Sophia lay awake one night in the room lately quitted by Carlier. That silent negation1 of individuality had come and gone, and left scarcely any record of himself either in his room or in the memories of those who had surrounded his existence in the house. Sophia had decided2 to descend3 from the sixth floor, partly because the temptation of a large room, after months in a cubicle4, was rather strong; but more because of late she had been obliged to barricade5 the door of the cubicle with a chest of drawers, owing to the propensities6 of a new tenant7 of the sixth floor. It was useless to complain to the concierge8; the sole effective argument was the chest of drawers, and even that was frailer9 than Sophia could have wished. Hence, finally, her retreat.
She heard the front-door of the flat open; then it was shut with nervous violence. The resonance10 of its closing would have certainly wakened less accomplished11 sleepers12 than M. Niepce and his friend, whose snores continued with undisturbed regularity13. After a pause of shuffling14, a match was struck, and feet crept across the corridor with the most exaggerated precautions against noise. There followed the unintentional bang of another door. It was decidedly the entry of a man without the slightest natural aptitude15 for furtive16 irruptions. The clock in M. Niepce's room, which the grocer had persuaded to exact time-keeping, chimed three with its delicate ting.
For several days past Chirac had been mysteriously engaged very late at the bureaux of the Debats. No one knew the nature of his employment; he said nothing, except to inform Sophia that he would continue to come home about three o'clock until further notice. She had insisted on leaving in his room the materials and apparatus17 for a light meal. Naturally he had protested, with the irrational18 obstinacy19 of a physically20 weak man who sticks to it that he can defy the laws of nature. But he had protested in vain.
His general conduct since Christmas Day had frightened Sophia, in spite of her tendency to stifle21 facile alarms at their birth. He had eaten scarcely anything at all, and he went about with the face of a man dying of a broken heart. The change in him was indeed tragic22. And instead of improving, he grew worse. "Have I done this?" Sophia asked herself. "It is impossible that I should have done this! It is absurd and ridiculous that he should behave so!" Her thoughts were employed alternately in sympathizing with him and in despising him, in blaming herself and in blaming him. When they spoke23, they spoke awkwardly, as though one or both of them had committed a shameful24 crime, which could not even be mentioned. The atmosphere of the flat was tainted25 by the horror. And Sophia could not offer him a bowl of soup without wondering how he would look at her or avoid looking, and without carefully arranging in advance her own gestures and speech. Existence was a nightmare of self-consciousness.
"At last they have unmasked their batteries!" he had exclaimed with painful gaiety two days after Christmas, when the besiegers had recommenced their cannonade. He tried to imitate the strange, general joy of the city, which had been roused from apathy26 by the recurrence27 of a familiar noise; but the effort was a deplorable failure. And Sophia condemned28 not merely the failure of Chirac's imitation, but the thing imitated. "Childish!" she thought. Yet, despise the feebleness of Chirac's behaviour as she might, she was deeply impressed, genuinely astonished, by the gravity and persistence30 of the symptoms. "He must have been getting himself into a state about me for a long time," she thought. "Surely he could not have gone mad like this all in a day or two! But I never noticed anything. No; honestly I never noticed anything!" And just as her behaviour in the restaurant had shaken Chirac's confidence in his knowledge of the other sex, so now the singular behaviour of Chirac shook hers. She was taken aback. She was frightened, though she pretended not to be frightened.
She had lived over and over again the scene in the restaurant. She asked herself over and over again if really she had not beforehand expected him to make love to her in the restaurant. She could not decide exactly when she had begun to expect a declaration; but probably a long time before the meal was finished. She had foreseen it, and might have stopped it. But she had not chosen to stop it. Curiosity concerning not merely him, but also herself, had tempted31 her tacitly to encourage him. She asked herself over and over again why she had repulsed32 him. It struck her as curious that she had repulsed him. Was it because she was a married woman? Was it because she had moral scruples33? Was it at bottom because she did not care for him? Was it because she could not care for anybody? Was it because his fervid34 manner of love-making offended her English phlegm? And did she feel pleased or displeased35 by his forbearance in not renewing the assault? She could not answer. She did not know.
