SOME MIGHT THINK THERE’S NO LIFE IN THE HOUSE, BUT I KNOW otherwise. I’ve made friends
with the mighty1 black snakes who take up winter residence. One has grown from a thin, stringy,
mean-looking fellow to a thick band almost six feet long and round as my wrist. He enters the
house when the days shorten by climbing the gnarled, vine-covered tree hovering2 over the back
porch. Dropping from a low-leaning branch, he traverses the roof and stretches upward along
the wood siding to enter the attic4 window, triangular5 snout tap-tapping, seeking entry. Hail has
splintered the windowpanes, and he slides over the edge into the attic to hibernate6. Sometimes
he noses his way through the lime and horse-hair mortar7 on the central fireplace chimney and
drops into the rooms below in search of mice.
His compulsion is uncomfortably familiar, though in my case the brown river rat was my
prey8. Prisoners’ fare. So much time has passed, yet those months in a miserable9 union prison
camp are as real to me today as then. Famished10, I slit11 my quarry12 from ear to naked tail, tossed
aside the oozing13 hide, and punctured14 the pink, shiny body with a stick. Twisting it past bone and
gristle, I roasted the flesh over fire until it curled crisp. Oblivious15 to spikey hair and whiskers, I
welcomed it to my tongue, as warm, juicy fat dribbled16 on my chin. The image thins to a film of
nausea17 and is then gone.
Here in my childhood home, the mice are a constant. Their daily occupations exhaust me
with their ill-conceived, Herculean efforts. They struggle for days, dragging acorns18 half their
own size through cracks in the stone foundation, hoisting19 them through the interior walls,
gnawing20 ragged21 holes in the baseboards, shoving them across the halls, hopping22 with them up
the stairs, and then thrusting them through openings chiseled23 in the backs of dresser drawers—
all just to find the perfect storage place. It’s a treacherous24 trip through the house when the coiled
monster with flicking25 tongue is lying in wait to bulge26 his belly27 before the winter’s sleep. The
whole thing casts me low in spirit; their activity reminds me of the futility28 of so many human
endeavors.
And I remember. Folks say you take nothing with you when you go to meet your maker29, but
I’m here to tell you that memory tracks your every step like a rabid dog. Things learned and
retained in the mind are a pestilence30 that not even God can dispel—causing me to wonder if the
strange power of remembering isn’t the Devil’s device. Even now, when my worn-out body has
fallen away and the past is more vivid than the present, I am plagued by mistakes grand and
small. There’s no remedy for remorse—memory’s dark shadow—and no fleeing from the mind.
As days turn into months and months into years, I remember, I remember until more than a
century has passed.
Soothing31 visions of boyhood innocence32 and my marriage have been my only salvation33,
wrapped round like a soft blanket to ward3 off the rest. Here in this house lies a way. Here’s
where I’m beyond the reach of the harrowing war years. In the corners of my mind, I can find
the soothing touch of my beloved wife Ellen, my sister Mary’s playful smile, and my little
daughter Cara’s pigtails flapping as she skipped toward me. It’s there that I dwell.
Now, after decades when nothing interrupted my solitary35 recollections—not even time’s
passing—everything has changed. A month ago, in the early afternoon, I heard two sets of
footsteps, one heavy, the other lighter36, clump37 on the porch stairs and then rustle38 through the fall
leaves banked against the old screen door. My knees trembled and I couldn’t find my voice. No
one has approached my front door in over twenty years. Alarmed, but a little curious too, I
floated in the hall near the ceiling as a key twisted in the rusty39 lock. Two strangers, a young man
and a young woman, barged in, followed by their inquisitive40 black dog.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. What right did these people believe they had to enter my house?
Where did they get a key? And both were dressed like hoodlums. He was clad in a collarless
shirt with writing on it as though he was a poster board, and she was in long denim41 pants like a
boy. To my mind, the only womanly touch was the silver ear hoops42 that peeked43 through her hair
when she moved.
