IThe days passed. It was an unsatisfactory time, with its uneasy feeling of waiting for something.
Nothing, if I may put it in such a way, actually happened. Yet there were incidents, scraps1 ofodd conversations, sidelights upon the various inmates2 of Styles, elucidating3 remarks. They allmounted up and, if properly pieced together, could have done a lot towards enlightening me.
It was Poirot who, with a few forceful words, showed me something to which I had beencriminally blind.
I was complaining, for the umpteenth4 time, of his wilful5 refusal to admit me to his confidence. Itwas not fair, I told him. Always he and I had had equal knowledge—even if I had been dense6 andhe had been astute7 in drawing the right conclusions from that knowledge.
He waved an impatient hand. “Quite so, my friend. It is not fair! It is not sporting! It is notplaying the game! Admit all that and pass from it. This is not a game—it is not le sport. For you,you occupy yourself in guessing wildly at the identity of X. It is not for that that I asked you tocome here. Unnecessary for you to occupy yourself with that. I know the answer to that question.
But what I do not know and what I must know is this: ‘Who is going to die—very soon?’ It is aquestion, mon vieux, not of you playing a guessing game, but of preventing a human being fromdying.”
I was startled. “Of course,” I said slowly. “I—well, I did know that you practically said so once,but I haven’t quite realized it.”
“Then realize it now—immediately.”
“Yes, yes, I will—I mean, I do.”
“Bien! Then tell me, Hastings, who is it who is going to die?”
I stared at him blankly. “I have really no idea!”
“Then you should have an idea! What else are you here for?”
“Surely,” I said, going back over my meditations8 on the subject, “there must be a connectionbetween the victim and X so that if you told me who X was—”
Poirot shook his head with so much vigour9 that it was quite painful to watch.
“Have I not told you that that is the essence of X’s technique? There will be nothing connectingX with the death. That is certain.”
“The connection will be hidden, you mean?”
“It will be so well hidden that neither you nor I will find it.”
“But surely by studying X’s past—”
“I tell you, no. Certainly not in the time. Murder may happen any moment, you comprehend?”
“To someone in this house?”
“To someone in this house.”
“And you really do not know who, or how?”
“Ah! If I did, I should not be urging you to find out for me.”
“You simply base your assumption on the presence of X?”
I sounded a little doubtful. Poirot, whose self-control had lessened10 as his limbs were perforceimmobile, fairly howled at me.
“Ah, ma foi, how many times am I to go over all this? If a lot of war correspondents arrivesuddenly in a certain spot of Europe, it means what? It means war! If doctors come from all overthe world to a certain city, it shows what? That there is to be there a medical conference. Whereyou see a vulture hovering11, there will be a carcass. If you see beaters walking up a moor12, there willbe a shoot. If you see a man stop suddenly, tear off his coat and plunge13 into the sea, it means thatthere, there will be a rescue from drowning.
“If you see ladies of middle age and respectable appearance peering through a hedge, you maydeduce that there is there an impropriety of some kind! And finally, if you smell a succulent smelland observe several people all walking along a corridor in the same direction you may safelyassume that a meal is about to be served!”
I considered these analogies for a minute or two, then I said, taking the first one: “All the same,one war correspondent does not make a war!”
“Certainly not. And one swallow does not make a summer. But one murderer, Hastings, doesmake a murder.”
That, of course, was undeniable. But it still occurred to me, as it did not seem to have occurredto Poirot, that even a murderer has his off times. X might be at Styles simply for a holiday with nolethal intent. Poirot was so worked up, however, that I dared not propound14 this suggestion. Imerely said that the whole thing seemed to me hopeless. We must wait—“And see,” finished Poirot. “Like your Mr. Asquith in the last war. That, mon cher, is just whatwe must not do. I do not say, mark you, that we shall succeed, for as I have told you before, whena killer15 has determined16 to kill, it is not easy to circumvent17 him. But we can at least try. Figure toyourself, Hastings, that you have here the bridge problem in the paper. You can see all the cards.
