IN THE DAYS that followed, the reversion to a strict shift system dispelled2 the sense of floating timelessness of those first twenty-four hours. She counted herself lucky to be on days, seven till eight with half hours for meals. When her alarm sounded at five forty-five, she drifted upward from a soft pit of exhaustion4, and in the several seconds of no-man’s-land, between sleep and full consciousness, she became aware of some excitement in store, a treat, or a momentous5 change. Waking as a child on Christmas day was like this—the sleepy thrill, before remembering its source. With her eyes still closed against the summer-morning brightness in the room, she fumbled6 for the button on her clock and sank back into her pillow, and then it came back to her. The very opposite of Christmas in fact. The opposite of everything. The Germans were about to invade. Everybody said it was so, from the porters who were forming their own hospital Local Defence Volunteers unit, to Churchill himself who conjured7 an image of the country subjugated8 and starving with only the Royal Navy still at large. Briony knew it would be dreadful, that there would be hand-to-hand fighting in the streets and public hangings, a descent into slavery and the destruction of everything decent. But as she sat on the edge of her rumpled10, still-warm bed, pulling on her stockings, she could not prevent or deny her horrible exhilaration. As everyone kept saying, the country stood alone now, and it was better that way.
Already, things looked different—the fleur-de-lys pattern on her wash bag, the chipped plaster frame of the mirror, her face in it as she brushed her hair, all looked brighter, in sharper focus. The doorknob in her hand as she turned it felt obtrusively11 cool and hard. When she stepped into the corridor and heard distant heavy footsteps in the stairwell, she thought of German jackboots, and her stomach lurched. Before breakfast she had a minute or two to herself along the walkway by the river. Even at this hour, under a clear sky, there was a ferocious12 sparkle in its tidal freshness as it slid past the hospital. Was it really possible that the Germans could own the Thames?
The clarity of everything she saw or touched or heard was certainly not prompted by the fresh beginnings and abundance of early summer; it was an inflamed13 awareness14 of an approaching conclusion, of events converging15 on an end point. These were the last days, she felt, and they would shine in the memory in a particular way. This brightness, this long spell of sunny days, was history’s last fling before another stretch of time began. The early morning duties, the sluice16 room, the taking round of tea, the changing of dressings17, and the renewed contact with all the irreparable damage did not dim this heightened perception. It conditioned everything she did and was a constant background. And it gave an urgency to her plans. She felt she did not have much time. If she delayed, she thought, the Germans might arrive and she might never have another chance.
Fresh cases arrived each day, but no longer in a deluge18. The system was taking hold, and there was a bed for everyone. The surgical19 cases were prepared for the basement operating theaters. Afterward20, most patients were sent off to outlying hospitals to convalesce21. The turnover22 among the dead was high, and for the probationers there was no drama now, only routine: the screens drawn23 round the padre’s bedside murmur24, the sheet pulled up, the porters called, the bed stripped and remade. How quickly the dead faded into each other, so that Sergeant25 Mooney’s face became Private Lowell’s, and both exchanged their fatal wounds with those of other men whose names they could no longer recall.
Now France had fallen it was assumed that the bombing of London, the softening-up, must soon begin. No one was to stay in the city unnecessarily. The sandbagging on the ground-floor windows was reinforced, and civilian26 contractors27 were on the roofs checking the firmness of the chimney stacks and the concreted skylights. There were various rehearsals28 for evacuating29 the wards30, with much stern shouting and blowing of whistles. There were fire drills too, and assembly-point procedures, and fitting gas masks on incapable31 or unconscious patients. The nurses were reminded to put their own masks on first. They were no longer terrorized by Sister Drummond. Now they had been blooded, she did not speak to them like schoolgirls. Her tone when she gave instructions was cool, professionally neutral, and they were flattered. In this new environment it was relatively32 easy for Briony to arrange to swap33 her day off with Fiona who generously gave up her Saturday for a Monday.
Because of an administrative34 bungle35, some soldiers were left to convalesce in the hospital. Once they had slept off their exhaustion, and got used to regular meals again and regained36 some weight, the mood was sour or surly, even among those without permanent disabilities. They were infantrymen mostly. They lay on their beds smoking, silently staring at the ceiling, brooding over their recent memories. Or they gathered to talk in mutinous37 little groups. They were disgusted with themselves. A few of them told Briony they had never even fired a shot. But mostly they were angry with the “brass,” and with their own officers for abandoning them in the retreat, and with the French for collapsing38 without a fight. They were bitter about the newspaper celebrations of the miracle evacuation and the heroism39 of the little boats.