This couple wasn’t put off by the black snake that slithered from the sofa cushion and
escaped up the fireplace chimney or discouraged by the ribbons of faded wallpaper that rippled44
across heaps of crumbled45 plaster cluttering46 the floors. Nothing seemed to deter47 them! They
explored each room, handled the books, used a letter opener to pry48 up the lid of the cedar49 chest
safeguarding my sisters’ high-necked blouses and bustled50 skirts. They even pawed through the
tattered51 blue handkerchief box that contains my medals from the Battle of Gettysburg twenty-
fifth and fiftieth reunions. The dog flopped52 on the parlor53 rug, of all places, after making a ruckus
about the snake and then sniffing54 every corner. I couldn’t think what to do; my mind was a
blank. Stunned55 helpless by this invasion, I reeled back, as though punched in the gut56.
The woman spread out on the dresser top the crumpled57 reunion ribbons of crimson58 and
indigo59, ornate with rectangular silver bars and gold medallions. She held up to the light the
yellowed newspaper article describing how Confederate and union veterans clapped one
another warmly on the shoulder as if we’d shared some mutual60 rite61 of passage, nothing more.
“Here, take a look at this,” she said. The man’s hand passed right through me as he reached for
the paper, but he paid no mind. Finally, I found my voice and yelled at the top of my lungs,
“What the hell are you doing here? Get out! Get out right now!” The woman only shivered and
knitted her dark brows together. She looked momentarily annoyed, as though a horsefly had
buzzed her ear, and then continued to rifle through drawers. There was no reaction from the
man. I wondered if these interlopers were stone deaf, although no one ever seemed to hear or see
me. It used to break my heart in the years after I passed, when my wife Ellen was still alive. I
yelled again, “Don’t you dare touch my things! Or else!” But with no effect. I began to sense
that threats would be useless. Panic clawed at my throat.
Now these harbingers of doom62 invade every weekend, armed with mops, odd liquid soaps,
and a noisy machine that sucks up dirt. They show up out of nowhere, she with long brown hair
twisted on top of her head, ready for messy work, and he in another shirt with a meaningless
message. They unsettle everything—piling sheets, hairbrushes, combs, dented63 pots and pans, my
sister Mary’s sewing remnants, my daughter Cara’s aprons64, faded velvet65 curtains, and whatever
else they deem disposable in a heap of glossy66 black bags in the backyard. I look anywhere but at
their industry, feeling queasy67 in my stomach and weighted in my heart. They are senseless to the
distress68 they are causing.
What has happened to my years of silence broken only by birdsong, the hum of rain, and the
wind’s murmur69? That calm has been destroyed by buzzing machines that slice wood, the whack70-
whack of pounding hammers, and the dog’s piercing bark. The riot of noise drives me to the
opposite end of the house, but even there I find no peace.
They have no respect for the fact that even though my shell and those of my family were
borne away to the cemetery71 behind the church, everything else, including dried-out face cream
and rusted72 hairpins73, has stayed where the last hand placed it.
My daughter, Cara, was the last to live in the house. Childless and widowed in her late
twenties, she had moved back home into the embrace of her family. Eventually, my parents, two
sisters, wife, and I were gone too. Then she had relied on the things we’d left behind to keep her
company, same as I do now.
These new people act as if the wide wings of the armchair don’t still hold an impression from
Pa’s daily ritual of reading the latest issue of the Staunton Spectator, or the silver-handled
hairbrush isn’t imbedded with the touch of Mary’s hand. Or that my dark serge coat, the special
one I wore to Sunday services every week and that still hangs in the upstairs cupboard, doesn’t
remember the slope of my shoulders.
These intruders seem ignorant of the fact that I’m still here, that this is my home, that every
object, as I touch or catch sight of it, floods me with warm memories that reaffirm my sense of
who I am. I won’t stop being Tom Smiley as long as evidence of my life surrounds me. And as
long as I’m Tom, I’m safe from whatever happens to unworthy souls.
But now they are stripping away that evidence, piece by piece, memory by memory. I’ll lose
my grip if they continue. First, the outer layers will slide away, like an onion in the hands of a
cook. Those layers are the man reflected within my home’s four walls and its furnishings—the
guileless boy, loyal husband, and law-abiding citizen. The knife’s edge next will slice into the
core, leaving disconnected bits of soldier Tom scattered75 about. Finally, with the last cuts, the
secret I’ve kept from everyone will lie exposed, radiant in the dark. I’ll erode76 to nothing more
than a formless shade that yields to Hell’s gravity. The Heavenly judges who decide a soul’s fate
will then have no choice but to speed my fall. This man and woman will destroy me.
