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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
It Can't Happen Here
by Sinclair Lewis
Chapter 31
As the open prison van approached the concentration camp at Trianon, the last light of afternoon caressed1 the thick birch and maples2 and poplars up the pyramid of Mount Faithful. But the grayness swiftly climbed the slope, and all the valley was left in cold shadow. In his seat the sick Doremus drooped3 again in listlessness.
The prim4 Georgian buildings of the girls' school which had been turned into a concentration camp at Trianon, nine miles north of Fort Beulah, had been worse used than Dartmouth, where whole buildings were reserved for the luxuries of the Corpos and their female cousins, all very snotty and parvenu5. The Trianon school seemed to have been gouged6 by a flood. Marble doorsteps had been taken away. (One of them now graced the residence of the wife of the Superintendent8, Mrs. Cowlick, a woman fat, irate9, jeweled, religious, and given to announcing that all opponents of the Chief were Communists and ought to be shot offhand10.) Windows were smashed. "Hurrah11 for the Chief" had been chalked on brick walls and other chalked words, each of four letters, had been rubbed out, not very thoroughly12. The lawns and hollyhock beds were a mess of weeds.
The buildings stood on three sides of a square; the fourth side and the gaps between buildings were closed with unpainted pine fences topped with strands13 of barbed wire.
Every room except the office of Captain Cowlick, the Superintendent (he was as near nothing at all as any man can be who has attained14 to such honors as being a captain in the Quartermaster Corps15 and the head of a prison) was smeared16 with filth17. His office was merely dreary18, and scented19 with whisky, not, like the other rooms, with ammonia.
Cowlick was not too ill-natured. He wished that the camp guards, all M.M.'s, would not treat the prisoners viciously, except when they tried to escape. But he was a mild man; much too mild to hurt the feelings of the M.M.'s and perhaps set up inhibitions in their psyches20 by interfering21 with their methods of discipline. The poor fellows probably meant well when they lashed22 noisy inmates23 for insisting they had committed no crime. And the good Cowlick saved Doremus's life for a while; let him lie for a month in the stuffy24 hospital and have actual beef in his daily beef stew25. The prison doctor, a decayed old drunkard who had had his medical training in the late 'eighties and who had been somewhat close to trouble in civil life for having performed too many abortions26, was also good-natured enough, when sober, and at last he permitted Doremus to have Dr. Marcus Olmsted in from Fort Beulah, and for the first time in four weeks Doremus had news, any news whatsoever27, of the world beyond prison.
Where in normal life it would have been agony to wait for one hour to know what might be happening to his friends, his family, now for one month he had not known whether they were alive or dead.
Dr. Olmsted--as guilty as Doremus himself of what the Corpos called treason--dared speak to him only a moment, because the prison doctor stayed in the hospital ward28 all the while, drooling over whip-scarred patients and daubing iodine29 more or less near their wounds. Olmsted sat on the edge of his cot, with its foul30 blankets, unwashed for months, and muttered rapidly:
"Quick! Listen! Don't talk! Mrs. Jessup and your two girls are all right--they're scared, but no signs of their being arrested. Hear Lorinda Pike is all right. Your grandson, David, looks fine--though I'm afraid he'll grow up a Corpo, like all the youngsters. Buck31 Titus is alive--at another concentration camp--the one near Woodstock. Our N.U. cell at Fort Beulah is doing what it can--no publishing, but we forward information--get a lot from Julian Falck--great joke: he's been promoted, M.M. Squad32-Leader now! Mary and Sissy and Father Perefixe keep distributing pamphlets from Boston; they help the Quinn boy (my driver) and me to forward refugees to Canada. . . . Yes, we carry on. . . . About like an oxygen tent for a patient that's dying of pneumonia33! . . . It hurts to see you looking like a ghost, Doremus. But you'll pull through. You've got pretty good nerves for a little cuss! That aged-in-the-keg prison doctor is looking this way. Bye!"
