penetration20 of lies, camouflage21 and allthe rest of it. It was satisfactory, shall we say, but not important.”
“Disappointing,” I suggested.
“Enfin,” said Poirot, “I am modest. But one should not need to use a rapier to cut the string of aparcel.”
I shook my head in a solemn manner. Poirot continued, “I have occupied myself of late inreading various real life unsolved mysteries. I apply to them my own solutions.”
“You mean cases like the Bravo case, Adelaide Bartlett and all the rest of them?”
“Exactly. But it was in a way too easy. There is no doubt whatever in my own mind as to whomurdered Charles Bravo. The companion may have been involved, but she was certainly not themoving spirit in the matter. Then there was that unfortunate adolescent, Constance Kent. The truemotive that lay behind her strangling of the small brother whom she undoubtedly23 loved has alwaysbeen a puzzle. But not to me. It was clear as soon as I read about the case. As for Lizzie Borden,one wishes only that one could put a few necessary questions to various people concerned. I amfairly sure in my own mind of what the answers would be. Alas24, they are all by now dead, I fear.”
I thought to myself, as so often before, that modesty25 was certainly not Hercule Poirot’s strongpoint.
“And what did I do next?” continued Poirot.
I guessed that for some time now he had had no one much to talk to and was enjoying the soundof his own voice.
“From real life I turned to fiction. You see me here with various examples of criminal fiction atmy right hand and my left. I have been working backwards26. Here—” he picked up the volume thathe had laid on the arm of his chair when I entered, “—here, my dear Colin, is The LeavenworthCase.” He handed the book to me.
“That’s going back quite a long time,” I said. “I believe my father mentioned that he read it as aboy. I believe I once read it myself. It must seem rather old-fashioned now.”
“It is admirable,” said Poirot. “One savours its period atmosphere, its studied and deliberatemelodrama. Those rich and lavish28 descriptions of the golden beauty of Eleanor, the moonlightbeauty of Mary!”
“I must read it again,” I said. “I’d forgotten the parts about the beautiful girls.”
“And there is the maidservant, Hannah, so true to type, and the murderer, an excellentpsychological study.”
I perceived that I had let myself in for a lecture. I composed myself to listen.
“Then we will take the Adventures of Arsene Lupin,” Poirot went on. “How fantastic, howunreal. And yet what vitality29 there is in them, what vigour30, what life! They are preposterous31, butthey have panache32. There is humour, too.”
He laid down the Adventures of Arsene Lupin and picked up another book. “And there is TheMystery of the Yellow Room. That—ah, that is really a classic! I approve of it from start to finish.
Such a logical approach! There were criticisms of it, I remember, which said that it was unfair. Butit is not unfair, my dear Colin. No, no. Very nearly so, perhaps, but not quite. There is the hair’sbreadth of difference. No. All through there is truth, concealed33 with a careful and cunning use ofwords. Everything should be clear at that supreme34 moment when the men meet at the angle ofthree corridors.” He laid it down reverently35. “Definitely a masterpiece, and, I gather, almostforgotten nowadays.”
Poirot skipped twenty years or so, to approach the works of somewhat later authors.
“I have read also,” he said, “some of the early works of Mrs. Ariadne Oliver. She is by way ofbeing a friend of mine, and of yours, I think. I do not wholly approve of her works, mind you. Thehappenings in them are highly improbable. The long arm of coincidence is far too freelyemployed. And, being young at the time, she was foolish enough to make her detective a Finn, andit is clear that she knows nothing about Finns or Finland except possibly the works of Sibelius.
Still, she has an original habit of mind, she makes an occasional shrewd deduction36, and of lateryears she has learnt a good deal about things which she did not know before. Police procedure forinstance. She is also now a little more reliable on the subject of firearms. What was even moreneeded, she has possibly acquired a solicitor37 or a barrister friend who has put her right on certainpoints of the law.”
He laid aside Mrs. Ariadne Oliver and picked up another book.
“Now here is Mr. Cyril Quain. Ah, he is a master, Mr. Quain, of the alibi38.”
“He’s a deadly dull writer if I remember rightly,” I said.
“It is true,” said Poirot, “that nothing particularly thrilling happens in his books. There is acorpse, of course. Occasionally more than one. But the whole point is always the alibi, the railwaytimetable, the bus routes, the plans of the cross-country roads. I confess I enjoy this intricate, thiselaborate use of the alibi. I enjoy trying to catch Mr. Cyril Quain out.”
“And I suppose you always succeed,” I said.
Poirot was honest.