“A fucking shambles,” she heard them mutter. “Fucking RAF.”
Some men were even unfriendly, and uncooperative about their medicines, having managed to blur40 the distinction between the generals and the nurses. All mindless authority, as far as they were concerned. It took a visit from Sister Drummond to set them straight.
On Saturday morning Briony left the hospital at eight without eating breakfast and walked with the river on her right, upstream. As she passed the gates of Lambeth Palace, three buses went by. All the destination boards were blank now. Confusion to the invader41. It did not matter because she had already decided42 to walk. It was of no help that she had memorized a few street names. All the signs had been taken down or blacked out. Her vague idea was to go along the river a couple of miles and then head off to the left, which should be south. Most plans and maps of the city had been confiscated43 by order. Finally she had managed to borrow a crumbling44 bus route map dated 1926. It was torn along its folds, right along the line of the way she wanted to take. Opening it was to risk breaking it in pieces. And she was nervous of the kind of impression she would make. There were stories in the paper of German parachutists disguised as nurses and nuns45, spreading out through the cities and infiltrating46 the population. They were to be identified by the maps they might sometimes consult and, on questioning, by their too-perfect English and their ignorance of common nursery rhymes. Once the idea was in her mind, she could not stop thinking about how suspicious she looked. She had thought her uniform would protect her as she crossed unknown territory. Instead, she looked like a spy.
As she walked against the flow of morning traffic, she ran through the nursery rhymes she remembered. There were very few she could have recited all the way through. Ahead of her, a milkman had got down from his cart to tighten47 the girth straps48 of his horse. He was murmuring to the animal as she came up. Briefly49 there came back to her, as she stood behind him and politely cleared her throat, a memory of old Hardman and his trap. Anyone who was, say, seventy now, would have been her age in 1888. Still the age of the horse, at least on the streets, and the old men hated to let it go.
When she asked him the way the milkman was friendly enough and gave a long indistinct account of the route. He was a large fellow with a tobacco-stained white beard. He suffered from an adenoidal problem that made his words bleed into each other through a humming sound in his nostrils50. He waved her toward a road forking to the left, under a railway bridge. She thought it might be too soon to be leaving the river, but as she walked on, she sensed him watching her and thought it would be impolite to disregard his directions. Perhaps the left fork was a shortcut51.
She was surprised by how clumsy and self-conscious she was, after all she had learned and seen. She felt inept52, unnerved by being out on her own, and no longer part of her group. For months she had lived a closed life whose every hour was marked on a timetable. She knew her humble53 place in the ward3. As she became more proficient54 in the work, so she became better at taking orders and following procedures and ceasing to think for herself. It was a long time since she had done anything on her own. Not since her week in Primrose56 Hill, typing out the novella, and what a foolish excitement that seemed now.
She was walking under the bridge as a train passed overhead. The thunderous, rhythmic57 rumble58 reached right into her bones. Steel gliding59 and thumping60 over steel, the great bolted sheets of it high above her in the gloom, an inexplicable61 door sunk into the brickwork, mighty62 cast-iron pipework clamped in rusting63 brackets and carrying no one knew what—such brutal64 invention belonged to a race of supermen. She herself mopped floors and tied bandages. Did she really have the strength for this journey?
When she stepped out from under the bridge, crossing a wedge of dusty morning sunlight, the train was making a harmless clicking suburban65 sound as it receded66. What she needed, Briony told herself yet again, was backbone67. She passed a tiny municipal park with a tennis court on which two men in flannels68 were hitting a ball back and forward, warming up for a game with lazy confidence. There were two girls in khaki shorts on a bench nearby reading a letter. She thought of her letter, her sugarcoated rejection69 slip. She had been carrying it in her pocket during her shift and the second page had acquired a crablike70 stain of carbolic. She had come to see that, without intending to, it delivered a significant personal indictment71. Might she come between them in some disastrous72 fashion? Yes, indeed. And having done so, might she obscure the fact by concocting73 a slight, barely clever fiction and satisfy her vanity by sending it off to a magazine? The interminable pages about light and stone and water, a narrative74 split between three different points of view, the hovering75 stillness of nothing much seeming to happen—none of this could conceal76 her cowardice77. Did she really think she could hide behind some borrowed notions of modern writing, and drown her guilt78 in a stream—three streams!—of consciousness? The evasions79 of her little novel were exactly those of her life. Everything she did not wish to confront was also missing from her novella—and was necessary to it. What was she to do now? It was not the backbone of a story that she lacked. It was backbone.
