Upon these grounds, there are some among us who claim to have lived longer and more richly than their neighbours; when they lay asleep they claim they were still active; and among the treasures of memory that all men review for their amusement, these count in no second place the harvests of their dreams. There is one of this kind whom I have in my eye, and whose case is perhaps unusual enough to be described. He was from a child an ardent13 and uncomfortable dreamer. When he had a touch of fever at night, and the room swelled14 and shrank, and his clothes, hanging on a nail, now loomed15 up instant to the bigness of a church, and now drew away into a horror of infinite distance and infinite littleness, the poor soul was very well aware of what must follow, and struggled hard against the approaches of that slumber16 which was the beginning of sorrows.
But his struggles were in vain; sooner or later the night-hag would have him by the throat, and pluck him strangling and screaming, from his sleep. His dreams were at times commonplace enough, at times very strange, at times they were almost formless: he would be haunted, for instance, by nothing more definite than a certain hue17 of brown, which he did not mind in the least while he was awake, but feared and loathed19 while he was dreaming; at times, again, they took on every detail of circumstance, as when once he supposed he must swallow the populous20 world, and awoke screaming with the horror of the thought. The two chief troubles of his very narrow existence—the practical and everyday trouble of school tasks and the ultimate and airy one of hell and judgment—were often confounded together into one appalling21 nightmare. He seemed to himself to stand before the Great White Throne; he was called on, poor little devil, to recite some form of words, on which his destiny depended; his tongue stuck, his memory was blank, hell gaped22 for him; and he would awake, clinging to the curtain-rod with his knees to his chin.
These were extremely poor experiences, on the whole; and at that time of life my dreamer would have very willingly parted with his power of dreams. But presently, in the course of his growth, the cries and physical contortions23 passed away, seemingly for ever; his visions were still for the most part miserable24, but they were more constantly supported; and he would awake with no more extreme symptom than a flying heart, a freezing scalp, cold sweats, and the speechless midnight fear. His dreams, too, as befitted a mind better stocked with particulars, became more circumstantial, and had more the air and continuity of life. The look of the world beginning to take hold on his attention, scenery came to play a part in his sleeping as well as in his waking thoughts, so that he would take long, uneventful journeys and see strange towns and beautiful places as he lay in bed. And, what is more significant, an odd taste that he had for the Georgian costume and for stories laid in that period of English history, began to rule the features of his dreams; so that he masqueraded there in a three-cornered hat and was much engaged with Jacobite conspiracy26 between the hour for bed and that for breakfast. About the same time, he began to read in his dreams—tales, for the most part, and for the most part after the manner of G. P. R. James, but so incredibly more vivid and moving than any printed book, that he has ever since been malcontent27 with literature.
And then, while he was yet a student, there came to him a dream-adventure which he has no anxiety to repeat; he began, that is to say, to dream in sequence and thus to lead a double life—one of the day, one of the night—one that he had every reason to believe was the true one, another that he had no means of proving to be false. I should have said he studied, or was by way of studying, at Edinburgh College, which (it may be supposed) was how I came to know him. Well, in his dream-life, he passed a long day in the surgical28 theatre, his heart in his mouth, his teeth on edge, seeing monstrous29 malformations and the abhorred30 dexterity31 of surgeons. In a heavy, rainy, foggy evening he came forth32 into the South Bridge, turned up the High Street, and entered the door of a tall land, at the top of which he supposed himself to lodge33. All night long, in his wet clothes, he climbed the stairs, stair after stair in endless series, and at every second flight a flaring34 lamp with a reflector. All night long, he brushed by single persons passing downward—beggarly women of the street, great, weary, muddy labourers, poor scarecrows of men, pale parodies35 of women—but all drowsy36 and weary like himself, and all single, and all brushing against him as they passed. In the end, out of a northern window, he would see day beginning to whiten over the Firth, give up the ascent37, turn to descend38, and in a breath be back again upon the streets, in his wet clothes, in the wet, haggard dawn, trudging39 to another day of monstrosities and operations. Time went quicker in the life of dreams, some seven hours (as near as he can guess) to one; and it went, besides, more intensely, so that the gloom of these fancied experiences clouded the day, and he had not shaken off their shadow ere it was time to lie down and to renew them. I cannot tell how long it was that he endured this discipline; but it was long enough to leave a great black blot40 upon his memory, long enough to send him, trembling for his reason, to the doors of a certain doctor; whereupon with a simple draught41 he was restored to the common lot of man.