What you are asked to do is ‘Forecast the result of the deal.’ ”
I shook my head. “It’s no good, Poirot, I haven’t the least idea. If I knew who X was—”
Poirot howled at me again. He howled so loud that Curtiss came running in from the next roomlooking quite frightened. Poirot waved him away and when he had gone out again, my friendspoke in a more controlled manner.
“Come, Hastings, you are not so stupid as you like to pretend. You have studied those cases Igave you to read. You may not know who X is, but you know X’s technique for committing acrime.”
“Oh,” I said. “I see.”
“Of course you see. The trouble with you is that you are mentally lazy. You like to play gamesand guess. You do not like to work with your head. What is the essential element of X’stechnique? Is it not that the crime, when committed, is complete? That is to say, there is a motivefor the crime, there is an opportunity, there is means and there is, last and most important, theguilty person all ready for the dock.”
At once I grasped the essential point and realized what a fool I had been not to see it sooner.
“I see,” I said. “I’ve got to look round for somebody who—who answers to those requirements—the potential victim.”
Poirot leaned back with a sigh. “Enfin! I am very tired. Send Curtiss to me. You understandyour job now. You are active, you can get about, you can follow people about, talk to them, spyupon them unobserved—” (I nearly uttered an indignant protest, but quelled20 it. It was too old anargument)—“You can listen to conversations, you have knees that will bend and permit you tokneel and look through keyholes—”
“I will not look through keyholes,” I interrupted hotly.
Poirot closed his eyes. “Very well, then. You will not look through keyholes. You will remainthe English gentleman and someone will be killed. It does not matter, that. Honour comes firstwith an Englishman. Your honour is more important than somebody else’s life. Bien! It isunderstood.”
“No, but dash it all, Poirot—”
Poirot said coldly: “Send Curtiss to me. Go away. You are obstinate21 and extremely stupid and Iwish that there were someone else whom I could trust, but I suppose I shall have to put up withyou and your absurd ideas of fair play. Since you cannot use your grey cells as you do not possessthem, at any rate use your eyes, your ears and your nose if need be in so far as the dictates22 ofhonour allow.”
II
It was on the following day that I ventured to broach23 an idea which had come into my mind morethan once. I did so a little dubiously24, for one never knows how Poirot may react!
I said: “I’ve been thinking, Poirot, I know I’m not much of a fellow. You’ve said I’m stupid—well, in a way it’s true. And I’m only half the man I was. Since Cinders’s death—”
I stopped. Poirot made a gruff noise indicative of sympathy.
I went on: “But there is a man here who could help us—just the kind of man we need. Brains,imagination, resource—used to taking decisions and a man of wide experience. I’m talking ofBoyd Carrington. He’s the man we want, Poirot. Take him into your confidence. Put the wholething before him.”
Poirot opened his eyes and said with immense decision: “Certainly not.”
“But why not? You can’t deny that he’s clever—a good deal cleverer than I am.”
“THAT,” said Poirot with biting sarcasm25, “would be easy. But dismiss the idea from your mind,Hastings. We take no one into our confidence. That is understood—hein? You comprehend, Iforbid you to speak of this matter.”
“All right, if you say so, but really Boyd Carrington—”
“Ah, ta ta! Boyd Carrington. Why are you so obsessed26 with Boyd Carrington? What is he, afterall? A big man who is pompous27 and pleased with himself because people have called him ‘YourExcellency.’ A man with—yes, a certain amount of tact28 and charm of manner. But he is not sowonderful, your Boyd Carrington. He repeats himself, he tells the same story twice—and what ismore, his memory is so bad that he tells back to you the story that you have told to him! A man ofoutstanding ability? Not at all. An old bore, a windbag—enfin—the stuffed shirt!”
“Oh,” I said as enlightenment came to me.