She left the little park behind, and passed a small factory whose thrumming machinery80 made the pavement vibrate. There was no telling what was being made behind those high filthy81 windows, or why yellow and black smoke poured from a single slender aluminum82 stack. Opposite, set in a diagonal across a street corner, the wide-open double doors of a pub suggested a theater stage. Inside, where a boy with an attractive, pensive83 look was emptying ashtrays84 into a bucket, last night’s air still had a bluish look. Two men in leather aprons86 were unloading beer barrels down a ramp87 from the dray cart. She had never seen so many horses on the streets. The military must have requisitioned all the lorries. Someone was pushing open the cellar trapdoors from inside. They banged against the pavement, sending up the dust, and a man with a tonsure88, whose legs were still below street level, paused and turned to watch her go by. He appeared to her like a giant chess piece. The draymen were watching her too, and one of them wolf-whistled.
“All right, darling?”
She didn’t mind, but she never knew how to reply. Yes, thank you? She smiled at them all, glad of the folds of her cape89. Everyone, she assumed, was thinking about the invasion, but there was nothing to do but keep on. Even if the Germans came, people would still play tennis, or gossip, or drink beer. Perhaps the wolf-whistling would stop. As the street curved and narrowed, the steady traffic along it sounded louder and the warm fumes90 blew into her face. A Victorian terrace of bright red brick faced right onto the pavement. A woman in a paisley apron85 was sweeping92 with demented vigor93 in front of her house through whose open door came the smell of fried breakfast. She stood back to let Briony pass, for the way was narrow here, but she looked away sharply at Briony’s good morning. Approaching her were a woman and four jug-eared boys with suitcases and knapsacks. The kids were jostling and shouting and kicking along an old shoe. They ignored their mother’s exhausted94 cry as Briony was forced to stand aside and let them pass.
“Leave off, will ya! Let the nursey through.”
As she passed, the woman gave a lopsided smile of rueful apology. Two of her front teeth were missing. She was wearing a strong perfume and between her fingers she carried an unlit cigarette.
“They’s so excited about going in the countryside. Never been before, would you believe.”
Briony said, “Good luck. I hope you get a nice family.”
The woman, whose ears also protruded95, but were partially96 obscured by her hair cut in a bob, gave a gay shout of a laugh. “They dunno what they’re in for with this lot!”
She came at last to a confluence97 of shabby streets which she assumed from the detached quarter of her map was Stockwell. Commanding the route south was a pillbox and standing98 by it, with only one rifle between them, was a handful of bored Home Guards. An elderly fellow in a trilby, overalls99 and armband, with drooping100 jowls like a bulldog’s, detached himself and demanded to see her identity card. Self-importantly, he waved her on. She thought better of asking him directions. As she understood it, her way lay straight along the Clapham Road for almost two miles. There were fewer people here and less traffic, and the street was broader than the one she had come up. The only sound was the rumble of a departing tram. By a line of smart Edwardian flats set well back from the road, she allowed herself to sit for half a minute on a low parapet wall, in the shade of a plane tree, and remove her shoe to examine a blister101 on her heel. A convoy102 of three-ton lorries went by, heading south, out of town. Automatically, she glanced at their backs half expecting to see wounded men. But there were only wooden crates103.