The poor gentleman has since been troubled by nothing of the sort; indeed, his nights were for some while like other men’s, now blank, now chequered with dreams, and these sometimes charming, sometimes appalling, but except for an occasional vividness, of no extraordinary kind. I will just note one of these occasions, ere I pass on to what makes my dreamer truly interesting. It seemed to him that he was in the first floor of a rough hill-farm. The room showed some poor efforts at gentility, a carpet on the floor, a piano, I think, against the wall; but, for all these refinements42, there was no mistaking he was in a moorland place, among hillside people, and set in miles of heather. He looked down from the window upon a bare farmyard, that seemed to have been long disused. A great, uneasy stillness lay upon the world. There was no sign of the farm-folk or of any live stock, save for an old, brown, curly dog of the retriever breed, who sat close in against the wall of the house and seemed to be dozing43. Something about this dog disquieted44 the dreamer; it was quite a nameless feeling, for the beast looked right enough—indeed, he was so old and dull and dusty and broken-down, that he should rather have awakened45 pity; and yet the conviction came and grew upon the dreamer that this was no proper dog at all, but something hellish. A great many dozing summer flies hummed about the yard; and presently the dog thrust forth his paw, caught a fly in his open palm, carried it to his mouth like an ape, and looking suddenly up at the dreamer in the window, winked46 to him with one eye. The dream went on, it matters not how it went; it was a good dream as dreams go; but there was nothing in the sequel worthy47 of that devilish brown dog. And the point of interest for me lies partly in that very fact: that having found so singular an incident, my imperfect dreamer should prove unable to carry the tale to a fit end and fall back on indescribable noises and indiscriminate horrors. It would be different now; he knows his business better!
For, to approach at last the point: This honest fellow had long been in the custom of setting himself to sleep with tales, and so had his father before him; but these were irresponsible inventions, told for the teller’s pleasure, with no eye to the crass48 public or the thwart49 reviewer: tales where a thread might be dropped, or one adventure quitted for another, on fancy’s least suggestion. So that the little people who manage man’s internal theatre had not as yet received a very rigorous training; and played upon their stage like children who should have slipped into the house and found it empty, rather than like drilled actors performing a set piece to a huge hall of faces. But presently my dreamer began to turn his former amusement of story-telling to (what is called) account; by which I mean that he began to write and sell his tales. Here was he, and here were the little people who did that part of his business, in quite new conditions. The stories must now be trimmed and pared and set upon all fours, they must run from a beginning to an end and fit (after a manner) with the laws of life; the pleasure, in one word, had become a business; and that not only for the dreamer, but for the little people of his theatre. These understood the change as well as he. When he lay down to prepare himself for sleep, he no longer sought amusement, but printable and profitable tales; and after he had dozed50 off in his box-seat, his little people continued their evolutions with the same mercantile designs. All other forms of dream deserted51 him but two: he still occasionally reads the most delightful52 books, he still visits at times the most delightful places; and it is perhaps worthy of note that to these same places, and to one in particular, he returns at intervals53 of months and years, finding new field-paths, visiting new neighbours, beholding54 that happy valley under new effects of noon and dawn and sunset. But all the rest of the family of visions is quite lost to him: the common, mangled55 version of yesterday’s affairs, the raw-head-and-bloody-bones nightmare, rumoured56 to be the child of toasted cheese—these and their like are gone; and, for the most part, whether awake or asleep, he is simply occupied—he or his little people—in consciously making stories for the market. This dreamer (like many other persons) has encountered some trifling57 vicissitudes58 of fortune. When the bank begins to send letters and the butcher to linger at the back gate, he sets to belabouring his brains after a story, for that is his readiest money-winner; and, behold! at once the little people begin to bestir themselves in the same quest, and labour all night long, and all night long set before him truncheons of tales upon their lighted theatre. No fear of his being frightened now; the flying heart and the frozen scalp are things by-gone; applause, growing applause, growing interest, growing exultation59 in his own cleverness (for he takes all the credit), and at last a jubilant leap to wakefulness, with the cry, “I have it, that’ll do!” upon his lips: with such and similar emotions he sits at these nocturnal dramas, with such outbreaks, like Claudius in the play, he scatters60 the performance in the midst. Often enough the waking is a disappointment: he has been too deep asleep, as I explain the thing; drowsiness61 has gained his little people, they have gone stumbling and maundering through their parts; and the play, to the awakened mind, is seen to be a tissue of absurdities62. And yet how often have these sleepless63 Brownies done him honest service, and given him, as he sat idly taking his pleasure in the boxes, better tales than he could fashion for himself.