How their presence makes me ache for my own family and their affection, when my home
stirred with a multitude of their voices and activities. Ma, Pa, my sisters Mary and Tish, and
then my wife Ellen and our four—Grier, Argyle, Will, and Cara—still sound in my ears. Our
only grandchild, sweet little Helen, would shriek77 with summer joy when Grier drove up with her
in his smoke-belching Ford78, all the way from Kentucky.
Of my own offspring, Cara was the last to perish. I watched her grow old alone at the farm,
into her eighties. Cara’s thick, ebony hair that her mother used to plait and tie with silk ribbons
faded to a wispy79 white halo with pink flesh showing through. Age contorted her hands into
painful claws. She ventured out less and less and kept a lonesome journal that mostly tracked the
weather. Most nights, she indulged in a dram of alcohol and groped her way up the stairs to her
bedroom at the back of the house. As a father, it wracked my soul to see my daughter fall into
such a state.
When she was gone, there was no one left to care about. Over time, the house has soaked into
my being, and I’ve expanded out into it until there is no difference between it and me. The dry
rustle of a roach scooting across the floor, the construction efforts of a nesting chimney swift, the
drilling of a borer bee in a porch beam—all merge81 with who I am.
I’ve overheard these peculiar82 people speak of “modernizing” the farmhouse83 for a weekend
place as if it’s theirs, as though my presence matters not one whit80. By damn, I won’t permit it.
In addition, on warm days this woman strides about unconcerned that her slip of a dress
immodestly displays her long, bare legs. What in God’s name is she thinking? Perhaps this is all
for the man’s sake. He calls her Phoebe and watches her with a happy gleam in his eye. I
suppose some might consider her pretty, but my wife never revealed her legs or wore her hair
loose in that way, long brown strands84 swaying with every step, except in private moments. This
woman also has a sprinkling of freckles86 across her nose, frowned upon in my day when flawless
pale skin was prized, and she’s almost as tall as her male companion. I don’t see the appeal.
My dear Ellen was diminutive87 and plainer than this woman, but her upbringing in a Lutheran
minister’s family instilled88 qualities of forgiveness and forbearance that were attractive to me. I
met her a decade after the war. I remember spying her for the first time across the oak pews at
New Jerusalem Presbyterian Church. What a graceful89 neck, what slender wrists! Not one loose
strand85 escaped from the raven-black hair twisted tightly on the back of her neck. The tenderness
with which she calmed fidgeting siblings90 and tended to her elderly aunt beguiled91 me. When she
felt the heat of my stare, I struggled to glue my eyes to the hymnal. Such thoughts rampaged
through my mind! A woman like her might save me from myself. I imagined how the touch of
her hand would replace my despairing moods with shivers of pleasure. She’d love me despite
my shortcomings, just as she seemed to love and have patience with her family. Her serenity92
appeared contagious93. I fell for her that very first morning and determined94 to win her. My ten-
years’ seniority didn’t put her off and, after six months of unrelenting courtship, she broke down
and became my wife.
Poor Ellen had no idea what she’d gotten herself into. The private pleasures of new marriage
kept my sickness of heart at bay for several months, but one day she found me in despair, head
bowed. “What’s wrong?” Tears flooded her soft eyes. “You spoke95 so impatiently to me this
morning when I asked your plans for the day. It was as if you despised my very presence. Is it
something I’ve done or said?”
“No, Sweet. Please forgive me.” I paused, the heaviness in my chest choking the words. I
couldn’t bear to look at her. “I’m not worthy74 of you, or anyone, for that matter. It was a mistake
for me to coax96 you into my life.” She averted97 her face so that I wouldn’t see her pain and
clenched98 the flowered fabric99 of her full skirt until her knuckles100 were white. I arose from the sofa,
abandoning her in the middle of the library. The porch door banged shut behind me, and I
headed for the overgrown cow paths along the fence line on the hill above the house. There I
paced until I wore myself out.
Over the years, Ellen found a way to cope with my moods and irritable101 temperament102. When
our children were born, she ran off to her mother’s in Greenville, North Carolina, for as long as
six months for each child. She claimed she was going for reasons of health, but she didn’t fool
me. For the last baby, Argyle, she enrolled103 Cara in school for a semester and didn’t come home
for Christmas. The best I could do was send letters enclosing the bedtime stories that I usually
recited to my three little ones, or small gifts, such as a puzzle or a wool scarf pattern for Cara,
who was eight and learning to knit.
