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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
Chapter VI
He spent that evening till ten o’clock going from one low haunt to another. Katia too turned up and sang another gutter1 song, how a certain “villain and tyrant”
“began kissing Katia.”
Svidrigaïlov treated Katia and the organ-grinder and some singers and the waiters and two little clerks. He was particularly drawn2 to these clerks by the fact that they both had crooked3 noses, one bent4 to the left and the other to the right. They took him finally to a pleasure garden, where he paid for their entrance. There was one lanky5 three-year-old pine-tree and three bushes in the garden, besides a “Vauxhall,” which was in reality a drinking-bar where tea too was served, and there were a few green tables and chairs standing6 round it. A chorus of wretched singers and a drunken but exceedingly depressed7 German clown from Munich with a red nose entertained the public. The clerks quarrelled with some other clerks and a fight seemed imminent8. Svidrigaïlov was chosen to decide the dispute. He listened to them for a quarter of an hour, but they shouted so loud that there was no possibility of understanding them. The only fact that seemed certain was that one of them had stolen something and had even succeeded in selling it on the spot to a Jew, but would not share the spoil with his companion. Finally it appeared that the stolen object was a teaspoon9 belonging to the Vauxhall. It was missed and the affair began to seem troublesome. Svidrigaïlov paid for the spoon, got up, and walked out of the garden. It was about six o’clock. He had not drunk a drop of wine all this time and had ordered tea more for the sake of appearances than anything.
It was a dark and stifling11 evening. Threatening storm-clouds came over the sky about ten o’clock. There was a clap of thunder, and the rain came down like a waterfall. The water fell not in drops, but beat on the earth in streams. There were flashes of lightning every minute and each flash lasted while one could count five.
Drenched12 to the skin, he went home, locked himself in, opened the bureau, took out all his money and tore up two or three papers. Then, putting the money in his pocket, he was about to change his clothes, but, looking out of the window and listening to the thunder and the rain, he gave up the idea, took up his hat and went out of the room without locking the door. He went straight to Sonia. She was at home.
She was not alone: the four Kapernaumov children were with her. She was giving them tea. She received Svidrigaïlov in respectful silence, looking wonderingly at his soaking clothes. The children all ran away at once in indescribable terror.
Svidrigaïlov sat down at the table and asked Sonia to sit beside him. She timidly prepared to listen.
“I may be going to America, Sofya Semyonovna,” said Svidrigaïlov, “and as I am probably seeing you for the last time, I have come to make some arrangements. Well, did you see the lady to-day? I know what she said to you, you need not tell me.” (Sonia made a movement and blushed.) “Those people have their own way of doing things. As to your sisters and your brother, they are really provided for and the money assigned to them I’ve put into safe keeping and have received acknowledgments. You had better take charge of the receipts, in case anything happens. Here, take them! Well now, that’s settled. Here are three 5-per-cent bonds to the value of three thousand roubles. Take those for yourself, entirely13 for yourself, and let that be strictly14 between ourselves, so that no one knows of it, whatever you hear. You will need the money, for to go on living in the old way, Sofya Semyonovna, is bad, and besides there is no need for it now.”
“I am so much indebted to you, and so are the children and my stepmother,” said Sonia hurriedly, “and if I’ve said so little . . . please don’t consider . . .”
“That’s enough! that’s enough!”
“But as for the money, Arkady Ivanovitch, I am very grateful to you, but I don’t need it now. I can always earn my own living. Don’t think me ungrateful. If you are so charitable, that money . . . .”