But all the time she knew that she wanted love. Only, she conceived a different kind of love: placid36, regular, somewhat stern, somewhat above the plane of whims37, moods, caresses38, and all mere29 fleshly contacts. Not that she considered that she despised these things (though she did)! What she wanted was a love that was too proud, too independent, to exhibit frankly39 either its joy or its pain. She hated a display of sentiment. And even in the most intimate abandonments she would have made reserves, and would have expected reserves, trusting to a lover's powers of divination40, and to her own! The foundation of her character was a haughty41 moral independence, and this quality was what she most admired in others.
Chirac's inability to draw from his own pride strength to sustain himself against the blow of her refusal gradually killed in her the sexual desire which he had aroused, and which during a few days flickered42 up under the stimulus43 of fancy and of regret. Sophia saw with increasing clearness that her unreasoning instinct had been right in saying him nay44. And when, in spite of this, regrets still visited her, she would comfort herself in thinking: "I cannot be bothered with all that sort of thing. It is not worth while. What does it lead to? Is not life complicated enough without that? No, no! I will stay as I am. At any rate I know what I am in for, as things are!" And she would reflect upon her hopeful financial situation, and the approaching prospect45 of a constantly sufficient income. And a little thrill of impatience46 against the interminable and gigantic foolishness of the siege would take her.
But her self-consciousness in presence of Chirac did not abate47.
As she lay in bed she awaited accustomed sounds which should have connoted Chirac's definite retirement48 for the night. Her ear, however, caught no sound whatever from his room. Then she imagined that there was a smell of burning in the flat. She sat up, and sniffed49 anxiously, of a sudden wideawake and apprehensive50. And then she was sure that the smell of burning was not in her imagination. The bedroom was in perfect darkness. Feverishly51 she searched with her right hand for the matches on the night-table, and knocked candlestick and matches to the floor. She seized her dressing-gown, which was spread over the bed, and put it on, aiming for the door. Her feet were bare. She discovered the door. In the passage she could discern nothing at first, and then she made out a thin line of light, which indicated the bottom of Chirac's door. The smell of burning was strong and unmistakable. She went towards the faint light, fumbled52 for the door-handle with her palm, and opened. It did not occur to her to call out and ask what was the matter.
The house was not on fire; but it might have been. She had left on the table at the foot of Chirac's bed a small cooking-lamp, and a saucepan of bouillon. All that Chirac had to do was to ignite the lamp and put the saucepan on it. He had ignited the lamp, having previously53 raised the double wicks, and had then dropped into the chair by the table just as he was, and sunk forward and gone to sleep with his head lying sideways on the table. He had not put the saucepan on the lamp; he had not lowered the wicks, and the flames, capped with thick black smoke, were waving slowly to and fro within a few inches of his loose hair. His hat had rolled along the floor; he was wearing his great overcoat and one woollen glove; the other glove had lodged54 on his slanting55 knee. A candle was also burning.
Sophia hastened forward, as it were surreptitiously, and with a forward-reaching movement turned down the wicks of the lamp; black specks56 were falling on the table; happily the saucepan was covered, or the bouillon would have been ruined.
Chirac made a heart-rending spectacle, and Sophia was aware of deep and painful emotion in seeing him thus. He must have been utterly57 exhausted58 and broken by loss of sleep. He was a man incapable59 of regular hours, incapable of treating his body with decency60. Though going to bed at three o'clock, he had continued to rise at his usual hour. He looked like one dead; but more sad, more wistful. Outside in the street a fog reigned61, and his thin draggled beard was jewelled with the moisture of it. His attitude had the unconsidered and violent prostration62 of an overspent dog. The beaten animal in him was expressed in every detail of that posture63. It showed even in his white, drawn64 eyelids65, and in the falling of a finger. All his face was very sad. It appealed for mercy as the undefended face of sleep always appeals; it was so helpless, so exposed, so simple. It recalled Sophia to a sense of the inner mysteries of life, reminding her somehow that humanity walks ever on a thin crust over terrific abysses. She did not physically shudder66; but her soul shuddered67.
She mechanically placed the saucepan on the lamp, and the noise awakened68 Chirac. He groaned69. At first he did not perceive her. When he saw that some one was looking down at him, he did not immediately realize who this some one was. He rubbed his eyes with his fists, exactly like a baby, and sat up, and the chair cracked.