He was not permitted to see Dr. Olmsted again, but it was probably Olmsted's influence that got him, when he was dismissed from the hospital, still shaky but well enough to stumble about, a vastly desirable job as sweeper of cells and corridors, cleaner of lavatories34 and scrubber of toilets, instead of working in the woods gang, up Mount Faithful, where old men who sank under the weight of logs were said to be hammered to death by guards under the sadistic35 Ensign Stoyt, when Captain Cowlick wasn't looking. It was better, too, than the undesirable36 idleness of being disciplined in the "dog house" where you lay naked, in darkness, and where "bad cases" were reformed by being kept awake for forty-eight or even ninety-six hours. Doremus was a conscientious37 toilet-cleaner. He didn't like the work very much, but he had pride in being able to scrub as skillfully as any professional pearl-diver in a Greek lunch room, and satisfaction in lessening38 a little the wretchedness of his imprisoned39 comrades by giving them clean floors.
For, he told himself, they were his comrades. He saw that he, who had thought of himself as a capitalist because he could hire and fire, and because theoretically he "owned his business," had been as helpless as the most itinerant40 janitor41, once it seemed worth while to the Big Business which Corpoism represented to get rid of him. Yet he still told himself stoutly42 that he did not believe in a dictatorship of the proletariat any more than he believed in a dictatorship of the bankers and utility-owners; he still insisted that any doctor or preacher, though economically he might be as insecure as the humblest of his flock, who did not feel that he was a little better than they, and privileged to enjoy working a little harder, was a rotten doctor or a preacher without grace. He felt that he himself had been a better and more honorable reporter than Doc Itchitt, and a thundering sight better student of politics than most of his shopkeeper and farmer and factory-worker readers.
Yet bourgeois43 pride was so gone out of him that he was flattered, a little thrilled, when he was universally called "Doremus" and not "Mr. Jessup" by farmer and workman and truck-driver and plain hobo; when they thought enough of his courage under beating and his good-temper under being crowded with others in a narrow cell to regard him as almost as good as their own virile44 selves.
Karl Pascal mocked him. "I told you so, Doremus! You'll be a Communist yet!"
"Yes, maybe I will, Karl--after you Communists kick out all your false prophets and bellyachers and power drunkards, and all your press-agents for the Moscow subway."
"Well, all right, why don't you join Max Eastman? I hear he's escaped to Mexico and has a whole big pure Trotzkyite Communist party of seventeen members there!"
"Seventeen? Too many. What I want is mass action by just one member, alone on a hilltop. I'm a great optimist46, Karl. I still hope America may some day rise to the standards of Kit47 Carson!"
As sweeper and scrubber, Doremus had unusual chances for gossip with other prisoners. He chuckled48 when he thought of how many of his fellow criminals were acquaintances: Karl Pascal, Henry Veeder, his own cousin, Louis Rotenstern, who looked now like a corpse49, unforgettingly wounded in his old pride of having become a "real American," Clif Little, the jeweler, who was dying of consumption, Ben Tripper, who had been the jolliest workman in Medary Cole's gristmill, Professor Victor Loveland, of the defunct50 Isaiah College, and Raymond Pridewell, that old Tory who was still so contemptuous of flattery, so clean amid dirt, so hawk-eyed, that the guards were uncomfortable when they beat him. . . . Pascal, the Communist, Pridewell, the squirearchy Republican, and Henry Veeder, who had never cared a hang about politics, and who had recovered from the first shocks of imprisonment51, these three had become intimates, because they had more arrogance52 of utter courage than anyone else in the prison.
For home Doremus shared with five other men a cell twelve feet by ten and eight feet high, which a finishing-school girl had once considered outrageously53 confined for one lone45 young woman. Here they slept, in two tiers of three bunks55 each; here they ate, washed, played cards, read, and enjoyed the leisurely56 contemplation which, as Captain Cowlick preached to them every Sunday morning, was to reform their black souls and turn them into loyal Corpos.
