There had been nothing to tell Philip Durrant that this day was differentfrom any other day.
He had no idea that today would decide his future once and for all.
He woke in good health and spirits. The sun, a pale autumnal sun, shonein at the window. Kirsten brought him a telephone message which in-creased his good spirits.
“Tina’s coming over for tea,” he told Mary when she came in with hisbreakfast.
“Is she? Oh, yes, of course, it’s her afternoon off, isn’t it?”
Mary sounded preoccupied1.
“What’s the matter, Polly?”
“Nothing.”
She chipped off the top of his egg for him. At once, he felt irritated.
“I can still use my hands, Polly.”
“Oh, I thought it would save you trouble.”
“How old do you think I am? Six?”
She looked faintly surprised. Then she said abruptly2:
“Hester’s coming home today.”
“Is she?” He spoke3 vaguely4, because his mind was full of his plans fordealing with Tina. Then he caught sight of his wife’s expression.
“For goodness” sake, Polly, do you think I’ve got a guilty passion for thegirl?”
She turned her head aside.
“You’re always saying she’s so lovely.”
“So she is. If you like beautiful bones and a quality of the unearthly.” Headded dryly: “But I’m hardly cut out to be a seducer5, am I?”
“You might wish you were.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Polly. I never knew you had this tendency to jeal-ousy.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
He started to rebut6 that, but paused. It came to him, with something of ashock, that perhaps he didn’t know very much about Mary.
She went on:
“I want you to myself—all to myself. I want there to be nobody in theworld but you and me.”
“We’d run out of conversation, Polly.”
He had spoken lightly, but he felt uncomfortable. The brightness of themorning seemed suddenly dimmed.
She said: “Let’s go home, Philip, please let’s go home.”
“Very soon we will, but not just yet. Things are coming along. As I toldyou, Tina’s coming this afternoon.” He went on, hoping to turn herthought into a new channel: “I’ve great hopes of Tina.”
“In what way?”
“Tina knows something.”
“You mean—about the murder?”
“Yes.”
“But how can she? She wasn’t even here that night.”
“I wonder now. I think, you know, that she was. Funny how odd littlethings turn up to help. That daily, Mrs. Narracott—the tall one, she told mesomething.”
“What did she tell you?”
“A bit of village gossip. Mrs. Somebody or other’s Ernie—no—Cyril. He’dhad to go with his mother to the police station. Something he’d seen on thenight poor Mrs. Argyle was done in.”
“What had he seen?”
“Well, there Mrs. Narracott was rather vague. She hadn’t got it out ofMrs. Somebody yet. But one can guess, can’t one, Polly? Cyril wasn’t insidethe house, so he must have seen something outside. That gives us twoguesses. He saw Micky or he saw Tina. It’s my guess that Tina came outhere that night.”
“She’d have said so.”
“Not necessarily. It sticks out a mile that Tina knows something she isn’ttelling. Say she drove out that night. Perhaps she came into the house andfound your mother dead.”
“And went away again without saying anything? Nonsense.”
“There may have been reasons … She may have seen or heard some-thing that made her think she knew who’d done it.”
“She was never particularly fond of Jacko. I’m sure she wouldn’t havewanted to shield him.”
“Then perhaps it wasn’t Jacko she suspected … But later, when Jackowas arrested, she thought that what she had suspected was quite wrong.
Having said she wasn’t here, she had to stick to it. But now, of course, it’sdifferent.”
Mary said impatiently:
“You just imagine things, Philip. You make up a lot of things that can’tpossibly be true.”
“They’re quite likely to be true. I’m going to try and make Tina tell mewhat she knows.”
“I don’t believe she knows anything. Do you really think she knows whodid it?”
“I wouldn’t go as far as that. I think she either saw—or heard—some-thing. I want to find out what that something is.”
“Tina won’t tell if she doesn’t want to.”
“No, I agree. And she’s a great one for keeping things to herself. Littlepoker face, too. Never shows anything. But she’s not really a good liar8—not nearly as good a liar as you are, for instance … My method will be toguess. Put my guess to her as a question. To be answered yes or no. Do youknow what will happen then? One of three things. She’ll either say yes—and that will be that. Or she will say no—and since she isn’t a good liar Ishall know whether her no is genuine. Or she will refuse to answer andput on her poker7 face—and that, Polly, will be as good as yes. Come now,you must admit that there are possibilities with this technique of mine.”
“Oh, leave it all alone, Phil! Do leave it alone! It will all die down and beforgotten.”
“No. This thing has got to be cleared up. Otherwise we’ll have Hesterthrowing herself out of windows and Kirsty having a nervous breakdown9.
Leo’s already freezing up into a kind of stalactite. As for poor old Gwenda,she’s on the point of accepting a post in Rhodesia.”
“What does it matter what happens to them?”
“Nobody matters but us—that’s what you mean?”
His face was stern and angry. It startled Mary. She had never seen herhusband look like that before.
She faced him defiantly10.
“Why should I care about other people?” she asked.
“You never have, have you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Philip gave a sharp exasperated11 sigh. He pushed his breakfast trayaside.
“Take this thing away. I don’t want any more.”
“But Philip—”
He made an impatient gesture. Mary picked up the tray and carried itout of the room. Philip wheeled himself over to the writing table. Pen inhand, he stared out of the window. He felt a curious oppression of spirit.
He had been so full of excitement a short while ago. Now he felt uneasyand restless.
But presently he rallied. He covered two sheets of paper rapidly. Thenhe sat back and considered.