“Not always,” he admitted. “No, not always. Of course, after a time one realizes that one bookof his is almost exactly like another. The alibis39 resemble each other every time, even though theyare not exactly the same. You know, mon cher Colin, I imagine this Cyril Quain sitting in hisroom, smoking his pipe as he is represented to do in his photographs, sitting there with around himthe A.B.C.s, the continental40 Bradshaws, the airline brochures, the timetables of every kind. Eventhe movements of liners. Say what you will, Colin, there is order and method in Mr. Cyril Quain.”
He laid Mr. Quain down and picked up another book.
“Now here is Mr. Garry Gregson, a prodigious41 writer of thrillers42. He has written at least sixty-four, I understand. He is almost the exact opposite of Mr. Quain. In Mr. Quain’s books nothingmuch happens, in Garry Gregson’s far too many things happen. They happen implausibly and inmass confusion. They are all highly coloured. It is melodrama27 stirred up with a stick. Bloodshed—bodies—clues—thrills piled up and bulging44 over. All lurid45, all very unlike life. He is not quite, asyou would say, my cup of tea. He is, in fact, not a cup of tea at all. He is more like one of theseAmerican cocktails46 of the more obscure kind, whose ingredients are highly suspect.”
Poirot paused, sighed and resumed his lecture. “Then we turn to America.” He plucked a bookfrom the left- hand pile. “Florence Elks47, now. There is order and method there, colourfulhappenings, yes, but plenty of point in them. Gay and alive. She has wit, this lady, though perhaps,like so many American writers, a little too obsessed48 with drink. I am, as you know, mon ami, aconnoisseur of wine. A claret or a burgundy introduced into a story, with its vintage and dateproperly authenticated49, I always find pleasing. But the exact amount of rye and bourbon that areconsumed on every other page by the detective in an American thriller43 do not seem to meinteresting at all. Whether he drinks a pint50 or a half-pint which he takes from his collar drawerdoes not seem to me really to affect the action of the story in any way. This drink motive22 inAmerican books is very much what King Charles’s head was to poor Mr. Dick when he tried towrite his memoirs. Impossible to keep it out.”
“What about the tough school?” I asked.
Poirot waved aside the tough school much as he would have waved an intruding51 fly ormosquito.
“Violence for violence’ sake? Since when has that been interesting? I have seen plenty ofviolence in my early career as a police officer. Bah, you might as well read a medical text book.
Tout52 de même, I give American crime fiction on the whole a pretty high place. I think it is moreingenious, more imaginative than English writing. It is less atmospheric53 and overladen withatmosphere than most French writers. Now take Louisa O’Malley for instance.”
He dived once more for a book.
“What a model of fine scholarly writing is hers, yet what excitement, what mountingapprehension she arouses in her reader. Those brownstone mansions in New York. Enfin what is abrownstone mansion—I have never known? Those exclusive apartments, and soulful snobberies,and underneath54, deep unsuspected seams of crime run their uncharted course. It could happen so,and it does happen so. She is very good, this Louisa O’Malley, she is very good indeed.”
He sighed, leaned back, shook his head and drank off the remainder of his tisane.
“And then—there are always the old favourites.”
Again he dived for a book.
“The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,” he murmured lovingly, and even uttered reverently theone word, “Ma?tre!”
“Sherlock Holmes?” I asked.
“Ah, non, non, not Sherlock Holmes! It is the author, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, that I salute55.
These tales of Sherlock Holmes are in reality farfetched, full of fallacies and most artificiallycontrived. But the art of the writing—ah, that is entirely56 different. The pleasure of the language,the creation above all of that magnificent character, Dr. Watson. Ah, that was indeed a triumph.”
He sighed and shook his head and murmured, obviously by a natural association of ideas:
“Ce cher Hastings. My friend Hastings of whom you have often heard me speak. It is a longtime since I have had news of him. What an absurdity57 to go and bury oneself in South America,where they are always having revolutions.”
“That’s not confined to South America,” I pointed58 out. “They’re having revolutions all over theworld nowadays.”
“Let us not discuss the Bomb,” said Hercule Poirot. “If it has to be, it has to be, but let us notdiscuss it.”
“Actually,” I said, “I came to discuss something quite different with you.”
“Ah! You are about to be married, is that it? I am delighted, mon cher, delighted.”
“What on earth put that in your head, Poirot?” I asked. “Nothing of the kind.”
“It happens,” said Poirot, “it happens every day.”
“Perhaps,” I said firmly, “but not to me. Actually I came to tell you that I’d run across rather apretty little problem in murder.”
“Indeed? A pretty problem in murder, you say? And you have brought it to me. Why?”
