The hour should be the evening and the season winter, for in winter the champagne5 brightness of the air and the sociability6 of the streets are grateful. We are not then taunted7 as in the summer by the longing8 for shade and solitude9 and sweet airs from the hayfields. The evening hour, too, gives us the irresponsibility which darkness and lamplight bestow10. We are no longer quite ourselves. As we step out of the house on a fine evening between four and six, we shed the self our friends know us by and become part of that vast republican army of anonymous11 trampers, whose society is so agreeable after the solitude of one’s own room. For there we sit surrounded by objects which perpetually express the oddity of our own temperaments12 and enforce the memories of our own experience. That bowl on the mantelpiece, for instance, was bought at Mantua on a windy day. We were leaving the shop when the sinister14 old woman plucked at our skirts and said she would find herself starving one of these days, but, “Take it!” she cried, and thrust the blue and white china bowl into our hands as if she never wanted to be reminded of her quixotic generosity15. So, guiltily, but suspecting nevertheless how badly we had been fleeced, we carried it back to the little hotel where, in the middle of the night, the innkeeper quarrelled so violently with his wife that we all leant out into the courtyard to look, and saw the vines laced about among the pillars and the stars white in the sky. The moment was stabilized16, stamped like a coin indelibly among a million that slipped by imperceptibly. There, too, was the melancholy17 Englishman, who rose among the coffee cups and the little iron tables and revealed the secrets of his soul — as travellers do. All this — Italy, the windy morning, the vines laced about the pillars, the Englishman and the secrets of his soul — rise up in a cloud from the china bowl on the mantelpiece. And there, as our eyes fall to the floor, is that brown stain on the carpet. Mr. Lloyd George made that. “The man’s a devil!” said Mr. Cummings, putting the kettle down with which he was about to fill the teapot so that it burnt a brown ring on the carpet.
But when the door shuts on us, all that vanishes. The shell-like covering which our souls have excreted to house themselves, to make for themselves a shape distinct from others, is broken, and there is left of all these wrinkles and roughnesses a central oyster18 of perceptiveness19, an enormous eye. How beautiful a street is in winter! It is at once revealed and obscured. Here vaguely20 one can trace symmetrical straight avenues of doors and windows; here under the lamps are floating islands of pale light through which pass quickly bright men and women, who, for all their poverty and shabbiness, wear a certain look of unreality, an air of triumph, as if they had given life the slip, so that life, deceived of her prey21, blunders on without them. But, after all, we are only gliding22 smoothly23 on the surface. The eye is not a miner, not a diver, not a seeker after buried treasure. It floats us smoothly down a stream; resting, pausing, the brain sleeps perhaps as it looks.
How beautiful a London street is then, with its islands of light, and its long groves24 of darkness, and on one side of it perhaps some tree-sprinkled, grass-grown space where night is folding herself to sleep naturally and, as one passes the iron railing, one hears those little cracklings and stirrings of leaf and twig25 which seem to suppose the silence of fields all round them, an owl13 hooting26, and far away the rattle27 of a train in the valley. But this is London, we are reminded; high among the bare trees are hung oblong frames of reddish yellow light — windows; there are points of brilliance28 burning steadily29 like low stars — lamps; this empty ground, which holds the country in it and its peace, is only a London square, set about by offices and houses where at this hour fierce lights burn over maps, over documents, over desks where clerks sit turning with wetted forefinger30 the files of endless correspondences; or more suffusedly the firelight wavers and the lamplight falls upon the privacy of some drawing-room, its easy chairs, its papers, its china, its inlaid table, and the figure of a woman, accurately31 measuring out the precise number of spoons of tea which —— She looks at the door as if she heard a ring downstairs and somebody asking, is she in?
But here we must stop peremptorily32. We are in danger of digging deeper than the eye approves; we are impeding33 our passage down the smooth stream by catching34 at some branch or root. At any moment, the sleeping army may stir itself and wake in us a thousand violins and trumpets35 in response; the army of human beings may rouse itself and assert all its oddities and sufferings and sordidities. Let us dally36 a little longer, be content still with surfaces only — the glossy37 brilliance of the motor omnibuses; the carnal splendour of the butchers’ shops with their yellow flanks and purple steaks; the blue and red bunches of flowers burning so bravely through the plate glass of the florists’ windows.