It was quite true that Boyd Carrington’s memory was not good. And he had actually been guiltyof a gaffe29 which I now saw had annoyed Poirot a good deal. Poirot had told him a story of hispolice days in Belgium, and only a couple of days afterwards, when several of us were assembledin the garden, Boyd Carrington had in bland30 forgetfulness told the same story back again to Poirot,prefacing it with the remark: “I remember the Chef de la S?reté in Paris telling me. .?.?.”
I now perceived that this had rankled31!
Tactfully, I said no more, and withdrew.
III
I wandered downstairs and out into the garden. There was no one about and I strolled through agrove of trees and up to a grassy32 knoll33 which was surmounted34 by a somewhat earwiggysummerhouse in an advanced stage of decrepitude35. Here I sat down, lit my pipe, and settled tothink things out.
Who was there at Styles who had a fairly definite motive19 for murdering somebody else—or whomight be made out to have one?
Putting aside the somewhat obvious case of Colonel Luttrell, who, I was afraid, was hardlylikely to take a hatchet36 to his wife in the middle of a rubber, justifiable37 though that course mightbe, I could not at first think of anyone.
The trouble was that I did not really know enough about these people. Norton, for instance, andMiss Cole? What were the usual motives38 for murder? Money? Boyd Carrington was, I fancied, theonly rich man of the party. If he died, who would inherit that money? Anyone at present in thehouse? I hardly thought so, but it was a point that might bear enquiry. He might, for instance, haveleft his money to research, making Franklin a trustee. That, with the doctor’s rather injudiciousremarks on the subject of eliminating eighty percent of the human race, might make out a fairlydamning case against the red-haired doctor. Or possibly Norton or Miss Cole might be a distantrelative and would inherit automatically. Far-fetched but possible. Would Colonel Luttrell, whowas an old friend, benefit under Boyd Carrington’s will? These possibilities seemed to exhaust themoney angle. I turned to more romantic possibilities. The Franklins. Mrs. Franklin was an invalid39.
Was it possible that she was being slowly poisoned—and would the responsibility for her death belaid at her husband’s door? He was a doctor, he had opportunity and means, no doubt. What aboutmotive? An unpleasant qualm shot across my mind as it occurred to me that Judith might beinvolved. I had good reason to know how businesslike their relations were—but would the generalpublic believe that? Would a cynical40 police officer believe it? Judith was a very beautiful youngwoman. An attractive secretary or assistant had been the motive for many crimes. The possibilitydismayed me.
I considered Allerton next. Could there be any reason for doing away with Allerton? If we hadto have a murder I would prefer to see Allerton the victim! One ought to be able to find motiveseasily for doing away with him. Miss Cole, though not young, was still a good-looking woman.
She might, conceivably, be actuated by jealousy41 if she and Allerton had ever been on intimateterms, though I had no reason to believe that that was the case. Besides, if Allerton was X—I shook my head impatiently. All this was getting me nowhere. A footstep on the gravel42 belowattracted my attention. It was Franklin walking rapidly towards the house, his hands in his pockets,his head thrust forward. His whole attitude was one of dejection. Seeing him thus, off guard, I wasstruck by the fact that he looked a thoroughly43 unhappy man.
I was so busy staring at him that I did not hear a footfall nearer at hand, and turned with a startwhen Miss Cole spoke18 to me.
“I didn’t hear you coming,” I explained apologetically as I sprang up.
She was examining the summerhouse.
“What a Victorian relic44!”
“Isn’t it? It’s rather spidery, I’m afraid. Do sit down. I’ll dust the seat for you.”
For it occurred to me that here was a chance to get to know one of my fellow guests a littlebetter. I studied Miss Cole covertly45 as I brushed away cobwebs.
She was a woman of between thirty and forty, slightly haggard, with a clear-cut profile andreally very beautiful eyes. There was about her an air of reserve, more—of suspicion. It came tome suddenly that this was a woman who had suffered and who was, in consequence, deeplydistrustful of life. I felt that I would like to know more about Elizabeth Cole.