“Well—” I was slightly embarrassed. “I—I thought you might enjoy it,” I said.
Poirot looked at me thoughtfully. He caressed59 his moustache with a loving hand, then he spoke.
“A master,” he said, “is often kind to his dog. He goes out and throws a ball for the dog. A dog,however, is also capable of being kind to its master. A dog kills a rabbit or a rat and he brings itand lays it at his master’s feet. And what does he do then? He wags his tail.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Am I wagging my tail?”
“I think you are, my friend. Yes, I think you are.”
“All right then,” I said. “And what does master say? Does he want to see doggy’s rat? Does hewant to know all about it?”
“Of course. Naturally. It is a crime that you think will interest me. Is that right?”
“The whole point of it is,” I said, “that it just doesn’t make sense.”
“That is impossible,” said Poirot. “Everything makes sense. Everything.”
“Well, you try and make sense of this. I can’t. Not that it’s really anything to do with me. I justhappened to come in on it. Mind you, it may turn out to be quite straightforward, once the deadman is identified.”
“You are talking without method or order,” said Poirot severely60. “Let me beg of you to let mehave the facts. You say it is a murder, yes?”
“It’s a murder all right,” I assured him. “Well, here we go.”
I described to him in detail the events that had taken place at 19, Wilbraham Crescent. HerculePoirot leant back in his chair. He closed his eyes and gently tapped with a forefinger61 the arm of hischair while he listened to my recital62. When I finally stopped, he did not speak for a moment. Thenhe asked, without opening his eyes:
“Sans blague?”
“Oh, absolutely,” I said.
“Epatant,” said Hercule Poirot. He savoured the word on his tongue and repeated it syllable63 bysyllable. “E-pa-tant.” After that he continued his tapping on the arm of his chair and gentlynodded his head.
“Well,” I said impatiently, after waiting a few moments more. “What have you got to say?”
“But what do you want me to say?”
“I want you to give me the solution. I’ve always understood from you that it was perfectlypossible to lie back in one’s chair, just think about it all, and come up with the answer. That it wasquite unnecessary to go and question people and run about looking for clues.”
“It is what I have always maintained.”
“Well, I’m calling your bluff,” I said. “I’ve given you the facts, and now I want the answer.”
“Just like that, hein? But then there is a lot more to be known, mon ami. We are only at thebeginning of the facts. Is that not so?”
“I still want you to come up with something.”
“I see.” He reflected a moment. “One thing is certain,” he pronounced. “It must be a very simplecrime.”
“Simple?” I demanded in some astonishment64.
“Naturally.”
“Why must it be simple?”
“Because it appears so complex. If it has necessarily to appear complex, it must be simple. Youcomprehend that?”
“I don’t really know that I do.”
“Curious,” mused65 Poirot, “what you have told me—I think—yes, there is something familiar tome there. Now where—when—have I come across something … ” He paused.
“Your memory,” I said, “must be one vast reservoir of crimes. But you can’t possibly rememberthem all, can you?”
“Unfortunately no,” said Poirot, “but from time to time these reminiscences are helpful. Therewas a soap boiler66, I remember, once, at Liège. He poisoned his wife in order to marry a blondestenographer. The crime made a pattern. Later, much later, that pattern recurred68. I recognized it.
This time it was an affair of a kidnapped Pekinese dog, but the pattern was the same. I looked forthe equivalent of the blonde stenographer67 and the soap boiler, and voilà! That is the kind of thing.
And here again in what you have told me I have that feeling of recognition.”
“Clocks?” I suggested hopefully. “Bogus insurance agents?”
“No, no,” Poirot shook his head.
“Blind women?”
“No, no, no. Do not confuse me.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Poirot,” I said. “I thought you’d give me the answer straight away.”
“But, my friend, at present you have presented me only with a pattern. There are many morethings to find out. Presumably this man will be identified. In that kind of thing the police areexcellent. They have their criminal records, they can advertise the man’s picture, they have accessto a list of missing persons, there is scientific examination of the dead man’s clothing, and so onand so on. Oh, yes, there are a hundred other ways and means at their disposal. Undoubtedly, thisman will be identified.”
“So there’s nothing to do at the moment. Is that what you think?”
“There is always something to do,” said Hercule Poirot, severely.
“Such as?”
He wagged an emphatic69 forefinger at me.
“Talk to the neighbours,” he said.
“I’ve done that,” I said. “I went with Hardcastle when he was questioning them. They don’tknow anything useful.”