"What then?" he demanded. "Oh, madame, I ask pardon. What?"
"You have nearly destroyed the house," she said. "I smelt70 fire, and I came in. I was just in time. There is no danger now. But please be careful." She made as if to move towards the door.
"But what did I do?" he asked, his eyelids wavering.
She explained.
He rose from his chair unsteadily. She told him to sit down again, and he obeyed as though in a dream.
"I can go now," she said.
"Wait one moment," he murmured. "I ask pardon. I should not know how to thank you. You are truly too good. Will you wait one moment?"
His tone was one of supplication71. He gazed at her, a little dazzled by the light and by her. The lamp and the candle illuminated72 the lower part of her face, theatrically73, and showed the texture74 of her blue flannel75 peignoir; the pattern of a part of the lace collar was silhouetted76 in shadow on her cheek. Her face was flushed, and her hair hung down unconfined. Evidently he could not recover from his excusable astonishment77 at the apparition78 of such a figure in his room.
"What is it--now?" she said. The faint, quizzical emphasis which she put on the 'now' indicated the essential of her thought. The sight of him touched her and filled her with a womanly sympathy. But that sympathy was only the envelope of her disdain79 of him. She could not admire weakness. She could but pity it with a pity in which scorn was mingled80. Her instinct was to treat him as a child. He had failed in human dignity. And it seemed to her as if she had not previously been quite certain whether she could not love him, but that now she was quite certain. She was close to him. She saw the wounds of a soul that could not hide its wounds, and she resented the sight. She was hard. She would not make allowances. And she revelled81 in her hardness. Contempt--a good-natured, kindly82, forgiving contempt--that was the kernel83 of the sympathy which exteriorly84 warmed her! Contempt for the lack of self-control which had resulted in this swift degeneration of a man into a tortured victim! Contempt for the lack of perspective which magnified a mere mushroom passion till it filled the whole field of life! Contempt for this feminine slavery to sentiment! She felt that she might have been able to give herself to Chirac as one gives a toy to an infant. But of loving him ...! No! She was conscious of an immeasurable superiority to him, for she was conscious of the freedom of a strong mind.
"I wanted to tell you," said he, "I am going away."
"Where?" she asked.
"Out of Paris."
"Out of Paris? How?"
"By balloon! My journal ...! It is an affair of great importance. You understand. I offered myself. What would you?"
"It is dangerous," she observed, waiting to see if he would put on the silly air of one who does not understand fear.
"Oh!" the poor fellow muttered with a fatuous85 intonation86 and snapping of the fingers. "That is all the same to me. Yes, it is dangerous. Yes, it is dangerous!" he repeated. "But what would you ...? For me ...!"
She wished that she had not mentioned danger. It hurt her to watch him incurring87 her ironic88 disdain.
"It will be the night after to-morrow," he said. "In the courtyard of the Gare du Nord. I want you to come and see me go. I particularly want you to come and see me go. I have asked Carlier to escort you."
He might have been saying, "I am offering myself to martyrdom, and you must assist at the spectacle."
She despised him yet more.
"Oh! Be tranquil," he said. "I shall not worry you. Never shall I speak to you again of my love. I know you. I know it would be useless. But I hope you will come and wish me bon voyage."
"Of course, if you really wish it," she replied with cheerful coolness.
He seized her hand and kissed it.
Once it had pleased her when he kissed her hand. But now she did not like it. It seemed hysterical89 and foolish to her. She felt her feet to be stone-cold on the floor.
"I'll leave you now," she said. "Please eat your soup."
She escaped, hoping he would not espy90 her feet.