“There,” I said with a final flick46 of the handkerchief, “that’s the best I can do.”
“Thank you.” She smiled and sat down. I sat down beside her. The seat creaked ominously47 butno catastrophe48 occurred.
Miss Cole said: “Do tell me, what were you thinking about when I came up to you? Youseemed quite sunk in thought.”
I said slowly: “I was watching Dr. Franklin.”
“Yes?”
I saw no reason for not repeating what had been in my mind.
“It struck me that he looked a very unhappy man.”
The woman beside me said quietly: “But of course he is. You must have realized that.”
I think I showed my surprise. I said, stammering49 slightly: “No—no—I haven’t. I’ve alwaysthought of him as absolutely wrapped up in his work.”
“So he is.”
“Do you call that unhappiness? I should have said it was the happiest state imaginable.”
“Oh yes, I’m not disputing it—but not if you’re hampered50 from doing what you feel it’s in youto do. If you can’t, that is to say, produce your best.”
I looked at her, feeling rather puzzled. She went on to explain: “Last autumn Dr. Franklin wasoffered the chance of going out to Africa and continuing his research work there. He’stremendously keen, as you know, and has really done first-class work already in the realm oftropical medicine.”
“And he didn’t go?”
“No. His wife protested. She herself wasn’t well enough to stand the climate and she kickedagainst the idea of being left behind, especially as it would have meant very economical living forher. The pay offered was not high.”
“Oh,” I said. I went on slowly: “I suppose he felt that in her state of health he couldn’t leaveher.”
“Do you know much about her state of health, Captain Hastings?”
“Well, I—no—But she is an invalid, isn’t she?”
“She certainly enjoys bad health,” said Miss Cole drily. I looked at her doubtfully. It was easyto see that her sympathies were entirely51 with the husband.
“I suppose,” I said slowly, “that women who are—delicate are apt to be selfish?”
“Yes, I think invalids52 — chronic53 invalids — usually are very selfish. One can’t blame themperhaps. It’s so easy.”
“You don’t think that there’s really very much the matter with Mrs. Franklin?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t like to say that. It’s just a suspicion. She always seems able to do anything shewants to do.”
I reflected in silence for a minute or two. It struck me that Miss Cole seemed very wellacquainted with the ramifications54 of the Franklin ménage. I asked with some curiosity: “You knowDr. Franklin well, I suppose?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no. I had only met them once or twice before we met here.”
“But he has talked to you about himself, I suppose?”
Again she shook her head. “No, what I have just told you I learnt from your daughter Judith.”
Judith, I reflected, with a moment’s bitterness, talked to everyone except me.
Miss Cole went on: “Judith is terrifically loyal to her employer and very much up in arms on hisbehalf. Her condemnation55 of Mrs. Franklin’s selfishness is sweeping56.”
“You, too, think she is selfish?”
“Yes, but I can see her point of view. I—I understand invalids. I can understand, too, Dr.
Franklin’s giving way to her. Judith, of course, thinks he should park his wife anywhere and geton with the job. Your daughter’s a very enthusiastic scientific worker.”
“I know,” I said rather disconsolately57. “It worries me sometimes. It doesn’t seem natural, if youknow what I mean. I feel she ought to be—more human—more keen on having a good time.
Amuse herself—fall in love with a nice boy or two. After all, youth is the time to have one’s fling—not to sit poring over test tubes. It isn’t natural. In our young days we were having fun—flirting—enjoying ourselves—you know.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Miss Cole said in a queer cold voice: “I don’t know.”
I was instantly horrified58. Unconsciously I had spoken as though she and I were contemporaries— but I realized suddenly that she was well over ten years my junior and that I had beenunwittingly extremely tactless.
I apologized as best I could. She cut into my stammering phrases.
“No, no, I didn’t mean that. Please don’t apologize. I meant just simply what I said. I don’tknow. I was never what you meant by ‘young.’ I never had what is called ‘a good time.’”