“It’s for you, for you, Sofya Semyonovna, and please don’t waste words over it. I haven’t time for it. You will want it. Rodion Romanovitch has two alternatives: a bullet in the brain or Siberia.” (Sonia looked wildly at him, and started.) “Don’t be uneasy, I know all about it from himself and I am not a gossip; I won’t tell anyone. It was good advice when you told him to give himself up and confess. It would be much better for him. Well, if it turns out to be Siberia, he will go and you will follow him. That’s so, isn’t it? And if so, you’ll need money. You’ll need it for him, do you understand? Giving it to you is the same as my giving it to him. Besides, you promised Amalia Ivanovna to pay what’s owing. I heard you. How can you undertake such obligations so heedlessly, Sofya Semyonovna? It was Katerina Ivanovna’s debt and not yours, so you ought not to have taken any notice of the German woman. You can’t get through the world like that. If you are ever questioned about me — to-morrow or the day after you will be asked — don’t say anything about my coming to see you now and don’t show the money to anyone or say a word about it. Well, now good-bye.” (He got up.) “My greetings to Rodion Romanovitch. By the way, you’d better put the money for the present in Mr. Razumihin’s keeping. You know Mr. Razumihin? Of course you do. He’s not a bad fellow. Take it to him to-morrow or . . . when the time comes. And till then, hide it carefully.”
Sonia too jumped up from her chair and looked in dismay at Svidrigaïlov. She longed to speak, to ask a question, but for the first moments she did not dare and did not know how to begin.
“How can you . . . how can you be going now, in such rain?”
“Why, be starting for America, and be stopped by rain! Ha, ha! Good-bye, Sofya Semyonovna, my dear! Live and live long, you will be of use to others. By the way . . . tell Mr. Razumihin I send my greetings to him. Tell him Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov sends his greetings. Be sure to.”
He went out, leaving Sonia in a state of wondering anxiety and vague apprehension15.
It appeared afterwards that on the same evening, at twenty past eleven, he made another very eccentric and unexpected visit. The rain still persisted. Drenched to the skin, he walked into the little flat where the parents of his betrothed16 lived, in Third Street in Vassilyevsky Island. He knocked some time before he was admitted, and his visit at first caused great perturbation; but Svidrigaïlov could be very fascinating when he liked, so that the first, and indeed very intelligent surmise17 of the sensible parents that Svidrigaïlov had probably had so much to drink that he did not know what he was doing vanished immediately. The decrepit19 father was wheeled in to see Svidrigaïlov by the tender and sensible mother, who as usual began the conversation with various irrelevant20 questions. She never asked a direct question, but began by smiling and rubbing her hands and then, if she were obliged to ascertain21 something — for instance, when Svidrigaïlov would like to have the wedding — she would begin by interested and almost eager questions about Paris and the court life there, and only by degrees brought the conversation round to Third Street. On other occasions this had of course been very impressive, but this time Arkady Ivanovitch seemed particularly impatient, and insisted on seeing his betrothed at once, though he had been informed, to begin with, that she had already gone to bed. The girl of course appeared.
Svidrigaïlov informed her at once that he was obliged by very important affairs to leave Petersburg for a time, and therefore brought her fifteen thousand roubles and begged her accept them as a present from him, as he had long been intending to make her this trifling22 present before their wedding. The logical connection of the present with his immediate18 departure and the absolute necessity of visiting them for that purpose in pouring rain at midnight was not made clear. But it all went off very well; even the inevitable23 ejaculations of wonder and regret, the inevitable questions were extraordinarily24 few and restrained. On the other hand, the gratitude25 expressed was most glowing and was reinforced by tears from the most sensible of mothers. Svidrigaïlov got up, laughed, kissed his betrothed, patted her cheek, declared he would soon come back, and noticing in her eyes, together with childish curiosity, a sort of earnest dumb inquiry26, reflected and kissed her again, though he felt sincere anger inwardly at the thought that his present would be immediately locked up in the keeping of the most sensible of mothers. He went away, leaving them all in a state of extraordinary excitement, but the tender mamma, speaking quietly in a half whisper, settled some of the most important of their doubts, concluding that Svidrigaïlov was a great man, a man of great affairs and connections and of great wealth — there was no knowing what he had in his mind. He would start off on a journey and give away money just as the fancy took him, so that there was nothing surprising about it. Of course it was strange that he was wet through, but Englishmen, for instance, are even more eccentric, and all these people of high society didn’t think of what was said of them and didn’t stand on ceremony. Possibly, indeed, he came like that on purpose to show that he was not afraid of anyone. Above all, not a word should be said about it, for God knows what might come of it, and the money must be locked up, and it was most fortunate that Fedosya, the cook, had not left the kitchen. And above all not a word must be said to that old cat, Madame Resslich, and so on and so on. They sat up whispering till two o’clock, but the girl went to bed much earlier, amazed and rather sorrowful.