1 negation | |
n.否定;否认 | |
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2 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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3 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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4 cubicle | |
n.大房间中隔出的小室 | |
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5 barricade | |
n.路障,栅栏,障碍;vt.设路障挡住 | |
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6 propensities | |
n.倾向,习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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7 tenant | |
n.承租人;房客;佃户;v.租借,租用 | |
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8 concierge | |
n.管理员;门房 | |
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9 frailer | |
脆弱的( frail的比较级 ); 易损的; 易碎的 | |
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10 resonance | |
n.洪亮;共鸣;共振 | |
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11 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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12 sleepers | |
n.卧铺(通常以复数形式出现);卧车( sleeper的名词复数 );轨枕;睡觉(呈某种状态)的人;小耳环 | |
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13 regularity | |
n.规律性,规则性;匀称,整齐 | |
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14 shuffling | |
adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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15 aptitude | |
n.(学习方面的)才能,资质,天资 | |
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16 furtive | |
adj.鬼鬼崇崇的,偷偷摸摸的 | |
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17 apparatus | |
n.装置,器械;器具,设备 | |
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18 irrational | |
adj.无理性的,失去理性的 | |
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19 obstinacy | |
n.顽固;(病痛等)难治 | |
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20 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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21 stifle | |
vt.使窒息;闷死;扼杀;抑止,阻止 | |
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22 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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23 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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24 shameful | |
adj.可耻的,不道德的 | |
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25 tainted | |
adj.腐坏的;污染的;沾污的;感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 );使污染;败坏;被污染,腐坏,败坏 | |
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26 apathy | |
n.漠不关心,无动于衷;冷淡 | |
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27 recurrence | |
n.复发,反复,重现 | |
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28 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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29 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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30 persistence | |
n.坚持,持续,存留 | |
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31 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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32 repulsed | |
v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 );驳斥;拒绝 | |
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33 scruples | |
n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 );顾虑,顾忌v.感到于心不安,有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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34 fervid | |
adj.热情的;炽热的 | |
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35 displeased | |
a.不快的 | |
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36 placid | |
adj.安静的,平和的 | |
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37 WHIMS | |
虚妄,禅病 | |
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38 caresses | |
爱抚,抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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39 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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40 divination | |
n.占卜,预测 | |
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41 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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42 flickered | |
(通常指灯光)闪烁,摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43 stimulus | |
n.刺激,刺激物,促进因素,引起兴奋的事物 | |
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44 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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45 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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46 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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47 abate | |
vi.(风势,疼痛等)减弱,减轻,减退 | |
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48 retirement | |
n.退休,退职 | |
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49 sniffed | |
v.以鼻吸气,嗅,闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 );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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50 apprehensive | |
adj.担心的,恐惧的,善于领会的 | |
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51 feverishly | |
adv. 兴奋地 | |
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52 fumbled | |
(笨拙地)摸索或处理(某事物)( fumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 乱摸,笨拙地弄; 使落下 | |
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53 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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54 lodged | |
v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 );暂住;埋入;(权利、权威等)归属 | |
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55 slanting | |
倾斜的,歪斜的 | |
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56 specks | |
n.眼镜;斑点,微粒,污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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57 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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58 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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59 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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60 decency | |
n.体面,得体,合宜,正派,庄重 | |
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61 reigned | |
vi.当政,统治(reign的过去式形式) | |
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62 prostration | |
n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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63 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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64 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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65 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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66 shudder | |
v.战粟,震动,剧烈地摇晃;n.战粟,抖动 | |
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67 shuddered | |
v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 );发抖;(机器、车辆等)突然震动;颤动 | |
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68 awakened | |
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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69 groaned | |
v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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70 smelt | |
v.熔解,熔炼;n.银白鱼,胡瓜鱼 | |
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71 supplication | |
n.恳求,祈愿,哀求 | |
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72 illuminated | |
adj.被照明的;受启迪的 | |
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73 theatrically | |
adv.戏剧化地 | |
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74 texture | |
n.(织物)质地;(材料)构造;结构;肌理 | |
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75 flannel | |
n.法兰绒;法兰绒衣服 | |
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76 silhouetted | |
显出轮廓的,显示影像的 | |
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77 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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78 apparition | |
n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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79 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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80 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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81 revelled | |
v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 );狂欢;着迷;陶醉 | |
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82 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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83 kernel | |
n.(果实的)核,仁;(问题)的中心,核心 | |
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84 exteriorly | |
adv.从外部,表面上 | |
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85 fatuous | |
adj.愚昧的;昏庸的 | |
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86 intonation | |
n.语调,声调;发声 | |
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87 incurring | |
遭受,招致,引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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88 ironic | |
adj.讽刺的,有讽刺意味的,出乎意料的 | |
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89 hysterical | |
adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
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90 espy | |
v.(从远处等)突然看到 | |
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