Forty minutes later she reached Clapham Common tube station. A squat104 church of rumpled stone turned out to be locked. She took out her father’s letter and read it over again. A woman in a shoe shop pointed105 her toward the Common. Even when Briony had crossed the road and walked onto the grass she did not see the church at first. It was half concealed106 among trees in leaf, and was not what she expected. She had been imagining the scene of a crime, a Gothic cathedral, whose flamboyant107 vaulting108 would be flooded with brazen109 light of scarlet110 and indigo111 from a stained-glass backdrop of lurid112 suffering. What appeared among the cool trees as she approached was a brick barn of elegant dimensions, like a Greek temple, with a black-tiled roof, windows of plain glass, and a low portico113 with white columns beneath a clock tower of harmonious114 proportions. Parked outside, close to the portico, was a polished black Rolls-Royce. The driver’s door was ajar, but there was no chauffeur115 in sight. As she passed the car she felt the warmth of its radiator116, as intimate as body heat, and heard the click of contracting metal. She went up the steps and pushed on the heavy, studded door.
The sweet waxy117 smell of wood, the watery118 smell of stone, were of churches everywhere. Even as she turned her back to close the door discreetly119, she was aware that the church was almost empty. The vicar’s words were in counterpoint with their echoes. She stood by the door, partly screened by the font, waiting for her eyes and ears to adjust. Then she advanced to the rear pew and slid along to the end where she still had a view of the altar. She had been to various family weddings, though she was too young to have been at the grand affair in Liverpool Cathedral of Uncle Cecil and Aunt Hermione, whose form and elaborate hat she could now distinguish in the front row. Next to her were Pierrot and Jackson, lankier120 by five or six inches, wedged between the outlines of their estranged121 parents. On the other side of the aisle91 were three members of the Marshall family. This was the entire congregation. A private ceremony. No society journalists. Briony was not meant to be there. She was familiar enough with the form of words to know that she had not missed the moment itself.
“Secondly, it was ordained122 for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication, that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ’s body.”
Facing the altar, framed by the elevated white-sheeted shape of the vicar, stood the couple. She was in white, the full traditional wear, and, as far as Briony could tell from the rear, was heavily veiled. Her hair was gathered into a single childish plait that fell from under the froth of tulle and organdy and lay along the length of her spine123. Marshall stood erect124, the lines of his padded morning-suit shoulders etched sharply against the vicar’s surplice.
“Thirdly, it was ordained for the mutual125 society, help and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other . . .”
She felt the memories, the needling details, like a rash, like dirt on her skin: Lola coming to her room in tears, her chafed126 and bruised127 wrists, and the scratches on Lola’s shoulder and down Marshall’s face; Lola’s silence in the darkness at the lakeside as she let her earnest, ridiculous, oh so prim55 younger cousin, who couldn’t tell real life from the stories in her head, deliver the attacker into safety. Poor vain and vulnerable Lola with the pearl-studded choker and the rosewater scent9, who longed to throw off the last restraints of childhood, who saved herself from humiliation128 by falling in love, or persuading herself she had, and who could not believe her luck when Briony insisted on doing the talking and blaming. And what luck that was for Lola—barely more than a child, prized open and taken—to marry her rapist.
“. . . Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not be lawfully129 joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”
Was it really happening? Was she really rising now, with weak legs and empty contracting stomach and stuttering heart, and moving along the pew to take her position in the center of the aisle, and setting out her reasons, her just causes, in a defiant130 untrembling voice as she advanced in her cape and headdress, like a bride of Christ, toward the altar, toward the openmouthed vicar who had never before in his long career been interrupted, toward the congregation of twisted necks, and the half-turned white-faced couple? She had not planned it, but the question, which she had quite forgotten, from the Book of Common Prayer, was a provocation131. And what were the impediments exactly? Now was her chance to proclaim in public all the private anguish132 and purge133 herself of all that she had done wrong. Before the altar of this most rational of churches.
But the scratches and bruises134 were long healed, and all her own statements at the time were to the contrary. Nor did the bride appear to be a victim, and she had her parents’ consent. More than that, surely; a chocolate magnate, the creator of Amo. Aunt Hermione would be rubbing her hands. That Paul Marshall, Lola Quincey and she, Briony Tallis, had conspired135 with silence and falsehoods to send an innocent man to jail? But the words that had convicted him had been her very own, read out loud on her behalf in the Assize Court. The sentence had already been served. The debt was paid. The verdict stood.
She remained in her seat with her accelerating heart and sweating palms, and humbly136 inclined her head.
“I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment137 when the secrets of all hearts will be disclosed, that if either of you know of any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it.”