Here is one, exactly as it came to him. It seemed he was the son of a very rich and wicked man, the owner of broad acres and a most damnable temper. The dreamer (and that was the son) had lived much abroad, on purpose to avoid his parent; and when at length he returned to England, it was to find him married again to a young wife, who was supposed to suffer cruelly and to loathe18 her yoke65. Because of this marriage (as the dreamer indistinctly understood) it was desirable for father and son to have a meeting; and yet both being proud and both angry, neither would condescend66 upon a visit. Meet they did accordingly, in a desolate67, sandy country by the sea; and there they quarrelled, and the son, stung by some intolerable insult, struck down the father dead. No suspicion was aroused; the dead man was found and buried, and the dreamer succeeded to the broad estates, and found himself installed under the same roof with his father’s widow, for whom no provision had been made. These two lived very much alone, as people may after a bereavement68, sat down to table together, shared the long evenings, and grew daily better friends; until it seemed to him of a sudden that she was prying69 about dangerous matters, that she had conceived a notion of his guilt70, that she watched him and tried him with questions. He drew back from her company as men draw back from a precipice71 suddenly discovered; and yet so strong was the attraction that he would drift again and again into the old intimacy73, and again and again be startled back by some suggestive question or some inexplicable74 meaning in her eye. So they lived at cross purposes, a life full of broken dialogue, challenging glances, and suppressed passion; until, one day, he saw the woman slipping from the house in a veil, followed her to the station, followed her in the train to the seaside country, and out over the sandhills to the very place where the murder was done. There she began to grope among the bents, he watching her, flat upon his face; and presently she had something in her hand—I cannot remember what it was, but it was deadly evidence against the dreamer—and as she held it up to look at it, perhaps from the shock of the discovery, her foot slipped, and she hung at some peril75 on the brink76 of the tall sand-wreaths. He had no thought but to spring up and rescue her; and there they stood face to face, she with that deadly matter openly in her hand—his very presence on the spot another link of proof. It was plain she was about to speak, but this was more than he could bear—he could bear to be lost, but not to talk of it with his destroyer; and he cut her short with trivial conversation. Arm in arm, they returned together to the train, talking he knew not what, made the journey back in the same carriage, sat down to dinner, and passed the evening in the drawing-room as in the past. But suspense77 and fear drummed in the dreamer’s bosom78. “She has not denounced me yet”—so his thoughts ran—“when will she denounce me? Will it be to-morrow?” And it was not to-morrow, nor the next day, nor the next; and their life settled back on the old terms, only that she seemed kinder than before, and that, as for him, the burthen of his suspense and wonder grew daily more unbearable79, so that he wasted away like a man with a disease. Once, indeed, he broke all bounds of decency80, seized an occasion when she was abroad, ransacked81 her room, and at last, hidden away among her jewels, found the damning evidence. There he stood, holding this thing, which was his life, in the hollow of his hand, and marvelling82 at her inconsequent behaviour, that she should seek, and keep, and yet not use it; and then the door opened, and behold herself. So, once more, they stood, eye to eye, with the evidence between them; and once more she raised to him a face brimming with some communication; and once more he shied away from speech and cut her off. But before he left the room, which he had turned upside down, he laid back his death-warrant where he had found it; and at that, her face lighted up. The next thing he heard, she was explaining to her maid, with some ingenious falsehood, the disorder83 of her things. Flesh and blood could bear the strain no longer; and I think it was the next morning (though chronology is always hazy84 in the theatre of the mind) that he burst from his reserve. They had been breakfasting together in one corner of a great, parqueted85, sparely-furnished room of many windows; all the time of the meal she had tortured him with sly allusions86; and no sooner were the servants gone, and these two protagonists87 alone together, than he leaped to his feet. She too sprang up, with a pale face; with a pale face, she heard him as he raved88 out his complaint: Why did she torture him so? she knew all, she knew he was no enemy to her; why did she not denounce him at once? what signified her whole behaviour? why did she torture him? and yet again, why did she torture him? And when he had done, she fell upon her knees, and with outstretched hands: “Do you not understand?” she cried. “I love you!”