“Ah, tcha, tcha, that is what you think. But I assure you, that cannot be so. You go to them, youask them: ‘Have you seen anything suspicious?’ and they say no, and you think that that is allthere is to it. But that is not what I mean when I say talk to the neighbours. I say talk to them. Letthem talk to you. And from their conversation always, somewhere, you will find a clue. They maybe talking about their gardens or their pets or their hairdressing or their dressmaker, or theirfriends, or the kind of food they like. Always somewhere there will be a word that sheds light.
You say there was nothing in those conversations that was useful. I say that cannot be so. If youcould repeat them to me word for word….”
“Well, that’s practically what I can do,” I said. “I took shorthand transcripts70 of what was said,acting in my role of assistant police officer. I’ve had them transcribed71 and typed and I’ve broughtthem along to you. Here they are.”
“Ah, but you are a good boy, you are a very good boy indeed! What you have done is exactlyright. Exactly. Je vous remercie infiniment.”
I felt quite embarrassed.
“Have you any more suggestions?” I asked.
“Yes, always I have suggestions. There is this girl. You can talk to this girl. Go and see her.
Already you are friends, are you not? Have you not clasped her in your arms when she flew fromthe house in terror?”
“You’ve been affected72 by reading Garry Gregson,” I said. “You’ve caught the melodramaticstyle.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Poirot admitted. “One gets infected, it is true, by the style of a workthat one has been reading.”
“As for the girl—” I said, then paused.
Poirot looked at me inquiringly.
“Yes?” he said.
“I shouldn’t like—I don’t want….”
“Ah, so that is it. At the back of your mind you think she is concerned somehow in this case.”
“No, I don’t. It was absolutely pure chance that she happened to be there.”
“No, no, mon ami, it was not pure chance. You know that very well. You’ve told me so. Shewas asked for over the telephone. Asked for specially73.”
“But she doesn’t know why.”
“You cannot be sure that she does not know why. Very likely she does know why and is hidingthe fact.”
“I don’t think so,” I said obstinately74.
“It is even possible you may find out why by talking to her, even if she herself does not realizethe truth.”
“I don’t see very well how—I mean—I hardly know her.”
Hercule Poirot shut his eyes again.
“There is a time,” he said, “in the course of an attraction between two persons of the oppositesex, when that particular statement is bound to be true. She is an attractive girl, I suppose?”
“Well—yes,” I said. “Quite attractive.”
“You will talk to her,” Poirot ordered, “because you are already friends, and you will go againand see this blind woman with some excuse. And you will talk to her. And you will go to thetypewriting bureau on the pretence75 perhaps of having some manuscript typed. You will makefriends, perhaps, with one of the other young ladies who works there. You will talk to all thesepeople and then you will come and see me again and you will tell me all the things that they willsay.”
“Have mercy!” I said.
“Not at all,” said Poirot, “you will enjoy it.”
“You don’t seem to realize that I’ve got my own work to do.”
“You will work all the better for having a certain amount of relaxation,” Poirot assured me.
I got up and laughed.
“Well,” I said, “you’re the doctor! Any more words of wisdom for me? What do you feel aboutthis strange business of the clocks?”
Poirot leaned back in his chair again and closed his eyes.
The words he spoke were quite unexpected.
“‘The time has come, the Walrus76 said,
To talk of many things.
Of shoes and ships and sealing wax,
And cabbages and kings.
And why the sea is boiling hot
And whether pigs have wings.’”
He opened his eyes again and nodded his head.
“Do you understand?” he said.
“Quotation from ‘The Walrus and the Carpenter,’ Alice Through the Looking Glass.”
“Exactly. For the moment, that is the best I can do for you, mon cher. Reflect upon it.”
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narrative
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mansions
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imposing
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noted
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discreet
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depressed
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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nauseating
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chrysanthemums
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marrows
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superintendent
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memoirs
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unbearably
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discretion
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admiration
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straightforward
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venom
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strictly
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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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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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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panache
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| n.羽饰；假威风，炫耀 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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alibis
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| 某人在别处的证据( alibi的名词复数 )； 不在犯罪现场的证人； 借口； 托辞 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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thrillers
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| n.紧张刺激的故事( thriller的名词复数 )；戏剧；令人感到兴奋的事；（电影）惊悚片 | |
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thriller
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| n.惊险片，恐怖片 | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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cocktails
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| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
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elks
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| n.麋鹿( elk的名词复数 ) | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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authenticated
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| v.证明是真实的、可靠的或有效的( authenticate的过去式和过去分词 )；鉴定，使生效 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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stenographer
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| n.速记员 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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transcripts
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| n.抄本（ transcript的名词复数 ）；转写本；文字本；副本 | |
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transcribed
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的过去式和过去分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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75
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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walrus
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| n.海象 | |
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