None of them, certainly not Doremus, complained much. They got used to sleeping in a jelly of tobacco smoke and human stench, to eating stews57 that always left them nervously58 hungry, to having no more dignity or freedom than monkeys in a cage, as a man gets used to the indignity59 of having to endure cancer. Only it left in them a murderous hatred60 of their oppressors so that they, men of peace all of them, would gladly have hanged every Corpo, mild or vicious. Doremus understood John Brown much better.
His cell mates were Karl Pascal, Henry Veeder, and three men whom he had not known: a Boston architect, a farm hand, and a dope fiend who had once kept questionable61 restaurants. They had good talk--especially from the dope fiend, who placidly62 defended crime in a world where the only real crime had been poverty.
The worst torture to Doremus, aside from the agony of actual floggings, was the waiting.
The Waiting. It became a distinct, tangible63 thing, as individual and real as Bread or Water. How long would he be in? How long would he be in? Night and day, asleep and waking, he worried it, and by his bunk54 saw waiting the figure of Waiting, a gray, foul ghost.
Would Swan amuse himself by having Doremus taken out and shot? He could not care much, now; he could not picture it, any more than he could picture kissing Lorinda, walking through the woods with Buck, playing with David and Foolish, or anything less sensual than the ever derisive65 visions of roast beef with gravy66, of a hot bath, last and richest of luxuries where their only way of washing, except for a fortnightly shower, was with a dirty shirt dipped in the one basin of cold water for six men.
Besides Waiting, one other ghost hung about them--the notion of Escaping. It was of that (far more than of the beastliness and idiocy67 of the Corpos) that they whispered in the cell at night. When to escape. How to escape. To sneak68 off through the bushes when they were out with the woods gang? By some magic to cut through the bars on their cell window and drop out and blessedly not be seen by the patrols? To manage to hang on underneath69 one of the prison trucks and be driven away? (A childish fantasy!) They longed for escape as hysterically70 and as often as a politician longs for votes. But they had to discuss it cautiously, for there were stool pigeons all over the prison.
This was hard for Doremus to believe. He could not understand a man's betraying his companions, and he did not believe it till, two months after Doremus had gone to concentration camp, Clifford Little betrayed to the guards Henry Veeder's plan to escape in a hay wagon71. Henry was properly dealt with. Little was released. And Doremus, it may be, suffered over it nearly as much as either of them, sturdily though he tried to argue that Little had tuberculosis72 and that the often beatings had bled out his soul.
Each prisoner was permitted one visitor a fortnight and, in sequence, Doremus saw Emma, Mary, Sissy, David. But always an M.M. was standing73 two feet away, listening, and Doremus had from them nothing more than a fluttering, "We're all fine--we hear Buck is all right--we hear Lorinda is doing fine in her new tea room--Philip writes he is all right." And once came Philip himself, his pompous74 son, more pompous than ever now as a Corpo judge, and very hurt about his father's insane radicalism--considerably more hurt when Doremus tartly76 observed that he would much rather have had the dog Foolish for visitor.
And there were letters--all censored--worse than useless to a man who had been so glad to hear the living voices of his friends.
In the long run, these frustrate77 visits, these empty letters, made his waiting the more dismal78, because they suggested that perhaps he was wrong in his nightly visions; perhaps the world outside was not so loving and eager and adventurous79 as he remembered it, but only dreary as his cell.
He had little known Karl Pascal, yet now the argumentative Marxian was his nearest friend, his one amusing consolation80. Karl could and did prove that the trouble with leaky valves, sour cow pastures, the teaching of calculus81, and all novels was their failure to be guided by the writings of Lenin.
In his new friendship, Doremus was old-maidishly agitated82 lest Karl be taken out and shot, the recognition usually given to Communists. He discovered that he need not worry. Karl had been in jail before. He was the trained agitator83 for whom Doremus had longed in New Underground days. He had ferreted out so many scandals about the financial and sexual shenanigans of every one of the guards that they were afraid that even while he was being shot, he might tattle to the firing-squad. They were much more anxious for his good opinion than for that of Captain Cowlick, and they timidly brought him little presents of chewing tobacco and Canadian newspapers, as though they were schoolchildren honeying up to teacher.