Hereupon, with a pang89 of wonder and mercantile delight, the dreamer awoke. His mercantile delight was not of long endurance; for it soon became plain that in this spirited tale there were unmarketable elements; which is just the reason why you have it here so briefly90 told. But his wonder has still kept growing; and I think the reader’s will also, if he consider it ripely. For now he sees why I speak of the little people as of substantive91 inventors and performers. To the end they had kept their secret. I will go bail92 for the dreamer (having excellent grounds for valuing his candour) that he had no guess whatever at the motive93 of the woman—the hinge of the whole well-invented plot—until the instant of that highly dramatic declaration. It was not his tale; it was the little people’s! And observe: not only was the secret kept, the story was told with really guileful94 craftsmanship95. The conduct of both actors is (in the cant25 phrase) psychologically correct, and the emotion aptly graduated up to the surprising climax96. I am awake now, and I know this trade; and yet I cannot better it. I am awake, and I live by this business; and yet I could not outdo—could not perhaps equal—that crafty97 artifice98 (as of some old, experienced carpenter of plays, some Dennery or Sardou) by which the same situation is twice presented and the two actors twice brought face to face over the evidence, only once it is in her hand, once in his—and these in their due order, the least dramatic first. The more I think of it, the more I am moved to press upon the world my question: Who are the Little People? They are near connections of the dreamer’s, beyond doubt; they share in his financial worries and have an eye to the bank-book; they share plainly in his training; they have plainly learned like him to build the scheme of a considerate story and to arrange emotion in progressive order; only I think they have more talent; and one thing is beyond doubt, they can tell him a story piece by piece, like a serial99, and keep him all the while in ignorance of where they aim. Who are they, then? and who is the dreamer?
Well, as regards the dreamer, I can answer that, for he is no less a person than myself;—as I might have told you from the beginning, only that the critics murmur100 over my consistent egotism;—and as I am positively102 forced to tell you now, or I could advance but little farther with my story. And for the Little People, what shall I say they are but just my Brownies, God bless them! who do one-half my work for me while I am fast asleep, and in all human likelihood, do the rest for me as well, when I am wide awake and fondly suppose I do it for myself. That part which is done while I am sleeping is the Brownies’ part beyond contention103; but that which is done when I am up and about is by no means necessarily mine, since all goes to show the Brownies have a hand in it even then. Here is a doubt that much concerns my conscience. For myself—what I call I, my conscious ego101, the denizen104 of the pineal gland64 unless he has changed his residence since Descartes, the man with the conscience and the variable bank-account, the man with the hat and the boots, and the privilege of voting and not carrying his candidate at the general elections—I am sometimes tempted105 to suppose he is no story-teller at all, but a creature as matter of fact as any cheesemonger or any cheese, and a realist bemired up to the ears in actuality; so that, by that account, the whole of my published fiction should be the single-handed product of some Brownie, some Familiar, some unseen collaborator106, whom I keep locked in a back garret, while I get all the praise and he but a share (which I cannot prevent him getting) of the pudding. I am an excellent adviser107, something like Molière’s servant; I pull back and I cut down; and I dress the whole in the best words and sentences that I can find and make; I hold the pen, too; and I do the sitting at the table, which is about the worst of it; and when all is done, I make up the manuscript and pay for the registration108; so that, on the whole, I have some claim to share, though not so largely as I do, in the profits of our common enterprise.