Svidrigaïlov meanwhile, exactly at midnight, crossed the bridge on the way back to the mainland. The rain had ceased and there was a roaring wind. He began shivering, and for one moment he gazed at the black waters of the Little Neva with a look of special interest, even inquiry. But he soon felt it very cold, standing by the water; he turned and went towards Y. Prospect27. He walked along that endless street for a long time, almost half an hour, more than once stumbling in the dark on the wooden pavement, but continually looking for something on the right side of the street. He had noticed passing through this street lately that there was a hotel somewhere towards the end, built of wood, but fairly large, and its name he remembered was something like Adrianople. He was not mistaken: the hotel was so conspicuous28 in that God-forsaken place that he could not fail to see it even in the dark. It was a long, blackened wooden building, and in spite of the late hour there were lights in the windows and signs of life within. He went in and asked a ragged29 fellow who met him in the corridor for a room. The latter, scanning Svidrigaïlov, pulled himself together and led him at once to a close and tiny room in the distance, at the end of the corridor, under the stairs. There was no other, all were occupied. The ragged fellow looked inquiringly.
“Is there tea?” asked Svidrigaïlov.
“Yes, sir.”
“What else is there?”
“Bring me tea and veal.”
“And you want nothing else?” he asked with apparent surprise.
“Nothing, nothing.”
The ragged man went away, completely disillusioned31.
“It must be a nice place,” thought Svidrigaïlov. “How was it I didn’t know it? I expect I look as if I came from a café chantant and have had some adventure on the way. It would be interesting to know who stay here?”
He lighted the candle and looked at the room more carefully. It was a room so low-pitched that Svidrigaïlov could only just stand up in it; it had one window; the bed, which was very dirty, and the plain-stained chair and table almost filled it up. The walls looked as though they were made of planks32, covered with shabby paper, so torn and dusty that the pattern was indistinguishable, though the general colour — yellow — could still be made out. One of the walls was cut short by the sloping ceiling, though the room was not an attic33 but just under the stairs.
Svidrigaïlov set down the candle, sat down on the bed and sank into thought. But a strange persistent34 murmur35 which sometimes rose to a shout in the next room attracted his attention. The murmur had not ceased from the moment he entered the room. He listened: someone was upbraiding36 and almost tearfully scolding, but he heard only one voice.
Svidrigaïlov got up, shaded the light with his hand and at once he saw light through a crack in the wall; he went up and peeped through. The room, which was somewhat larger than his, had two occupants. One of them, a very curly-headed man with a red inflamed37 face, was standing in the pose of an orator38, without his coat, with his legs wide apart to preserve his balance, and smiting39 himself on the breast. He reproached the other with being a beggar, with having no standing whatever. He declared that he had taken the other out of the gutter and he could turn him out when he liked, and that only the finger of Providence40 sees it all. The object of his reproaches was sitting in a chair, and had the air of a man who wants dreadfully to sneeze, but can’t. He sometimes turned sheepish and befogged eyes on the speaker, but obviously had not the slightest idea what he was talking about and scarcely heard it. A candle was burning down on the table; there were wine-glasses, a nearly empty bottle of vodka, bread and cucumber, and glasses with the dregs of stale tea. After gazing attentively41 at this, Svidrigaïlov turned away indifferently and sat down on the bed.