When Aras Dilley was transferred from night patrols in Fort Beulah to the position of guard at Trianon--a reward for having given to Shad Ledue certain information about R. C. Crowley which cost that banker hundreds of dollars--Aras, that slinker, that able snooper, jumped at the sight of Karl and began to look pious84 and kind. He had known Karl before!
Despite the presence of Stoyt, Ensign of guards, an ex-cashier who had once enjoyed shooting dogs and who now, in the blessed escape of Corpoism, enjoyed lashing85 human beings, the camp at Trianon was not so cruel as the district prison at Hanover. But from the dirty window of his cell Doremus saw horrors enough.
One mid-morning, a radiant September morning with the air already savoring86 the peace of autumn, he saw the firing-squad marching out his cousin, Henry Veeder, who had recently tried to escape. Henry had been a granite87 monolith of a man. He had walked like a soldier. He had, in his cell, been proud of shaving every morning, as once he had done, with a tin basin of water heated on the stove, in the kitchen of his old white house up on Mount Terror. Now he stooped, and toward death he walked with dragging feet. His face of a Roman senator was smeared from the cow dung into which they had flung him for his last slumber88.
As they tramped out through the quadrangle gate, Ensign Stoyt, commanding the squad, halted Henry, laughed at him, and calmly kicked him in the groin.
They lifted him up. Three minutes later Doremus heard a ripple89 of shots. Three minutes after that the squad came back bearing on an old door a twisted clay figure with vacant open eyes. Then Doremus cried aloud. As the bearers slanted90 the stretcher, the figure rolled to the ground.
But one thing worse he was to see through the accursed window. The guards drove in, as new prisoners, Julian Falck, in torn uniform, and Julian's grandfather, so fragile, so silvery, so bewildered and terrified in his muddied clericals.
He saw them kicked across the quadrangle into a building once devoted91 to instruction in dancing and the more delicate airs for the piano; devoted now to the torture room and the solitary92 cells.
Not for two weeks, two weeks of waiting that was like ceaseless ache, did he have a chance, at exercise hour, to speak for a moment to Julian, who muttered, "They caught me writing some inside dope about M.M. graft93. It was to have gone to Sissy. Thank God, nothing on it to show who it was for!" Julian had passed on. But Doremus had had time to see that his eyes were hopeless, and that his neat, smallish, clerical face was blue-black with bruises94.
The administration (or so Doremus guessed) decided95 that Julian, the first spy among the M.M.'s who had been caught in the Fort Beulah region, was too good a subject of sport to be wastefully96 shot at once. He should be kept for an example. Often Doremus saw the guards kick him across the quadrangle to the whipping room and imagined that he could hear Julian's shrieks97 afterward98. He wasn't even kept in a punishment cell, but in an open barred den7 on an ordinary corridor, so that passing inmates could peep in and see him, welts across his naked back, huddled99 on the floor, whimpering like a beaten dog.
And Doremus had sight of Julian's grandfather sneaking100 across the quadrangle, stealing a soggy hunk of bread from a garbage can, and fiercely chewing at it.
All through September Doremus worried lest Sissy, with Julian now gone from Fort Beulah, be raped101 by Shad Ledue. . . . Shad would leer the while, and gloat over his ascent102 from hired man to irresistible103 master.
Despite his anguish104 over the Falcks and Henry Veeder and every uncouthest comrade in prison, Doremus was almost recovered from his beatings by late September. He began delightedly to believe that he would live for another ten years; was slightly ashamed of his delight, in the presence of so much agony, but he felt like a young man and--And straightway Ensign Stoyt was there (two or three o'clock at night it must have been), yanking Doremus out of his bunk, pulling him to his feet, knocking him down again with so violent a crack in his mouth that Doremus instantly sank again into all his trembling fear, all his inhuman105 groveling.
He was dragged into Captain Cowlick's office.