I can but give an instance or so of what part is done sleeping and what part awake, and leave the reader to share what laurels109 there are, at his own nod, between myself and my collaborators; and to do this I will first take a book that a number of persons have been polite enough to read, the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I had long been trying to write a story on this subject, to find a body, a vehicle, for that strong sense of man’s double being which must at times come in upon and overwhelm the mind of every thinking creature. I had even written one, The Travelling Companion, which was returned by an editor on the plea that it was a work of genius and indecent, and which I burned the other day on the ground that it was not a work of genius, and that Jekyll had supplanted110 it. Then came one of those financial fluctuations111 to which (with an elegant modesty) I have hitherto referred in the third person. For two days I went about racking my brains for a plot of any sort; and on the second night I dreamed the scene at the window, and a scene afterward112 split in two, in which Hyde, pursued for some crime, took the powder and underwent the change in the presence of his pursuers. All the rest was made awake, and consciously, although I think I can trace in much of it the manner of my Brownies. The meaning of the tale is therefore mine, and had long pre-existed in my garden of Adonis, and tried one body after another in vain; indeed, I do most of the morality, worse luck! and my Brownies have not a rudiment113 of what we call a conscience. Mine, too, is the setting, mine the characters. All that was given me was the matter of three scenes, and the central idea of a voluntary change becoming involuntary. Will it be thought ungenerous, after I have been so liberally ladling out praise to my unseen collaborators, if I here toss them over, bound hand and foot, into the arena114 of the critics? For the business of the powders, which so many have censured115, is, I am relieved to say, not mine at all but the Brownies’. Of another tale, in case the reader should have glanced at it, I may say a word: the not very defensible story of Olalla. Here the court, the mother, the mother’s niche116, Olalla, Olalla’s chamber10, the meetings on the stair, the broken window, the ugly scene of the bite, were all given me in bulk and detail as I have tried to write them; to this I added only the external scenery (for in my dream I never was beyond the court), the portrait, the characters of Felipe and the priest, the moral, such as it is, and the last pages, such as, alas117! they are. And I may even say that in this case the moral itself was given me; for it arose immediately on a comparison of the mother and the daughter, and from the hideous118 trick of atavism in the first. Sometimes a parabolic sense is still more undeniably present in a dream; sometimes I cannot but suppose my Brownies have been aping Bunyan, and yet in no case with what would possibly be called a moral in a tract72; never with the ethical119 narrowness; conveying hints instead of life’s larger limitations and that sort of sense which we seem to perceive in the arabesque120 of time and space.
For the most part, it will be seen, my Brownies are somewhat fantastic, like their stories hot and hot, full of passion and the picturesque121, alive with animating122 incident; and they have no prejudice against the supernatural. But the other day they gave me a surprise, entertaining me with a love-story, a little April comedy, which I ought certainly to hand over to the author of A Chance Acquaintance, for he could write it as it should be written, and I am sure (although I mean to try) that I cannot.—But who would have supposed that a Brownie of mine should invent a tale for Mr. Howells?
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1
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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prosecutable
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| [法] 可提起公诉的 | |
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alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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revoke
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| v.废除，取消，撤回 | |
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conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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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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cant
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conspiracy
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malcontent
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| n.不满者，不平者；adj.抱不平的，不满的 | |
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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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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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parodies
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| n.拙劣的模仿( parody的名词复数 )；恶搞；滑稽的模仿诗文；表面上模仿得笨拙但充满了机智用来嘲弄别人作品的作品v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的第三人称单数 ) | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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39
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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40
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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41
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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42
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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43
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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44
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
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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46
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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47
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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48
crass
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| adj.愚钝的，粗糙的；彻底的 | |
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49
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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50
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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52
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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53
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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54
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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55
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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56
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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57
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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58
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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59
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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60
scatters
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| v.（使）散开， （使）分散，驱散( scatter的第三人称单数 )；撒 | |
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61
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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62
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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63
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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64
gland
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| n.腺体，(机)密封压盖，填料盖 | |
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65
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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66
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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67
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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68
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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70
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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71
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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72
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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73
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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74
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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75
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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76
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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77
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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78
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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79
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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80
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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81
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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82
marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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83
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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84
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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85
parqueted
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| v.镶木地板( parquet的过去式 )；（剧场的）正厅后排 | |
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86
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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87
protagonists
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| n.（戏剧的）主角( protagonist的名词复数 )；（故事的）主人公；现实事件（尤指冲突和争端的）主要参与者；领导者 | |
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88
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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89
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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90
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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91
substantive
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| adj.表示实在的；本质的、实质性的；独立的；n.实词，实名词；独立存在的实体 | |
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92
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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93
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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94
guileful
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| adj.狡诈的，诡计多端的 | |
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95
craftsmanship
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| n.手艺 | |
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96
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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97
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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98
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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99
serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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100
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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101
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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102
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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103
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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104
denizen
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| n.居民，外籍居民 | |
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105
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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106
collaborator
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| n.合作者，协作者 | |
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107
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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108
registration
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| n.登记，注册，挂号 | |
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109
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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110
supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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112
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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113
rudiment
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| n.初步；初级；基本原理 | |
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114
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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115
censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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116
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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117
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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118
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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119
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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120
arabesque
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰；adj.阿拉伯式图案的 | |
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121
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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122
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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