Something in her voice, a bitterness, a deep resentment59, left me at a loss. I said, rather lamely,but with sincerity60: “I’m sorry.”
She smiled. “Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. Don’t look so upset. Let’s talk about something else.”
I obeyed. “Tell me something about the other people here,” I said. “Unless they’re all strangersto you.”
“I’ve known the Luttrells all my life. It’s rather sad that they should have to do this—especiallyfor him. He’s rather a dear. And she’s nicer than you’d think. It’s having had to pinch and scrapeall her life that has made her rather—well—predatory. If you’re always on the make, it does tell inthe end. The only thing I do rather dislike about her is that gushing61 manner.”
“Tell me something about Mr. Norton.”
“There isn’t really much to tell. He’s very nice—rather shy—just a little stupid, perhaps. He’salways been rather delicate. He’s lived with his mother—rather a peevish62, stupid woman. Shebossed him a good deal, I think. She died a few years ago. He’s keen on birds and flowers andthings like that. He’s a very kind person—and he’s the sort of person who sees a lot.”
“Through his glasses, you mean?”
Miss Cole smiled. “Well, I wasn’t meaning it quite so literally63 as that. I meant more that henotices a good deal. Those quiet people often do. He’s unselfish—and very considerate for a man,but he’s rather—ineffectual, if you know what I mean.”
I nodded. “Oh, yes, I know.”
Elizabeth Cole said suddenly, and once more the deep bitter note was in her voice: “That’s thedepressing part of places like this. Guest houses run by broken-down gentlepeople. They’re full offailures—of people who have never got anywhere and never will get anywhere, of people who—who have been defeated and broken by life, of people who are old and tired and finished.”
Her voice died away. A deep and spreading sadness permeated64 me. How true it was! Here wewere, a collection of twilit people. Grey heads, grey hearts, grey dreams. Myself, sad and lonely,the woman beside me also a bitter and disillusioned65 creature. Dr. Franklin, eager, ambitious,curbed and thwarted66, his wife a prey67 to ill health. Quiet little Norton limping about looking atbirds. Even Poirot, the once brilliant Poirot, now a broken, crippled old man.
How different it had been in the old days—the days when I had first come to Styles. Thethought was too much for me—a stifled68 exclamation69 of pain and regret came to my lips.
My companion said quickly: “What is it?”
“Nothing. I was just struck by the contrast—I was here, you know, many years ago, as a youngman. I was thinking of the difference between then and now.”
“I see. It was a happy house then? Everyone was happy here?”
Curious, sometimes, how one’s thoughts seemed to swing in a kaleidoscope. It happened to menow. A bewildering shuffling70 and reshuffling of memories, of events. Then the mosaic71 settled intoits true pattern.
My regret had been for the past as the past, not for the reality. For even then, in that far-off time,there had been no happiness at Styles. I remembered dispassionately the real facts. My friend Johnand his wife, both unhappy and chafing72 at the life they were forced to lead. Laurence Cavendish,sunk in melancholy73. Cynthia, her girlish brightness damped by her dependent position. Inglethorpmarried to a rich woman for her money. No, none of them had been happy. And now, again, noone here was happy. Styles was not a lucky house.
I said to Miss Cole: “I’ve been indulging in false sentiment. This was never a happy house. Itisn’t now. Everyone here is unhappy.”
“No, no. Your daughter—”
“Judith’s not happy.”
I said it with the certainty of sudden knowledge. No, Judith wasn’t happy.
“Boyd Carrington,” I said doubtfully. “He was saying the other day that he was lonely—but forall that I think he’s enjoying himself quite a good deal—what with his house and one thing andanother.”
Miss Cole said sharply: “Oh yes, but then Sir William is different. He doesn’t belong here likethe rest of us do. He’s from the outside world—the world of success and independence. He’s madea success of his life and he knows it. He’s not one of—of the maimed.”