For the eye has this strange property: it rests only on beauty; like a butterfly it seeks colour and basks38 in warmth. On a winter’s night like this, when nature has been at pains to polish and preen39 herself, it brings back the prettiest trophies40, breaks off little lumps of emerald and coral as if the whole earth were made of precious stone. The thing it cannot do (one is speaking of the average unprofessional eye) is to compose these trophies in such a way as to bring out the more obscure angles and relationships. Hence after a prolonged diet of this simple, sugary fare, of beauty pure and uncomposed, we become conscious of satiety41. We halt at the door of the boot shop and make some little excuse, which has nothing to do with the real reason, for folding up the bright paraphernalia42 of the streets and withdrawing to some duskier chamber43 of the being where we may ask, as we raise our left foot obediently upon the stand: “What, then, is it like to be a dwarf44?”
She came in escorted by two women who, being of normal size, looked like benevolent45 giants beside her. Smiling at the shop girls, they seemed to be disclaiming46 any lot in her deformity and assuring her of their protection. She wore the peevish47 yet apologetic expression usual on the faces of the deformed48. She needed their kindness, yet she resented it. But when the shop girl had been summoned and the giantesses, smiling indulgently, had asked for shoes for “this lady” and the girl had pushed the little stand in front of her, the dwarf stuck her foot out with an impetuosity which seemed to claim all our attention. Look at that! Look at that! she seemed to demand of us all, as she thrust her foot out, for behold49 it was the shapely, perfectly50 proportioned foot of a well-grown woman. It was arched; it was aristocratic. Her whole manner changed as she looked at it resting on the stand. She looked soothed51 and satisfied. Her manner became full of self-confidence. She sent for shoe after shoe; she tried on pair after pair. She got up and pirouetted before a glass which reflected the foot only in yellow shoes, in fawn52 shoes, in shoes of lizard53 skin. She raised her little skirts and displayed her little legs. She was thinking that, after all, feet are the most important part of the whole person; women, she said to herself, have been loved for their feet alone. Seeing nothing but her feet, she imagined perhaps that the rest of her body was of a piece with those beautiful feet. She was shabbily dressed, but she was ready to lavish54 any money upon her shoes. And as this was the only occasion upon which she was hot afraid of being looked at but positively55 craved56 attention, she was ready to use any device to prolong the choosing and fitting. Look at my feet, she seemed to be saying, as she took a step this way and then a step that way. The shop girl good-humouredly must have said something flattering, for suddenly her face lit up in ecstasy57. But, after all, the giantesses, benevolent though they were, had their own affairs to see to; she must make up her mind; she must decide which to choose. At length, the pair was chosen and, as she walked out between her guardians58, with the parcel swinging from her finger, the ecstasy faded, knowledge returned, the old peevishness59, the old apology came back, and by the time she had reached the street again she had become a dwarf only.
But she had changed the mood; she had called into being an atmosphere which, as we followed her out into the street, seemed actually to create the humped, the twisted, the deformed. Two bearded men, brothers, apparently60, stone-blind, supporting themselves by resting a hand on the head of a small boy between them, marched down the street. On they came with the unyielding yet tremulous tread of the blind, which seems to lend to their approach something of the terror and inevitability61 of the fate that has overtaken them. As they passed, holding straight on, the little convoy62 seemed to cleave63 asunder64 the passers-by with the momentum65 of its silence, its directness, its disaster. Indeed, the dwarf had started a hobbling grotesque66 dance to which everybody in the street now conformed: the stout67 lady tightly swathed in shiny sealskin; the feeble-minded boy sucking the silver knob of his stick; the old man squatted68 on a doorstep as if, suddenly overcome by the absurdity69 of the human spectacle, he had sat down to look at it — all joined in the hobble and tap of the dwarf’s dance.