It was plausible12. It was possible. But he wasn’t entirely13 satisfied. Was hereally on the right tack14? He couldn’t be sure. Motive15. Motive was what wasso damnably lacking. There was some factor, somewhere, that had es-caped him.
He sighed impatiently. He could hardly wait for Tina to arrive. If onlythis could be cleared up. Just among themselves. That was all that was ne-cessary. Once they knew—then they would all be free. Free of this stiflingatmosphere of suspicion and hopelessness. They could all, except one, geton with their own lives. He and Mary would go back home and—His thoughts stopped. Excitement died down again. He faced his ownproblem. He didn’t want to go home… He thought of its orderly perfection,its shining chintzes, its gleaming brass16. A clean, bright, well-tended cage!
And he in the cage, tied to his invalid-chair, surrounded by the loving careof his wife.
His wife … When he thought of his wife, he seemed to see two people.
One the girl he had married, fair-haired, blue-eyed, gentle, reserved. Thatwas the girl he had loved, the girl he teased whilst she stared at him with apuzzled frown. That was his Polly. But there was another Mary—a Marywho was hard as steel, who was passionate17, but incapable18 of affection—aMary to whom nobody mattered but herself. Even he only mattered be-cause he was hers.
A line of French verse passed through his mind—how did it go.
Venus toute entière à sa proie attaché….
And that Mary he did not love. Behind the cold blue eyes of that Marywas a stranger—a stranger he did not know….
And then he laughed at himself. He was getting nervy and het up likeeverybody else in the house. He remembered his mother-in-law talking tohim about his wife. About the sweet little fair-haired girl in New York.
About the moment when the child had thrown her arms round Mrs.
Argyle’s neck and had cried out: “I want to stay with you. I don’t want toleave you ever!”
That had been affection, hadn’t it? And yet — how very unlike Mary.
Could one change so much between child and woman? How difficult, al-most impossible it was for Mary ever to voice affection, to be demonstrat-ive?
Yet certainly on that occasion—His thoughts stopped dead. Or was itreally quite simple? Not affection—just calculation. A means to an end. Ashow of affection deliberately19 produced. What was Mary capable of to getwhat she wanted?
Almost anything, he thought—and was shocked with himself for think-ing it.
Angrily he dashed down his pen, and wheeled himself out of the sittingroom into the bedroom next door. He wheeled himself up to the dressingtable. He picked up his brushes and brushed back his hair from where itwas hanging over his forehead. His own face looked strange to him.
Who am I, he thought, and where am I going? Thoughts that had neveroccurred to him before … He wheeled his chair close to the window andlooked out. Down below, one of the daily women stood outside the kitchenwindow and talked to someone inside. Their voices, softly accented in thelocal dialect, floated up to him….
His eyes widening, he remained as though tranced.
A sound from the next room awakened20 him from his preoccupation. Hewheeled himself to the connecting door.
Gwenda Vaughan was standing21 by the writing table. She turned towardshim and he was startled by the haggardness of her face in the morningsunshine.
“Hallo, Gwenda.”
“Hallo Philip. Leo thought you might like the Illustrated22 London News.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“This is a nice room,” said Gwenda, looking round her. “I don’t believeI’ve ever been in it before.”
“Quite the Royal Suite23 isn’t it?” said Philip. “Away from everybody. Idealfor invalids24 and honeymoon25 couples.”
Just too late he wished he had not used the last two words. Gwenda’sface quivered.
“I must get on with things,” she said vaguely.
“The perfect secretary.”
“Not even that nowadays. I make mistakes.”
“Don’t we all?” He added deliberately: “When are you and Leo gettingmarried?”
“We probably never shall.”
“That would be a real mistake,” said Philip.
“Leo thinks it might cause unfavourable comment—from the police!”
Her voice was bitter.
“Dash it all, Gwenda, one has to take some risks.”
“I’m willing to take risks,” said Gwenda. “I’ve never minded taking risks.
I’m willing to gamble on happiness. But Leo—”
“Yes? Leo?”
“Leo,” said Gwenda, “will probably die as he has lived, the husband ofRachel Argyle.”
The anger and bitterness in her eyes startled him.
“She might just as well be alive,” said Gwenda. “She’s here—in the house—all the time….”

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收听单词发音

1
preoccupied
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adj.全神贯注的,入神的;被抢先占有的;心事重重的v.占据(某人)思想,使对…全神贯注,使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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2
abruptly
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adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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3
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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4
vaguely
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adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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5
seducer
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n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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6
rebut
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v.辩驳,驳回 | |
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7
poker
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n.扑克;vt.烙制 | |
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8
liar
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n.说谎的人 | |
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9
breakdown
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n.垮,衰竭;损坏,故障,倒塌 | |
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10
defiantly
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adv.挑战地,大胆对抗地 | |
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11
exasperated
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adj.恼怒的 | |
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12
plausible
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adj.似真实的,似乎有理的,似乎可信的 | |
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13
entirely
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ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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14
tack
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n.大头钉;假缝,粗缝 | |
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15
motive
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n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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16
brass
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n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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17
passionate
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adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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18
incapable
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adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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19
deliberately
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adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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20
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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21
standing
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n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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22
illustrated
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adj. 有插图的,列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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23
suite
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n.一套(家具);套房;随从人员 | |
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24
invalids
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病人,残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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25
honeymoon
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n.蜜月(假期);vi.度蜜月 | |
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