The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not resist asking him again whether he didn’t want anything more, and again receiving a negative reply, finally withdrew. Svidrigaïlov made haste to drink a glass of tea to warm himself, but could not eat anything. He began to feel feverish42. He took off his coat and, wrapping himself in the blanket, lay down on the bed. He was annoyed. “It would have been better to be well for the occasion,” he thought with a smile. The room was close, the candle burnt dimly, the wind was roaring outside, he heard a mouse scratching in the corner and the room smelt43 of mice and of leather. He lay in a sort of reverie: one thought followed another. He felt a longing10 to fix his imagination on something. “It must be a garden under the window,” he thought. “There’s a sound of trees. How I dislike the sound of trees on a stormy night, in the dark! They give one a horrid44 feeling.” He remembered how he had disliked it when he passed Petrovsky Park just now. This reminded him of the bridge over the Little Neva and he felt cold again as he had when standing there. “I never have liked water,” he thought, “even in a landscape,” and he suddenly smiled again at a strange idea: “Surely now all these questions of taste and comfort ought not to matter, but I’ve become more particular, like an animal that picks out a special place . . . for such an occasion. I ought to have gone into the Petrovsky Park! I suppose it seemed dark, cold, ha-ha! As though I were seeking pleasant sensations! . . . By the way, why haven’t I put out the candle?” he blew it out. “They’ve gone to bed next door,” he thought, not seeing the light at the crack. “Well, now, Marfa Petrovna, now is the time for you to turn up; it’s dark, and the very time and place for you. But now you won’t come!”
He suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out his design on Dounia, he had recommended Raskolnikov to trust her to Razumihin’s keeping. “I suppose I really did say it, as Raskolnikov guessed, to tease myself. But what a rogue45 that Raskolnikov is! He’s gone through a good deal. He may be a successful rogue in time when he’s got over his nonsense. But now he’s too eager for life. These young men are contemptible46 on that point. But, hang the fellow! Let him please himself, it’s nothing to do with me.”
He could not get to sleep. By degrees Dounia’s image rose before him, and a shudder47 ran over him. “No, I must give up all that now,” he thought, rousing himself. “I must think of something else. It’s queer and funny. I never had a great hatred48 for anyone, I never particularly desired to avenge49 myself even, and that’s a bad sign, a bad sign, a bad sign. I never liked quarrelling either, and never lost my temper — that’s a bad sign too. And the promises I made her just now, too — Damnation! But — who knows? — perhaps she would have made a new man of me somehow . . . .”
He ground his teeth and sank into silence again. Again Dounia’s image rose before him, just as she was when, after shooting the first time, she had lowered the revolver in terror and gazed blankly at him, so that he might have seized her twice over and she would not have lifted a hand to defend herself if he had not reminded her. He recalled how at that instant he felt almost sorry for her, how he had felt a pang50 at his heart . . .
“Aïe! Damnation, these thoughts again! I must put it away!”
He was dozing51 off; the feverish shiver had ceased, when suddenly something seemed to run over his arm and leg under the bedclothes. He started. “Ugh! hang it! I believe it’s a mouse,” he thought, “that’s the veal I left on the table.” He felt fearfully disinclined to pull off the blanket, get up, get cold, but all at once something unpleasant ran over his leg again. He pulled off the blanket and lighted the candle. Shaking with feverish chill he bent down to examine the bed: there was nothing. He shook the blanket and suddenly a mouse jumped out on the sheet. He tried to catch it, but the mouse ran to and fro in zigzags52 without leaving the bed, slipped between his fingers, ran over his hand and suddenly darted54 under the pillow. He threw down the pillow, but in one instant felt something leap on his chest and dart53 over his body and down his back under his shirt. He trembled nervously55 and woke up.
The room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped up in the blanket as before. The wind was howling under the window. “How disgusting,” he thought with annoyance56.
He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the window. “It’s better not to sleep at all,” he decided57. There was a cold damp draught58 from the window, however; without getting up he drew the blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of anything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another, incoherent scraps59 of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He sank into drowsiness60. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the trees roused a sort of persistent craving61 for the fantastic. He kept dwelling62 on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday — Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous63 country cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant64 flowers, with flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere — at the windows, the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself — were flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The birds were chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud65, stood a coffin66. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom67, as though carved out of marble. But her loose fair hair was wet; there was a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid68 profile of her face looked as though chiselled69 of marble too, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery70 and sorrowful appeal. Svidrigaïlov knew that girl; there was no holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin; no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself. She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyed herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled71 and amazed that childish soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and torn from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally72 disregarded, on a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled . . . .
Svidrigaïlov came to himself, got up from the bed and went to the window. He felt for the latch73 and opened it. The wind lashed74 furiously into the little room and stung his face and his chest, only covered with his shirt, as though with frost. Under the window there must have been something like a garden, and apparently75 a pleasure garden. There, too, probably there were tea-tables and singing in the daytime. Now drops of rain flew in at the window from the trees and bushes; it was dark as in a cellar, so that he could only just make out some dark blurs76 of objects. Svidrigaïlov, bending down with elbows on the window-sill, gazed for five minutes into the darkness; the boom of a cannon77, followed by a second one, resounded78 in the darkness of the night. “Ah, the signal! The river is overflowing,” he thought. “By morning it will be swirling79 down the street in the lower parts, flooding the basements and cellars. The cellar rats will swim out, and men will curse in the rain and wind as they drag their rubbish to their upper storeys. What time is it now?” And he had hardly thought it when, somewhere near, a clock on the wall, ticking away hurriedly, struck three.
“Aha! It will be light in an hour! Why wait? I’ll go out at once straight to the park. I’ll choose a great bush there drenched with rain, so that as soon as one’s shoulder touches it, millions of drops drip on one’s head.”
He moved away from the window, shut it, lighted the candle, put on his waistcoat, his overcoat and his hat and went out, carrying the candle, into the passage to look for the ragged attendant who would be asleep somewhere in the midst of candle-ends and all sorts of rubbish, to pay him for the room and leave the hotel. “It’s the best minute; I couldn’t choose a better.”
He walked for some time through a long narrow corridor without finding anyone and was just going to call out, when suddenly in a dark corner between an old cupboard and the door he caught sight of a strange object which seemed to be alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a little girl, not more than five years old, shivering and crying, with her clothes as wet as a soaking house-flannel. She did not seem afraid of Svidrigaïlov, but looked at him with blank amazement80 out of her big black eyes. Now and then she sobbed81 as children do when they have been crying a long time, but are beginning to be comforted. The child’s face was pale and tired, she was numb82 with cold. “How can she have come here? She must have hidden here and not slept all night.” He began questioning her. The child suddenly becoming animated83, chattered84 away in her baby language, something about “mammy” and that “mammy would beat her,” and about some cup that she had “bwoken.” The child chattered on without stopping. He could only guess from what she said that she was a neglected child, whose mother, probably a drunken cook, in the service of the hotel, whipped and frightened her; that the child had broken a cup of her mother’s and was so frightened that she had run away the evening before, had hidden for a long while somewhere outside in the rain, at last had made her way in here, hidden behind the cupboard and spent the night there, crying and trembling from the damp, the darkness and the fear that she would be badly beaten for it. He took her in his arms, went back to his room, sat her on the bed, and began undressing her. The torn shoes which she had on her stockingless feet were as wet as if they had been standing in a puddle85 all night. When he had undressed her, he put her on the bed, covered her up and wrapped her in the blanket from her head downwards86. She fell asleep at once. Then he sank into dreary87 musing88 again.
“What folly89 to trouble myself,” he decided suddenly with an oppressive feeling of annoyance. “What idiocy90!” In vexation he took up the candle to go and look for the ragged attendant again and make haste to go away. “Damn the child!” he thought as he opened the door, but he turned again to see whether the child was asleep. He raised the blanket carefully. The child was sleeping soundly, she had got warm under the blanket, and her pale cheeks were flushed. But strange to say that flush seemed brighter and coarser than the rosy91 cheeks of childhood. “It’s a flush of fever,” thought Svidrigaïlov. It was like the flush from drinking, as though she had been given a full glass to drink. Her crimson92 lips were hot and glowing; but what was this? He suddenly fancied that her long black eyelashes were quivering, as though the lids were opening and a sly crafty93 eye peeped out with an unchildlike wink94, as though the little girl were not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted in a smile. The corners of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying to control them. But now she quite gave up all effort, now it was a grin, a broad grin; there was something shameless, provocative95 in that quite unchildish face; it was depravity, it was the face of a harlot, the shameless face of a French harlot. Now both eyes opened wide; they turned a glowing, shameless glance upon him; they laughed, invited him. . . . There was something infinitely96 hideous97 and shocking in that laugh, in those eyes, in such nastiness in the face of a child. “What, at five years old?” Svidrigaïlov muttered in genuine horror. “What does it mean?” And now she turned to him, her little face all aglow98, holding out her arms . . . . “Accursed child!” Svidrigaïlov cried, raising his hand to strike her, but at that moment he woke up.