During my bad times, Ellen tried to talk me into a better state of mind. She said, “Why can’t
you accept that you are a good man? And find peace in that. Why must you be so hard on
yourself?”
“I can’t help it. I would do anything to change, if I could. I hate causing you pain, but it’s due
to something you would never understand.”
“You’ve never tested my understanding.” She smiled and added, “Although you do test my
patience sometimes.” She touched my arm tenderly. “If only you’d give me a chance to learn
what ails34 you so.” But I could never risk that. Not ever. “I feel I never see anything of you but
your shadow,” she said, her voice trailing off.
Then Ellen seemed to gain resolve and shook her head in frustration104. “The children and I love
you because you’ve never taken a switch to them, regardless of how disobedient, and you listen
patiently to my needs and troubles with a generous and understanding heart. That should count
for something.” She nodded her head emphatically as if she’d settled the matter.
But it wasn’t enough. Every morning, the old brown rooster on the chicken house roof
awakened105 me to an inescapable dark state of mind. I’d lie motionless and track the black mood
as it radiated from behind my eyes, slid down to my heart and then plumbed106 my limbs until it
claimed even my toes and fingers. Against this burden, I strove daily to prove the value of my
existence. Ellen had no idea how hard it was to lift my head from the pillow, much less to
soldier on for one more day.
Yes, I was even a good citizen in some people’s minds. Folks reelected me for six terms to
the county Board of Supervisors107, and it’s true I championed ways to make their lives easier,
such as paving the county roads. Now they can haul their vegetables and meats to market during
the spring muddy season. Later, in 1901, when the state wanted to restrict voting rights of
Blacks by forcing them to prove they could read, all the while exempting108 whites, I railed against
this injustice109. I spoke in community halls and on the steps of the courthouse and thumped110 on
flag-draped lecterns in protest. Folks only turned sour faces toward me and heaved rotten eggs at
our front door. They elected someone else as their delegate to the state convention, but I had
fought hard for the right thing. And, as Ellen often said, “After all those years as Sunday school
superintendent111, look at you. You’re a church Elder, one of the most respected positions in our
community.”
But these efforts never made up for my failings. Ellen was heroic for trying, but not even an
angel could disentangle me from the web of shame I’d woven. I was guilty of a rash and naive112
act that resulted in the killing113 of someone I cared for. For whom I was responsible. I might as
well have killed him with my own hands, wrapping my fingers around his neck and squeezing
until there was no breath left. Never a day passed in my life that I wasn’t reminded that this was
yet another day he wouldn’t see.
Ellen didn’t suspect I hadn’t started out as a devout114 churchgoer. Faith had nothing to do with
it. It was because religion was the only prescription115 for a diseased mind in those days. And after
the war, I had a diseased mind. Folks were convinced that lack of faith in God and His Son was
the reason melancholia took root. I never considered either trustworthy, but I continued to hope
that churchgoing would provide a cure, even to the very end.
I do believe in one thing. Hell is real. I know it lurks116 just beyond these four walls. New
Jerusalem preachers’ fiery117 exhortations118, year in and year out, persuaded me of its truth. Beyond
a doubt, the demon119 realm exists.
To be honest, my good works were entirely120 a form of atonement. A hedge against an eternity121
of hellfire and damnation. They were a wager122 that my four decades of church work and my
community service were payment enough for my sins. But the debt was never fully123 paid. My
utmost dread124 was for my family and friends to discover what I’d done, the shameful125 secret I’d
buried for so many years. I couldn’t bear for them to know what a sorely unfit man I was, and
then, finally, for me to be driven from the gates of Heaven, if such a place exists.
While I’ve been distracted by these thoughts, that strange woman has been digging through the
library like a terrier after a rat. She has scattered across the floor piles of dog-eared and dusty
books from shelves stretching from floor to ceiling.
What a mess she’s made of the room. After all, it is my room. Strolling around edges of the
sunlit library, I lightly tap my sons’ engineering texts and college annuals and glide126 my fingers
across the soft leather spines127 of books about Biblical times and the many ladies’ novels that
consumed Ellen’s and my sisters’ afternoons. The Brontë sisters’ works were their favorites.