The Captain was courtly:
"Mr. Jessup, we have information that you were connected with Squad-Leader Julian Falck's treachery. He has, uh, well, to be frank, he's broken down and confessed. Now you yourself are in no danger, no danger whatever, of further punishment, if you will just help us. But we really must make a warning of young Mr. Falck, and so if you will tell us all you know about the boy's shocking infidelity to the colors, we shall hold it in your favor. How would you like to have a nice bedroom to sleep in, all by yourself?"
A quarter hour later Doremus was still swearing that he knew nothing whatever of any "subversive106 activities" on the part of Julian.
Captain Cowlick said, rather testily107, "Well, since you refuse to respond to our generosity108, I must leave you to Ensign Stoyt, I'm afraid. . . . Be gentle with him, Ensign."
"Yessr," said the Ensign.
The Captain wearily trotted109 out of the room and Stoyt did indeed speak with gentleness, which was a surprise to Doremus, because in the room were two of the guards to whom Stoyt liked to show off:
"Jessup, you're a man of intelligence. No use your trying to protect this boy, Falck, because we've got enough on him to execute him anyway. So it won't be hurting him any if you give us a few more details about his treason. And you'll be doing yourself a good turn."
Doremus said nothing.
"Going to talk?"
Doremus shook his head.
"All right, then. . . . Tillett!"
"Yessr."
Doremus expected the guard to fetch Julian, but it was Julian's grandfather who wavered into the room. In the camp quadrangle Doremus had often seen him trying to preserve the dignity of his frock coat by rubbing at the spots with a wet rag, but in the cells there were no hooks for clothes, and the priestly garment--Mr. Falck was a poor man and it had not been very expensive at best--was grotesquely111 wrinkled now. He was blinking with sleepiness, and his silver hair was a hurrah's nest.
Stoyt (he was thirty or so) said cheerfully to the two elders, "Well, now, you boys better stop being naughty and try to get some sense into your mildewed112 old brains, and then we can all have some decent sleep. Why don't you two try to be honest, now that you've each confessed that the other was a traitor113?"
"What?" marveled Doremus.
"Sure! Old Falck here says you carried his grandson's pieces to the Vermont Vigilance. Come on, now, if you'll tell us who published that rag--"
"I have confessed nothing. I have nothing to confess," said Mr. Falck.
Stoyt screamed, "Will you shut up? You old hypocrite!" Stoyt knocked him to the floor, and as Mr. Falck weaved dizzily on hands and knees, kicked him in the side with a heavy boot. The other two guards were holding back the sputtering114 Doremus. Stoyt jeered115 at Mr. Falck, "Well, you old bastard116, you're on your knees, so let's hear you pray!"
"I shall!"
In agony Mr. Falck raised his head, dust-smeared from the floor, straightened his shoulders, held up trembling hands, and with such sweetness in his voice as Doremus had once heard in it when men were human, he cried, "Father, Thou hast forgiven so long! Forgive them not but curse them, for they know what they do!" He tumbled forward, and Doremus knew that he would never hear that voice again.
In La Voix littéraire of Paris, the celebrated117 and genial118 professor of belles-lettres, Guillaume Semit, wrote with his accustomed sympathy:
I do not pretend to any knowledge of politics, and probably what I saw on my fourth journey to the States United this summer of 1938 was mostly on the surface and cannot be considered a profound analysis of the effects of Corpoism, but I assure you that I have never before seen that nation so great, our young and gigantic cousin in the West, in such bounding health and good spirits. I leave it to my economic confrères to explain such dull phenomena119 as wage-scales, and tell only what I saw, which is that the innumerable parades and vast athletic120 conferences of the Minute Men and the lads and lassies of the Corpo Youth Movement exhibited such rosy121, contented122 faces, such undeviating enthusiasm for their hero, the Chief, M. Windrip, that involuntarily I exclaimed, "Here is a whole nation dipped in the River of Youth."
Everywhere in the country was such feverish123 rebuilding of public edifices124 and apartment houses for the poor as has never hitherto been known. In Washington, my old colleague, M. le Secretary Macgoblin, was so good as to cry, in that virile yet cultivated manner of his which is so well known, "Our enemies maintain that our labor125 camps are virtual slavery. Come, my old one! You shall see for yourself." He conducted me by one of the marvelously speedy American automobiles126 to such a camp, near Washington, and having the workers assembled, he put to them frankly127: "Are you low in the heart?" As one man they chorused, "No," with a spirit like our own brave soldiers on the ramparts of Verdun.