He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket. The candle had not been lighted, and daylight was streaming in at the windows.
“I’ve had nightmare all night!” He got up angrily, feeling utterly99 shattered; his bones ached. There was a thick mist outside and he could see nothing. It was nearly five. He had overslept himself! He got up, put on his still damp jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his pocket, he took it out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of his pocket and in the most conspicuous place on the title page wrote a few lines in large letters. Reading them over, he sank into thought with his elbows on the table. The revolver and the notebook lay beside him. Some flies woke up and settled on the untouched veal, which was still on the table. He stared at them and at last with his free right hand began trying to catch one. He tried till he was tired, but could not catch it. At last, realising that he was engaged in this interesting pursuit, he started, got up and walked resolutely100 out of the room. A minute later he was in the street.
A thick milky101 mist hung over the town. Svidrigaïlov walked along the slippery dirty wooden pavement towards the Little Neva. He was picturing the waters of the Little Neva swollen102 in the night, Petrovsky Island, the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes and at last the bush. . . . He began ill-humouredly staring at the houses, trying to think of something else. There was not a cabman or a passer-by in the street. The bright yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and dejected with their closed shutters103. The cold and damp penetrated104 his whole body and he began to shiver. From time to time he came across shop signs and read each carefully. At last he reached the end of the wooden pavement and came to a big stone house. A dirty, shivering dog crossed his path with its tail between its legs. A man in a greatcoat lay face downwards; dead drunk, across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A high tower stood up on the left. “Bah!” he shouted, “here is a place. Why should it be Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witness anyway . . . .”
He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the street where there was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates of the house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them, wrapped in a grey soldier’s coat, with a copper105 Achilles helmet on his head. He cast a drowsy106 and indifferent glance at Svidrigaïlov. His face wore that perpetual look of peevish107 dejection, which is so sourly printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception. They both, Svidrigaïlov and Achilles, stared at each other for a few minutes without speaking. At last it struck Achilles as irregular for a man not drunk to be standing three steps from him, staring and not saying a word.
“What do you want here?” he said, without moving or changing his position.
“Nothing, brother, good morning,” answered Svidrigaïlov.
“This isn’t the place.”
“I am going to foreign parts, brother.”
“To foreign parts?”
“To America.”
“America.”
“I say, this is not the place for such jokes!”
“Why shouldn’t it be the place?”
“Because it isn’t.”
“Well, brother, I don’t mind that. It’s a good place. When you are asked, you just say he was going, he said, to America.”
He put the revolver to his right temple.
“You can’t do it here, it’s not the place,” cried Achilles, rousing himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger.
Svidrigaïlov pulled the trigger.
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1
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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lanky
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| adj.瘦长的 | |
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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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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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teaspoon
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| n.茶匙 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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14
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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15
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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16
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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17
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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18
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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19
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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20
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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21
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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22
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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23
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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24
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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25
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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26
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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27
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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28
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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29
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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30
veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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31
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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32
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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33
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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34
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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35
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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36
upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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37
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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39
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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40
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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41
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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42
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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43
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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44
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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45
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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46
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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47
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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48
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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49
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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50
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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51
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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52
zigzags
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| n.锯齿形的线条、小径等( zigzag的名词复数 )v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的第三人称单数 ) | |
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53
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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54
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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55
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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56
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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57
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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58
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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59
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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60
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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61
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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62
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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63
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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64
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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65
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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66
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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67
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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68
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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69
chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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70
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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71
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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72
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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73
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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74
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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75
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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76
blurs
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| n.模糊( blur的名词复数 )；模糊之物；（移动的）模糊形状；模糊的记忆v.（使）变模糊( blur的第三人称单数 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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77
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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78
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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79
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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80
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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81
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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82
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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83
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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84
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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85
puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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86
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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87
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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88
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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89
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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90
idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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91
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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92
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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93
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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94
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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95
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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96
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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97
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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98
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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99
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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100
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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101
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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102
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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103
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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104
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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105
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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106
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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107
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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108
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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