Here also are my parents’ tiresome128 texts on Presbyterian Church history, as well as favorite
classics of English literature. I can still hear Pa’s sonorous129 voice reading from Dickens’s spirited
Oliver Twist, as we three children listened wide-eyed. Inspired by Longfellow’s great romantic
saga130 The Song of Hiawatha, I memorized long passages during my twelfth summer, perched on
the sturdiest limb of my favorite oak beyond the pasture, the words rustling131 in my skull132. The
poem’s melancholy133 Milky134 Way—a broad, white pathway guiding ghosts of plumed135 warriors136
heavenward across a frozen sky—too often comes to me in an evening.
Now the woman’s fingertips have brushed something behind the newly exposed bookshelf—
something misplaced a century before she was born. She strains to disengage a moldy137 packet
wrapped with a twist of shattered twine138. I feel a jolt139. They are the letters my younger sister Mary
wrote to me during the war! I haven’t seen them for more years than I can remember. “Get
away, Emma. Shoo,” the woman says to the dog snuffling at the thin sheets. She lifts away one
or two papers, and after scanning through the stack for a few minutes, places the packet on the
oval sofa table. She suddenly looks up, stares in my direction, and hesitates as if she senses
something. Shaking her head, she hastens away from the room with the black dog, its neck hairs
bristling140, pressing into her calf141 as if its life depends upon it. Mary’s letters remain on the table.
点击
收听单词发音
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1
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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hibernate
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| v.冬眠，蛰伏 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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13
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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punctured
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| v.在（某物）上穿孔( puncture的过去式和过去分词 )；刺穿（某物）；削弱（某人的傲气、信心等）；泄某人的气 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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dribbled
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| v.流口水( dribble的过去式和过去分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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acorns
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| n.橡子，栎实( acorn的名词复数 ) | |
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hoisting
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| 起重，提升 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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hopping
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chiseled
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| adj.凿刻的，轮廓分明的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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flicking
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的现在分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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bulge
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| n.突出，膨胀，激增；vt.突出，膨胀 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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38
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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40
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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41
denim
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| n.斜纹棉布；斜纹棉布裤，牛仔裤 | |
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42
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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43
peeked
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| v.很快地看( peek的过去式和过去分词 )；偷看；窥视；微露出 | |
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44
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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45
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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46
cluttering
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| v.杂物，零乱的东西零乱vt.( clutter的现在分词 )；乱糟糟地堆满，把…弄得很乱；（以…） 塞满… | |
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47
deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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48
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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49
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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50
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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51
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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52
flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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53
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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54
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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55
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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56
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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57
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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58
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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59
indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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60
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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61
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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62
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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63
dented
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| v.使产生凹痕( dent的过去式和过去分词 )；损害；伤害；挫伤（信心、名誉等） | |
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64
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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65
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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66
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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67
queasy
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| adj.易呕的 | |
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68
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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69
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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70
whack
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| v.敲击，重打，瓜分；n.重击，重打，尝试，一份 | |
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71
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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72
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
hairpins
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| n.发夹( hairpin的名词复数 ) | |
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74
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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75
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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76
erode
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| v.侵蚀，腐蚀，使...减少、减弱或消失 | |
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77
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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78
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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79
wispy
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| adj.模糊的；纤细的 | |
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80
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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81
merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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82
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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83
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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84
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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85
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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86
freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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87
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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88
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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90
siblings
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| n.兄弟，姐妹( sibling的名词复数 ) | |
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91
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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92
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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93
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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94
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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95
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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96
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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97
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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98
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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100
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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101
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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102
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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103
enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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104
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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105
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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106
plumbed
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| v.经历( plumb的过去式和过去分词 )；探究；用铅垂线校正；用铅锤测量 | |
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107
supervisors
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| n.监督者，管理者( supervisor的名词复数 ) | |
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108
exempting
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| 使免除[豁免]( exempt的现在分词 ) | |
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109
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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110
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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112
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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113
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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114
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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115
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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116
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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117
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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118
exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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119
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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120
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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121
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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122
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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123
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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124
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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125
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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126
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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127
spines
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| n.脊柱( spine的名词复数 )；脊椎；（动植物的）刺；书脊 | |
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128
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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129
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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130
saga
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| n.(尤指中世纪北欧海盗的)故事，英雄传奇 | |
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131
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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132
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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133
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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134
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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135
plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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136
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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137
moldy
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| adj.发霉的 | |
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138
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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139
jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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140
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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141
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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