During the full hour we spent there, I was permitted to roam at will, asking such questions as I cared to, through the offices of the interpreter kindly128 furnished by His Excellency, M. le Dr. Macgoblin, and every worker whom I thus approached assured me that never has he been so well fed, so tenderly treated, and so assisted to find an almost poetic129 interest in his chosen work as in this labor camp--this scientific cooperation for the well-being130 of all.
With a certain temerity131 I ventured to demand of M. Macgoblin what truth was there in the reports so shamefully132 circulated (especially, alas133, in our beloved France) that in the concentration camps the opponents of Corpoism are ill fed and harshly treated. M. Macgoblin explained to me that there are no such things as "concentration camps," if that term is to carry any penological significance. They are, actually, schools, in which adults who have unfortunately been misled by the glib134 prophets of that milk-and-water religion, "Liberalism," are reconditioned to comprehend the new day of authoritative135 economic control. In such camps, he assured me, there are actually no guards, but only patient teachers, and men who were once utterly136 uncomprehending of Corpoism, and therefore opposed to it, are now daily going forth137 as the most enthusiastic disciples138 of the Chief.
Alas that France and Great Britain should still be thrashing about in the slough139 of Parliamentarianism and so-called Democracy, daily sinking deeper into debt and paralysis140 of industry, because of the cowardice141 and traditionalism of our Liberal leaders, feeble and outmoded men who are afraid to plump for either Fascism or Communism; who dare not--or who are too power hungry--to cast off outmoded techniques, like the Germans, Americans, Italians, Turks, and other really courageous142 peoples, and place the sane75 and scientific control of the all-powerful Totalitarian State in the hands of Men of Resolution!
In October, John Pollikop, arrested on suspicion of having just possibly helped a refugee to escape, arrived in the Trianon camp, and the first words between him and his friend Karl Pascal were no inquiries143 about health, but a derisive interchange, as though they were continuing a conversation broken only half an hour before:
"Well, you old Bolshevik, I told you so! If you Communists had joined with me and Norman Thomas to back Frank Roosevelt, we wouldn't be here now!"
"Rats! Why, it's Thomas and Roosevelt that started Fascism! I ask you! Now shut up, John, and listen: What was the New Deal but pure Fascism? Whadthey do to the worker? Look here! No, wait now, listen--"
Doremus felt at home again, and comforted--though he did also feel that Foolish probably had more constructive144 economic wisdom than John Pollikop, Karl Pascal, Herbert Hoover, Buzz Windrip, Lee Sarason, and himself put together; or if not, Foolish had the sense to conceal145 his lack of wisdom by pretending that he could not speak English.
Shad Ledue, back in his hotel suite146, reflected that he was getting a dirty deal. He had been responsible for sending more traitors147 to concentration camps than any other county commissioner148 in the province, yet he had not been promoted.
It was late; he was just back from a dinner given by Francis Tasbrough in honor of Provincial149 Commissioner Swan and a board consisting of Judge Philip Jessup, Director of Education Owen J. Peaseley, and Brigadier Kippersly, who were investigating the ability of Vermont to pay more taxes.
Shad felt discontented. All those damned snobs151 trying to show off! Talking at dinner about this bum152 show in New York--this first Corpo revue, Callin' Stalin, written by Lee Sarason and Hector Macgoblin. How those nuts had put on the agony about "Corpo art," and "drama freed from Jewish suggestiveness" and "the pure line of Anglo-Saxon sculpture" and even, by God, about "Corporate153 physics"! Simply trying to show off! And they had paid no attention to Shad when he had told his funny story about the stuck-up preacher in Fort Beulah, one Falck, who had been so jealous because the M.M.'s drilled on Sunday morning instead of going to his gospel shop that he had tried to get his grandson to make up lies about the M.M.'s, and whom Shad had amusingly arrested right in his own church! Not paid one bit of attention to him, even though he had carefully read all through the Chief's Zero Hour so he could quote it, and though he had been careful to be refined in his table manners and to stick out his little finger when he drank from a glass.