By any estimate, it was a very long time until judgment day, and until then the truth that only Marshall and his bride knew at first hand was steadily138 being walled up within the mausoleum of their marriage. There it would lie secure in the darkness, long after anyone who cared was dead. Every word in the ceremony was another brick in place.
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”
Birdlike Uncle Cecil stepped up smartly, no doubt anxious to be done with his duty before hurrying back to the sanctuary139 of All Souls, Oxford140. Straining to hear any wavering doubt in their voices, Briony listened to Marshall, then Lola, repeating the words after the vicar. She was sweet and sure, while Marshall boomed, as though in defiance141. How flagrantly, sensually, it reverberated142 before the altar when he said, “With my body I thee worship.”
“Let us pray.”
Then the seven outlined heads in the front pews drooped143 and the vicar removed his tortoiseshell glasses, lifted his chin and with eyes closed addressed the heavenly powers in his weary, sorrowful singsong.
“O Eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind, Giver of all spiritual grace, the Author of everlasting144 life: Send thy blessing145 upon these thy servants, this man and this woman . . .”
The last brick was set in place as the vicar, having put his glasses back on, made the celebrated146 pronouncement—man and wife together—and invoked147 the Trinity after which his church was named. There were more prayers, a psalm148, the Lord’s Prayer and another long one in which the falling tones of valediction149 gathered into a melancholy150 finality.
“. . . Pour upon you the riches of his grace, sanctify and bless you, that ye may please him both in body and soul, and live together in holy love unto your lives’ end.”
Immediately, there cascaded151 from the fluting152 organ confetti of skittering triplets as the vicar turned to lead the couple down the aisle and the six family members fell in behind. Briony, who had been on her knees in a pretense153 of prayer, stood and turned to face the procession as it reached her. The vicar seemed a little pressed for time, and was many feet ahead of the rest. When he glanced to his left and saw the young nurse, his kindly154 look and tilt155 of the head expressed both welcome and curiosity. Then he strode on to pull one of the big doors wide open. A slanting156 tongue of sunlight reached all the way to where she stood and illuminated157 her face and headdress. She wanted to be seen, but not quite so clearly. There would be no missing her now. Lola, who was on Briony’s side, drew level and their eyes met. Her veil was already parted. The freckles158 had vanished, but otherwise she was not much changed. Only slightly taller perhaps, and prettier, softer and rounder in the face, and the eyebrows159 severely160 plucked. Briony simply stared. All she wanted was for Lola to know she was there and to wonder why. The sunlight made it harder for Briony to see, but for a fraction of a moment, a tiny frown of displeasure may have registered in the bride’s face. Then she pursed her lips and looked to the front, and then she was gone. Paul Marshall had seen her too, but had not recognized her, and nor had Aunt Hermione or Uncle Cecil who had not met her in years. But the twins, bringing up the rear in school uniform trousers at half mast, were delighted to see her, and mimed161 mock-horror at her costume, and did clownish eye-rolling yawns, with hands flapping on their mouths.
Then she was alone in the church with the unseen organist who went on playing for his own pleasure. It was over too quickly, and nothing for certain was achieved. She remained standing in place, beginning to feel a little foolish, reluctant to go outside. Daylight, and the banality162 of family small talk, would dispel1 whatever impact she had made as a ghostly illuminated apparition163. She also lacked courage for a confrontation164. And how would she explain herself, the uninvited guest, to her uncle and aunt? They might be offended, or worse, they might not be, and want to take her off to some excruciating breakfast in a hotel, with Mr. and Mrs. Paul Marshall oily with hatred165, and Hermione failing to conceal her contempt for Cecil. Briony lingered another minute or two, as though held there by the music, then, annoyed with her own cowardice, hurried out onto the portico. The vicar was a hundred yards off at least, walking quickly away across the common with arms swinging freely. The newlyweds were in the Rolls, Marshall at the wheel, reversing in order to turn round. She was certain they saw her. There was a metallic166 screech167 as he changed gear—a good sign perhaps. The car moved away, and through a side window she saw Lola’s white shape huddled168 against the driver’s arm. As for the congregation, it had vanished completely among the trees.