In what crevices70 and crannies, one might ask, did they lodge71, this maimed company of the halt and the blind? Here, perhaps, in the top rooms of these narrow old houses between Holborn and Soho, where people have such queer names, and pursue so many curious trades, are gold beaters, accordion72 pleaters, cover buttons, or support life, with even greater fantasticality, upon a traffic in cups without saucers, china umbrella handles, and highly-coloured pictures of martyred saints. There they lodge, and it seems as if the lady in the sealskin jacket must find life tolerable, passing the time of day with the accordion pleater, or the man who covers buttons; life which is so fantastic cannot be altogether tragic73. They do not grudge74 us, we are musing75, our prosperity; when, suddenly, turning the corner, we come upon a bearded Jew, wild, hunger-bitten, glaring out of his misery76; or pass the humped body of an old woman flung abandoned on the step of a public building with a cloak over her like the hasty covering thrown over a dead horse or donkey. At such sights the nerves of the spine77 seem to stand erect78; a sudden flare79 is brandished80 in our eyes; a question is asked which is never answered. Often enough these derelicts choose to lie not a stone’s thrown from theatres, within hearing of barrel organs, almost, as night draws on, within touch of the sequined cloaks and bright legs of diners and dancers. They lie close to those shop windows where commerce offers to a world of old women laid on doorsteps, of blind men, of hobbling dwarfs81, sofas which are supported by the gilt82 necks of proud swans; tables inlaid with baskets of many coloured fruit; sideboards paved with green marble the better to support the weight of boars’ heads; and carpets so softened83 with age that their carnations84 have almost vanished in a pale green sea.
Passing, glimpsing, everything seems accidentally but miraculously85 sprinkled with beauty, as if the tide of trade which deposits its burden so punctually and prosaically86 upon the shores of Oxford87 Street had this night cast up nothing but treasure. With no thought of buying, the eye is sportive and generous; it creates; it adorns88; it enhances. Standing89 out in the street, one may build up all the chambers90 of an imaginary house and furnish them at one’s will with sofa, table, carpet. That rug will do for the hall. That alabaster91 bowl shall stand on a carved table in the window. Our merrymaking shall be reflected in that thick round mirror. But, having built and furnished the house, one is happily under no obligation to possess it; one can dismantle92 it in the twinkling of an eye, and build and furnish another house with other chairs and other glasses. Or let us indulge ourselves at the antique jewellers, among the trays of rings and the hanging necklaces. Let us choose those pearls, for example, and then imagine how, if we put them on, life would be changed. It becomes instantly between two and three in the morning; the lamps are burning very white in the deserted93 streets of Mayfair. Only motor-cars are abroad at this hour, and one has a sense of emptiness, of airiness, of secluded94 gaiety. Wearing pearls, wearing silk, one steps out on to a balcony which overlooks the gardens of sleeping Mayfair. There are a few lights in the bedrooms of great peers returned from Court, of silk-stockinged footmen, of dowagers who have pressed the hands of statesmen. A cat creeps along the garden wall. Love-making is going on sibilantly, seductively in the darker places of the room behind thick green curtains. Strolling sedately95 as if he were promenading96 a terrace beneath which the shires and counties of England lie sun-bathed, the aged97 Prime Minister recounts to Lady So-and–So with the curls and the emeralds the true history of some great crisis in the affairs of the land. We seem to be riding on the top of the highest mast of the tallest ship; and yet at the same time we know that nothing of this sort matters; love is not proved thus, nor great achievements completed thus; so that we sport with the moment and preen our feathers in it lightly, as we stand on the balcony watching the moonlit cat creep along Princess Mary’s garden wall.
But what could be more absurd? It is, in fact, on the stroke of six; it is a winter’s evening; we are walking to the Strand99 to buy a pencil. How, then, are we also on a balcony, wearing pearls in June? What could be more absurd? Yet it is nature’s folly100, not ours. When she set about her chief masterpiece, the making of man, she should have thought of one thing only. Instead, turning her head, looking over her shoulder, into each one of us she let creep instincts and desires which are utterly101 at variance102 with his main being, so that we are streaked103, variegated104, all of a mixture; the colours have run. Is the true self this which stands on the pavement in January, or that which bends over the balcony in June? Am I here, or am I there? Or is the true self neither this nor that, neither here nor there, but something so varied105 and wandering that it is only when we give the rein106 to its wishes and let it take its way unimpeded that we are indeed ourselves? Circumstances compel unity107; for convenience sake a man must be a whole. The good citizen when he opens his door in the evening must be banker, golfer, husband, father; not a nomad108 wandering the desert, a mystic staring at the sky, a debauchee in the slums of San Francisco, a soldier heading a revolution, a pariah109 howling with scepticism and solitude. When he opens his door, he must run his fingers through his hair and put his umbrella in the stand like the rest.