He was lonely.
The fellows he had once best known, in pool room and barber shop, seemed frightened of him, now, and the dirty snobs like Tasbrough still ignored him.
He was lonely for Sissy Jessup.
Since her dad had been sent to Trianon, Shad didn't seem able to get her to come around to his rooms, even though he was the County Commissioner and she was nothing now but the busted154 daughter of a criminal.
And he was crazy about her. Why, he'd be almost willing to marry her, if he couldn't get her any other way! But when he had hinted as much--or almost as much--she had just laughed at him, the dirty little snob150!
He had thought, when he was a hired man, that there was a lot more fun in being rich and famous. He didn't feel one bit different than he had then! Funny!
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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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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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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parvenu
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| n.暴发户，新贵 | |
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gouged
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| v.凿( gouge的过去式和过去分词 )；乱要价；（在…中）抠出…；挖出… | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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offhand
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hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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20
psyches
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| n.灵魂，心灵( psyche的名词复数 ) | |
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21
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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22
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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23
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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24
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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25
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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26
abortions
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| n.小产( abortion的名词复数 )；小产胎儿；（计划）等中止或夭折；败育 | |
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27
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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28
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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29
iodine
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| n.碘，碘酒 | |
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30
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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31
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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32
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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33
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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34
lavatories
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| n.厕所( lavatory的名词复数 )；抽水马桶；公共厕所（或卫生间、洗手间、盥洗室）；浴室水池 | |
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35
sadistic
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| adj.虐待狂的 | |
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36
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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37
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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38
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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39
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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41
janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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42
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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43
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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44
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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45
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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46
optimist
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| n.乐观的人，乐观主义者 | |
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47
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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48
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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50
defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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51
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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52
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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53
outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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54
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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55
bunks
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| n.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的名词复数 )；空话，废话v.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的第三人称单数 )；空话，废话 | |
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56
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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57
stews
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| n.炖煮的菜肴( stew的名词复数 )；烦恼，焦虑v.炖( stew的第三人称单数 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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58
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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59
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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60
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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61
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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62
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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63
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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64
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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65
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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66
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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67
idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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68
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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69
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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70
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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71
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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72
tuberculosis
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| n.结核病，肺结核 | |
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73
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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74
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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75
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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76
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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77
frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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78
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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79
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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80
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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81
calculus
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| n.微积分；结石 | |
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82
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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83
agitator
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| n.鼓动者；搅拌器 | |
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84
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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85
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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86
savoring
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的现在分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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87
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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88
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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89
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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90
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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91
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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92
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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93
graft
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| n.移植，嫁接，艰苦工作，贪污；v.移植，嫁接 | |
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94
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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95
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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96
wastefully
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| 浪费地，挥霍地，耗费地 | |
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97
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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98
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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99
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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100
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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101
raped
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| v.以暴力夺取，强夺( rape的过去式和过去分词 )；强奸 | |
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102
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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103
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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104
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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105
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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106
subversive
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| adj.颠覆性的，破坏性的；n.破坏份子，危险份子 | |
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107
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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108
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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109
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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110
squealed
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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112
mildewed
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| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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114
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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115
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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117
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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118
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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119
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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120
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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121
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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122
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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123
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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124
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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125
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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126
automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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127
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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128
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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129
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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130
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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131
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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132
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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133
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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134
glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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135
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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136
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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137
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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138
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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139
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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140
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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141
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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142
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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143
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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144
constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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145
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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146
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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147
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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148
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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149
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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150
snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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151
snobs
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| （谄上傲下的）势利小人( snob的名词复数 )； 自高自大者，自命不凡者 | |
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152
bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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153
corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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154
busted
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| adj. 破产了的，失败了的，被降级的，被逮捕的，被抓到的 动词bust的过去式和过去分词 | |
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