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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fumbled
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| （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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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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subjugated
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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obtrusively
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| adv.冒失地，莽撞地 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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sluice
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| n.水闸 | |
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dressings
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| n.敷料剂；穿衣( dressing的名词复数 )；穿戴；（拌制色拉的）调料；（保护伤口的）敷料 | |
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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convalesce
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turnover
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| n.人员流动率，人事变动率；营业额，成交量 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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contractors
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| n.（建筑、监造中的）承包人( contractor的名词复数 ) | |
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rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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evacuating
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| 撤离，疏散( evacuate的现在分词 )； 排空（胃肠），排泄（粪便）； （从危险的地方）撤出，搬出，撤空 | |
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wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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33
swap
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| n.交换；vt.交换，用...作交易 | |
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34
administrative
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| adj.行政的，管理的 | |
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35
bungle
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| v.搞糟；n.拙劣的工作 | |
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36
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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37
mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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38
collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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39
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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40
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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41
invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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42
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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43
confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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45
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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46
infiltrating
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| v.（使）渗透，（指思想）渗入人的心中( infiltrate的现在分词 ) | |
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47
tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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48
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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49
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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50
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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51
shortcut
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| n.近路，捷径 | |
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52
inept
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| adj.不恰当的，荒谬的，拙劣的 | |
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53
humble
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|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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54
proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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55
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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56
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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57
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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58
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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59
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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60
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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61
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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62
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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63
rusting
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| n.生锈v.（使）生锈( rust的现在分词 ) | |
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64
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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65
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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66
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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67
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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68
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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69
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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70
crablike
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| adj.似蟹的，似蟹行般的 | |
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71
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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72
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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73
concocting
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的现在分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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74
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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75
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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76
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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77
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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78
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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79
evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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80
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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81
filthy
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|
| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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82
aluminum
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| n.(aluminium)铝 | |
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83
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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84
ashtrays
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| 烟灰缸( ashtray的名词复数 ) | |
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85
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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86
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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87
ramp
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|
| n.暴怒，斜坡，坡道；vi.作恐吓姿势，暴怒，加速；vt.加速 | |
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88
tonsure
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| n.削发；v.剃 | |
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89
cape
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|
| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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90
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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91
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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92
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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93
vigor
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|
| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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94
exhausted
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|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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95
protruded
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|
| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
partially
|
|
| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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97
confluence
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| n.汇合，聚集 | |
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98
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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99
overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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100
drooping
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|
| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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101
blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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102
convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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103
crates
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|
| n. 板条箱, 篓子, 旧汽车 vt. 装进纸条箱 | |
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104
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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105
pointed
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|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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106
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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107
flamboyant
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|
| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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108
vaulting
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| n.（天花板或屋顶的）拱形结构 | |
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109
brazen
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|
| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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110
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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111
indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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112
lurid
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|
| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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113
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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114
harmonious
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|
| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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115
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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116
radiator
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| n.暖气片，散热器 | |
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117
waxy
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|
| adj.苍白的；光滑的 | |
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118
watery
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|
| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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119
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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120
lankier
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| adj.过分瘦长，瘦长得难看( lanky的比较级 ) | |
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121
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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122
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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123
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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124
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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125
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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126
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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127
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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128
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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129
lawfully
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| adv.守法地，合法地；合理地 | |
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130
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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131
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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132
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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133
purge
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| n.整肃，清除，泻药，净化；vt.净化，清除，摆脱；vi.清除，通便，腹泻，变得清洁 | |
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134
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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135
conspired
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|
| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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136
humbly
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|
| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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137
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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138
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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139
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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140
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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141
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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142
reverberated
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|
| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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143
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
everlasting
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|
| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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145
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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146
celebrated
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|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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147
invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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148
psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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149
valediction
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|
| n．告别演说，告别词 | |
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150
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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151
cascaded
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| 级联的 | |
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152
fluting
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| 有沟槽的衣料； 吹笛子； 笛声； 刻凹槽 | |
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153
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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154
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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155
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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156
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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157
illuminated
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|
| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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158
freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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159
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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160
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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161
mimed
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| v.指手画脚地表演，用哑剧的形式表演( mime的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
banality
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| n.陈腐；平庸；陈词滥调 | |
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163
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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164
confrontation
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| n.对抗，对峙，冲突 | |
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165
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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166
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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167
screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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168
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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