But here, none too soon, are the second-hand110 bookshops. Here we find anchorage in these thwarting111 currents of being; here we balance ourselves after the splendours and miseries112 of the streets. The very sight of the bookseller’s wife with her foot on the fender, sitting beside a good coal fire, screened from the door, is sobering and cheerful. She is never reading, or only the newspaper; her talk, when it leaves bookselling, which it does so gladly, is about hats; she likes a hat to be practical, she says, as well as pretty. 0 no, they don’t live at the shop; they live in Brixton; she must have a bit of green to look at. In summer a jar of flowers grown in her own garden is stood on the top of some dusty pile to enliven the shop. Books are everywhere; and always the same sense of adventure fills us. Second-hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated113 volumes of the library lack. Besides, in this random114 miscellaneous company we may rub against some complete stranger who will, with luck, turn into the best friend we have in the world. There is always a hope, as we reach down some grayish-white book from an upper shelf, directed by its air of shabbiness and desertion, of meeting here with a man who set out on horseback over a hundred years ago to explore the woollen market in the Midlands and Wales; an unknown traveller, who stayed at inns, drank his pint115, noted116 pretty girls and serious customs, wrote it all down stiffly, laboriously117 for sheer love of it (the book was published at his own expense); was infinitely118 prosy, busy, and matter-of-fact, and so let flow in without his knowing it the very scent119 of hollyhocks and the hay together with such a portrait of himself as gives him forever a seat in the warm corner of the mind’s inglenook. One may buy him for eighteen pence now. He is marked three and sixpence, but the bookseller’s wife, seeing how shabby the covers are and how long the book has stood there since it was bought at some sale of a gentleman’s library in Suffolk, will let it go at that.
Thus, glancing round the bookshop, we make other such sudden capricious friendships with the unknown and the vanished whose only record is, for example, this little book of poems, so fairly printed, so finely engraved120, too, with a portrait of the author. For he was a poet and drowned untimely, and his verse, mild as it is and formal and sententious, sends forth121 still a frail122 fluty sound like that of a piano organ played in some back street resignedly by an old Italian organ-grinder in a corduroy jacket. There are travellers, too, row upon row of them, still testifying, indomitable spinsters that they were, to the discomforts123 that they endured and the sunsets they admired in Greece when Queen Victoria was a girl. A tour in Cornwall with a visit to the tin mines was thought worthy124 of voluminous record. People went slowly up the Rhine and did portraits of each other in Indian ink, sitting reading on deck beside a coil of rope; they measured the pyramids; were lost to civilization for years; converted negroes in pestilential swamps. This packing up and going off, exploring deserts and catching fevers, settling in India for a lifetime, penetrating125 even to China and then returning to lead a parochial life at Edmonton, tumbles and tosses upon the dusty floor like an uneasy sea, so restless the English are, with the waves at their very door. The waters of travel and adventure seem to break upon little islands of serious effort and lifelong industry stood in jagged column upon the floor. In these piles of puce-bound volumes with gilt monograms126 on the back, thoughtful clergymen expound127 the gospels; scholars are to be heard with their hammers and their chisels128 chipping clear the ancient texts of Euripides and Aeschylus. Thinking, annotating129, expounding130 goes on at a prodigious131 rate all around us and over everything, like a punctual, everlasting132 tide, washes the ancient sea of fiction. Innumerable volumes tell how Arthur loved Laura and they were separated and they were unhappy and then they met and they were happy ever after, as was the way when Victoria ruled these islands.
The number of books in the world is infinite, and one is forced to glimpse and nod and move on after a moment of talk, a flash of understanding, as, in the street outside, one catches a word in passing and from a chance phrase fabricates a lifetime. It is about a woman called Kate that they are talking, how “I said to her quite straight last night . . . if you don’t think I’m worth a penny stamp, I said . . .” But who Kate is, and to what crisis in their friendship that penny stamp refers, we shall never know; for Kate sinks under the warmth of their volubility; and here, at the street corner, another page of the volume of life is laid open by the sight of two men consulting under the lamp-post. They are spelling out the latest wire from Newmarket in the stop press news. Do they think, then, that fortune will ever convert their rags into fur and broadcloth, sling133 them with watch-chains, and plant diamond pins where there is now a ragged134 open shirt? But the main stream of walkers at this hour sweeps too fast to let us ask such questions. They are wrapt, in this short passage from work to home, in some narcotic135 dream, now that they are free from the desk, and have the fresh air on their cheeks. They put on those bright clothes which they must hang up and lock the key upon all the rest of the day, and are great cricketers, famous actresses, soldiers who have saved their country at the hour of need. Dreaming, gesticulating, often muttering a few words aloud, they sweep over the Strand and across Waterloo Bridge whence they will be slung136 in long rattling137 trains, to some prim98 little villa138 in Barnes or Surbiton where the sight of the clock in the hall and the smell of the supper in the basement puncture139 the dream.
But we are come to the Strand now, and as we hesitate on the curb140, a little rod about the length of one’s finger begins to lay its bar across the velocity141 and abundance of life. “Really I must — really I must”— that is it. Without investigating the demand, the mind cringes to the accustomed tyrant142. One must, one always must, do something or other; it is not allowed one simply to enjoy oneself. Was it not for this reason that, some time ago, we fabricated the excuse, and invented the necessity of buying something? But what was it? Ah, we remember, it was a pencil. Let us go then and buy this pencil. But just as we are turning to obey the command, another self disputes the right of the tyrant to insist. The usual conflict comes about. Spread out behind the rod of duty we see the whole breadth of the river Thames — wide, mournful, peaceful. And we see it through the eyes of somebody who is leaning over the Embankment on a summer evening, without a care in the world. Let us put off buying the pencil; let us go in search of this person — and soon it becomes apparent that this person is ourselves. For if we could stand there where we stood six months ago, should we not be again as we were then — calm, aloof143, content? Let us try then. But the river is rougher and greyer than we remembered. The tide is running out to sea. It brings down with it a tug144 and two barges145, whose load of straw is tightly bound down beneath tarpaulin146 covers. There is, too, close by us, a couple leaning over the balustrade with the curious lack of self-consciousness lovers have, as if the importance of the affair they are engaged on claims without question the indulgence of the human race. The sights we see and the sounds we hear now have none of the quality of the past; nor have we any share in the serenity147 of the person who, six months ago, stood precisely148 were we stand now. His is the happiness of death; ours the insecurity of life. He has no future; the future is even now invading our peace. It is only when we look at the past and take from it the element of uncertainty149 that we can enjoy perfect peace. As it is, we must turn, we must cross the Strand again, we must find a shop where, even at this hour, they will be ready to sell us a pencil.
It is always an adventure to enter a new room for the lives and characters of its owners have distilled150 their atmosphere into it, and directly we enter it we breast some new wave of emotion. Here, without a doubt, in the stationer’s shop people had been quarrelling. Their anger shot through the air. They both stopped; the old woman — they were husband and wife evidently — retired151 to a back room; the old man whose rounded forehead and globular eyes would have looked well on the frontispiece of some Elizabethan folio, stayed to serve us. “A pencil, a pencil,” he repeated, “certainly, certainly.” He spoke152 with the distraction153 yet effusiveness154 of one whose emotions have been roused and checked in full flood. He began opening box after box and shutting them again. He said that it was very difficult to find things when they kept so many different articles. He launched into a story about some legal gentleman who had got into deep waters owing to the conduct of his wife. He had known him for years; he had been connected with the Temple for half a century, he said, as if he wished his wife in the back room to overhear him. He upset a box of rubber bands. At last, exasperated155 by his incompetence156, he pushed the swing door open and called out roughly: “Where d’you keep the pencils?” as if his wife had hidden them. The old lady came in. Looking at nobody, she put her hand with a fine air of righteous severity upon the right box. There were pencils. How then could he do without her? Was she not indispensable to him? In order to keep them there, standing side by side in forced neutrality, one had to be particular in one’s choice of pencils; this was too soft, that too hard. They stood silently looking on. The longer they stood there, the calmer they grew; their heat was going down, their anger disappearing. Now, without a word said on either side, the quarrel was made up. The old man, who would not have disgraced Ben Jonson’s title-page, reached the box back to its proper place, bowed profoundly his good-night to us, and they disappeared. She would get out her sewing; he would read his newspaper; the canary would scatter157 them impartially158 with seed. The quarrel was over.
In these minutes in which a ghost has been sought for, a quarrel composed, and a pencil bought, the streets had become completely empty. Life had withdrawn159 to the top floor, and lamps were lit. The pavement was dry and hard; the road was of hammered silver. Walking home through the desolation one could tell oneself the story of the dwarf, of the blind men, of the party in the Mayfair mansion160, of the quarrel in the stationer’s shop. Into each of these lives one could penetrate161 a little way, far enough to give oneself the illusion that one is not tethered to a single mind, but can put on briefly162 for a few minutes the bodies and minds of others. One could become a washerwoman, a publican, a street singer. And what greater delight and wonder can there be than to leave the straight lines of personality and deviate163 into those footpaths164 that lead beneath brambles and thick tree trunks into the heart of the forest where live those wild beasts, our fellow men?
That is true: to escape is the greatest of pleasures; street haunting in winter the greatest of adventures. Still as we approach our own doorstep again, it is comforting to feel the old possessions, the old prejudices, fold us round; and the self, which has been blown about at so many street corners, which has battered165 like a moth166 at the flame of so many inaccessible167 lanterns, sheltered and enclosed. Here again is the usual door; here the chair turned as we left it and the china bowl and the brown ring on the carpet. And here — let us examine it tenderly, let us touch it with reverence168 — is the only spoil we have retrieved169 from all the treasures of the city, a lead pencil.
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1
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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sociability
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| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
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7
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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stabilized
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| v.（使）稳定， （使）稳固( stabilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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melancholy
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oyster
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perceptiveness
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vaguely
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prey
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gliding
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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29
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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30
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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31
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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32
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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33
impeding
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| a.(尤指坏事)即将发生的，临近的 | |
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34
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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35
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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36
dally
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| v.荒废(时日)，调情 | |
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37
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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38
basks
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的第三人称单数 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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39
preen
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| v.（人）打扮修饰 | |
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40
trophies
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|
| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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41
satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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42
paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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43
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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44
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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45
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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46
disclaiming
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| v.否认( disclaim的现在分词 ) | |
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47
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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48
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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49
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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50
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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51
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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52
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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53
lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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54
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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55
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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56
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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57
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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58
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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59
peevishness
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| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
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60
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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61
inevitability
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| n.必然性 | |
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62
convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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63
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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64
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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65
momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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66
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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68
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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69
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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70
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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71
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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72
accordion
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|
| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
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73
tragic
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|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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74
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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75
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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76
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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77
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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78
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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79
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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80
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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81
dwarfs
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|
| n.侏儒，矮子（dwarf的复数形式）vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的第三人称单数形式） | |
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82
gilt
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|
| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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83
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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84
carnations
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|
| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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85
miraculously
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|
| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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86
prosaically
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|
| adv.无聊地；乏味地；散文式地；平凡地 | |
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87
Oxford
|
|
| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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88
adorns
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| 装饰，佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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89
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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90
chambers
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|
| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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91
alabaster
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|
| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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92
dismantle
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|
| vt.拆开，拆卸；废除，取消 | |
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93
deserted
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|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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94
secluded
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|
| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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95
sedately
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|
| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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96
promenading
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|
| v.兜风( promenade的现在分词 ) | |
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97
aged
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|
| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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98
prim
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|
| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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99
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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100
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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101
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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102
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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103
streaked
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|
| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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104
variegated
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|
| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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105
varied
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|
| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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106
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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107
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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108
nomad
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| n.游牧部落的人，流浪者，游牧民 | |
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109
pariah
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| n.被社会抛弃者 | |
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110
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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111
thwarting
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| 阻挠( thwart的现在分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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112
miseries
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|
| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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113
domesticated
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|
| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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115
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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116
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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117
laboriously
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|
| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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118
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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119
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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120
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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121
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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122
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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123
discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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124
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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125
penetrating
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|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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126
monograms
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| n.字母组合( monogram的名词复数 ) | |
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127
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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128
chisels
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| n.凿子，錾子( chisel的名词复数 )；口凿 | |
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129
annotating
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| v.注解，注释( annotate的现在分词 ) | |
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130
expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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131
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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132
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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133
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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134
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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135
narcotic
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| n.麻醉药，镇静剂；adj.麻醉的，催眠的 | |
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136
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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137
rattling
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|
| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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138
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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139
puncture
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| n.刺孔，穿孔；v.刺穿，刺破 | |
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140
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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141
velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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142
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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143
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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144
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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145
barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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146
tarpaulin
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|
| n.涂油防水布，防水衣，防水帽 | |
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147
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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148
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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149
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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150
distilled
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|
| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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151
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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152
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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153
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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154
effusiveness
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| n.吐露，唠叨 | |
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155
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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156
incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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157
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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158
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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159
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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160
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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161
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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162
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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163
deviate
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| v.(from)背离，偏离 | |
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164
footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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165
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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166
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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167
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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168
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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169
retrieved
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| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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