It was a curious word to choose. I turned and stared at her.
“Will you tell me,” I asked, “why you used that particular expression?”
“Because,” she said with a sudden fierce energy, “it’s the truth. The truth about me, at any rate.
I am maimed.”
“I can see,” I said gently, “that you have been very unhappy.”
She said quietly: “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Er—I know your name—”
“Cole isn’t my name—that is to say, it was my mother’s name. I took it—afterwards.”
“After?”
“My real name is Litchfield.”
For a minute or two it didn’t sink in—it was just a name vaguely74 familiar. Then I remembered.
“Matthew Litchfield.”
She nodded. “I see you know about it. That was what I meant just now. My father was aninvalid and a tyrant75. He forbade us any kind of normal life. We couldn’t ask friends to the house.
He kept us short of money. We were—in prison.”
She paused, her eyes, those beautiful eyes, wide and dark.
“And then my sister—my sister—”
She stopped.
“Please don’t—don’t go on. It is too painful for you. I know about it. There is no need to tellme.”
“But you don’t know. You can’t. Maggie. It’s inconceivable—unbelievable. I know that shewent to the police, that she gave herself up, that she confessed. But I still sometimes can’t believeit! I feel somehow that it wasn’t true—that it didn’t—that it couldn’t have happened like she saidit did.”
“You mean—” I hesitated—“that the facts were at—at variance—”
She cut me short. “No, no. Not that. No, it’s Maggie herself. It wasn’t like her. It wasn’t—itwasn’t Maggie!”
Words trembled on my lips, but I did not say them. The time had not yet come when I could sayto her: “You are right. It wasn’t Maggie. .?.?.”
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
scraps
|
|
| 油渣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
inmates
|
|
| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
elucidating
|
|
| v.阐明，解释( elucidate的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
umpteenth
|
|
| adj.第无数次（个）的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
wilful
|
|
| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
dense
|
|
| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
astute
|
|
| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
meditations
|
|
| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
vigour
|
|
| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
lessened
|
|
| 减少的，减弱的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
hovering
|
|
| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
moor
|
|
| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
plunge
|
|
| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
propound
|
|
| v.提出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
killer
|
|
| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
circumvent
|
|
| vt.环绕，包围；对…用计取胜，智胜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
motive
|
|
| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
quelled
|
|
| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
obstinate
|
|
| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
dictates
|
|
| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
broach
|
|
| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
dubiously
|
|
| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
sarcasm
|
|
| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
obsessed
|
|
| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
pompous
|
|
| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
tact
|
|
| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
gaffe
|
|
| n.（社交上令人不快的）失言，失态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
bland
|
|
| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
rankled
|
|
| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
grassy
|
|
| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
knoll
|
|
| n.小山，小丘 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
surmounted
|
|
| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
decrepitude
|
|
| n.衰老；破旧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
hatchet
|
|
| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
justifiable
|
|
| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
motives
|
|
| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
invalid
|
|
| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
cynical
|
|
| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
jealousy
|
|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
gravel
|
|
| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
relic
|
|
| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
covertly
|
|
| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
flick
|
|
| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
ominously
|
|
| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
catastrophe
|
|
| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
stammering
|
|
| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
hampered
|
|
| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
invalids
|
|
| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
chronic
|
|
| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
ramifications
|
|
| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
condemnation
|
|
| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
sweeping
|
|
| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
disconsolately
|
|
| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
horrified
|
|
| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
resentment
|
|
| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
sincerity
|
|
| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
gushing
|
|
| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
peevish
|
|
| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
literally
|
|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
permeated
|
|
| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
disillusioned
|
|
| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
thwarted
|
|
| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
prey
|
|
| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
stifled
|
|
| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
exclamation
|
|
| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
shuffling
|
|
| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
mosaic
|
|
| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
chafing
|
|
| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
vaguely
|
|
| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
tyrant
|
|
| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |