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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
Chapter III
He was not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he was in a feverish1 state, sometimes delirious2, sometimes half conscious. He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though there were a number of people round him; they wanted to take him away somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about him. Then he would be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid of him, and only now and then opened the door a crack to look at him; they threatened him, plotted something together, laughed, and mocked at him. He remembered Nastasya often at his bedside; he distinguished3 another person, too, whom he seemed to know very well, though he could not remember who he was, and this fretted4 him, even made him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been lying there a month; at other times it all seemed part of the same day. But of that — of that he had no recollection, and yet every minute he felt that he had forgotten something he ought to remember. He worried and tormented5 himself trying to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up, would have run away, but someone always prevented him by force, and he sank back into impotence and forgetfulness. At last he returned to complete consciousness.
It happened at ten o’clock in the morning. On fine days the sun shone into the room at that hour, throwing a streak6 of light on the right wall and the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing7 beside him with another person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him very inquisitively8. He was a young man with a beard, wearing a full, short-waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The landlady9 was peeping in at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up.
“Who is this, Nastasya?” he asked, pointing to the young man.
“I say, he’s himself again!” she said.
“He is himself,” echoed the man.
Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed the door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded10 conversations or discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat and buxom11, with black eyes and eyebrows12, good-natured from fatness and laziness, and absurdly bashful.
“Who . . . are you?” he went on, addressing the man. But at that moment the door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was so tall, Razumihin came in.
“What a cabin it is!” he cried. “I am always knocking my head. You call this a lodging13! So you are conscious, brother? I’ve just heard the news from Pashenka.”
“He has just come to,” said Nastasya.
“Just come to,” echoed the man again, with a smile.
“And who are you?” Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing him. “My name is Vrazumihin, at your service; not Razumihin, as I am always called, but Vrazumihin, a student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are you?”
“I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and I’ve come on business.”
“Please sit down.” Razumihin seated himself on the other side of the table. “It’s a good thing you’ve come to, brother,” he went on to Raskolnikov. “For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said at once it was nothing serious — something seemed to have gone to your head. Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says you have not had enough beer and radish, but it’s nothing much, it will pass and you will be all right. Zossimov is a first-rate fellow! He is making quite a name. Come, I won’t keep you,” he said, addressing the man again. “Will you explain what you want? You must know, Rodya, this is the second time they have sent from the office; but it was another man last time, and I talked to him. Who was it came before?”
“That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if you please, sir. That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is in our office, too.”
“He was more intelligent than you, don’t you think so?”
“Yes, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I am.”
“Quite so; go on.”
“At your mamma’s request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, of whom I presume you have heard more than once, a remittance18 is sent to you from our office,” the man began, addressing Raskolnikov. “If you are in an intelligible19 condition, I’ve thirty-five roubles to remit17 to you, as Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy Ivanovitch at your mamma’s request instructions to that effect, as on previous occasions. Do you know him, sir?”
“Yes, I remember . . . Vahrushin,” Raskolnikov said dreamily.
“You hear, he knows Vahrushin,” cried Razumihin. “He is in ‘an intelligible condition’! And I see you are an intelligent man too. Well, it’s always pleasant to hear words of wisdom.”
“That’s the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch. And at the request of your mamma, who has sent you a remittance once before in the same manner through him, he did not refuse this time also, and sent instructions to Semyon Semyonovitch some days since to hand you thirty-five roubles in the hope of better to come.”
“That ‘hoping for better to come’ is the best thing you’ve said, though ‘your mamma’ is not bad either. Come then, what do you say? Is he fully15 conscious, eh?”
“That’s all right. If only he can sign this little paper.”
“Yes, here’s the book.”
“Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I’ll hold you. Take the pen and scribble21 ‘Raskolnikov’ for him. For just now, brother, money is sweeter to us than treacle22.”
“I don’t want it,” said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen.
“Not want it?”
“I won’t sign it.”
“How the devil can you do without signing it?”
“I don’t want . . . the money.”
“Don’t want the money! Come, brother, that’s nonsense, I bear witness. Don’t trouble, please, it’s only that he is on his travels again. But that’s pretty common with him at all times though. . . . You are a man of judgment24 and we will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take his hand and he will sign it. Here.”
“But I can come another time.”
“No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of judgment. . . . Now, Rodya, don’t keep your visitor, you see he is waiting,” and he made ready to hold Raskolnikov’s hand in earnest.
“Stop, I’ll do it alone,” said the latter, taking the pen and signing his name.
The messenger took out the money and went away.
“Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?”
“Yes,” answered Raskolnikov.
“Is there any soup?”
“Some of yesterday’s,” answered Nastasya, who was still standing there.
“With potatoes and rice in it?”
“Yes.”
“I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea.”
“Very well.”
Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound astonishment25 and a dull, unreasoning terror. He made up his mind to keep quiet and see what would happen. “I believe I am not wandering. I believe it’s reality,” he thought.
In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with the soup, and announced that the tea would be ready directly. With the soup she brought two spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and so on. The table was set as it had not been for a long time. The cloth was clean.
“It would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them.”
“Well, you are a cool hand,” muttered Nastasya, and she departed to carry out his orders.
Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. Meanwhile Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put his left arm round Raskolnikov’s head, although he was able to sit up, and with his right hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it that it might not burn him. But the soup was only just warm. Raskolnikov swallowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third. But after giving him a few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumihin suddenly stopped, and said that he must ask Zossimov whether he ought to have more.
Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer.
“And will you have tea?”
“Yes.”
“Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for tea we may venture on without the faculty26. But here is the beer!” He moved back to his chair, pulled the soup and meat in front of him, and began eating as though he had not touched food for three days.
“I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here every day now,” he mumbled27 with his mouth full of beef, “and it’s all Pashenka, your dear little landlady, who sees to that; she loves to do anything for me. I don’t ask for it, but, of course, I don’t object. And here’s Nastasya with the tea. She is a quick girl. Nastasya, my dear, won’t you have some beer?”
“Get along with your nonsense!”
“A cup of tea, then?”
“A cup of tea, maybe.”
“Pour it out. Stay, I’ll pour it out myself. Sit down.”
He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the sofa again. As before, he put his left arm round the sick man’s head, raised him up and gave him tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each spoonful steadily28 and earnestly, as though this process was the principal and most effective means towards his friend’s recovery. Raskolnikov said nothing and made no resistance, though he felt quite strong enough to sit up on the sofa without support and could not merely have held a cup or a spoon, but even perhaps could have walked about. But from some queer, almost animal, cunning he conceived the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a time, pretending if necessary not to be yet in full possession of his faculties29, and meanwhile listening to find out what was going on. Yet he could not overcome his sense of repugnance30. After sipping31 a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly released his head, pushed the spoon away capriciously, and sank back on the pillow. There were actually real pillows under his head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed that, too, and took note of it.
“Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-day to make him some raspberry tea,” said Razumihin, going back to his chair and attacking his soup and beer again.
“And where is she to get raspberries for you?” asked Nastasya, balancing a saucer on her five outspread fingers and sipping tea through a lump of sugar.
“She’ll get it at the shop, my dear. You see, Rodya, all sorts of things have been happening while you have been laid up. When you decamped in that rascally32 way without leaving your address, I felt so angry that I resolved to find you out and punish you. I set to work that very day. How I ran about making inquiries33 for you! This lodging of yours I had forgotten, though I never remembered it, indeed, because I did not know it; and as for your old lodgings34, I could only remember it was at the Five Corners, Harlamov’s house. I kept trying to find that Harlamov’s house, and afterwards it turned out that it was not Harlamov’s, but Buch’s. How one muddles35 up sound sometimes! So I lost my temper, and I went on the chance to the address bureau next day, and only fancy, in two minutes they looked you up! Your name is down there.”
“My name!”
“I should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they could not find while I was there. Well, it’s a long story. But as soon as I did land on this place, I soon got to know all your affairs — all, all, brother, I know everything; Nastasya here will tell you. I made the acquaintance of Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, and the house-porter and Mr. Zametov, Alexandr Grigorievitch, the head clerk in the police office, and, last, but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasya here knows . . . .”
“He’s got round her,” Nastasya murmured, smiling slyly.
“Why don’t you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna?”
“You are a one!” Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into a giggle36. “I am not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna,” she added suddenly, recovering from her mirth.
“I’ll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a long story short, I was going in for a regular explosion here to uproot37 all malignant38 influences in the locality, but Pashenka won the day. I had not expected, brother, to find her so . . . prepossessing. Eh, what do you think?”
“And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect,” Razumihin went on, not at all embarrassed by his silence.
“It’s a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the right way at first. You ought to have approached her differently. She is, so to speak, a most unaccountable character. But we will talk about her character later. . . . How could you let things come to such a pass that she gave up sending you your dinner? And that I O U? You must have been mad to sign an I O U. And that promise of marriage when her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was alive? . . . I know all about it! But I see that’s a delicate matter and I am an ass16; forgive me. But, talking of foolishness, do you know Praskovya Pavlovna is not nearly so foolish as you would think at first sight?”
“No,” mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that it was better to keep up the conversation.
“She isn’t, is she?” cried Razumihin, delighted to get an answer out of him. “But she is not very clever either, eh? She is essentially41, essentially an unaccountable character! I am sometimes quite at a loss, I assure you. . . . She must be forty; she says she is thirty-six, and of course she has every right to say so. But I swear I judge her intellectually, simply from the metaphysical point of view; there is a sort of symbolism sprung up between us, a sort of algebra42 or what not! I don’t understand it! Well, that’s all nonsense. Only, seeing that you are not a student now and have lost your lessons and your clothes, and that through the young lady’s death she has no need to treat you as a relation, she suddenly took fright; and as you hid in your den14 and dropped all your old relations with her, she planned to get rid of you. And she’s been cherishing that design a long time, but was sorry to lose the I O U, for you assured her yourself that your mother would pay.”
“It was base of me to say that. . . . My mother herself is almost a beggar . . . and I told a lie to keep my lodging . . . and be fed,” Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly.
“Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that at that point Mr. Tchebarov turns up, a business man. Pashenka would never have thought of doing anything on her own account, she is too retiring; but the business man is by no means retiring, and first thing he puts the question, ‘Is there any hope of realising the I O U?’ Answer: there is, because he has a mother who would save her Rodya with her hundred and twenty-five roubles pension, if she has to starve herself; and a sister, too, who would go into bondage43 for his sake. That’s what he was building upon. . . . Why do you start? I know all the ins and outs of your affairs now, my dear boy — it’s not for nothing that you were so open with Pashenka when you were her prospective44 son-in-law, and I say all this as a friend. . . . But I tell you what it is; an honest and sensitive man is open; and a business man ‘listens and goes on eating’ you up. Well, then she gave the I O U by way of payment to this Tchebarov, and without hesitation45 he made a formal demand for payment. When I heard of all this I wanted to blow him up, too, to clear my conscience, but by that time harmony reigned46 between me and Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping the whole affair, engaging that you would pay. I went security for you, brother. Do you understand? We called Tchebarov, flung him ten roubles and got the I O U back from him, and here I have the honour of presenting it to you. She trusts your word now. Here, take it, you see I have torn it.”
Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked at him and turned to the wall without uttering a word. Even Razumihin felt a twinge.
“I see, brother,” he said a moment later, “that I have been playing the fool again. I thought I should amuse you with my chatter47, and I believe I have only made you cross.”
“Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?” Raskolnikov asked, after a moment’s pause without turning his head.
“Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I brought Zametov one day.”
“Zametov? The head clerk? What for?” Raskolnikov turned round quickly and fixed his eyes on Razumihin.
“What’s the matter with you? . . . What are you upset about? He wanted to make your acquaintance because I talked to him a lot about you. . . . How could I have found out so much except from him? He is a capital fellow, brother, first-rate . . . in his own way, of course. Now we are friends — see each other almost every day. I have moved into this part, you know. I have only just moved. I’ve been with him to Luise Ivanovna once or twice. . . . Do you remember Luise, Luise Ivanovna?
“I should think so! You were beside yourself.”
“What next? What did you rave about? What people do rave about. . . . Well, brother, now I must not lose time. To work.” He got up from the table and took up his cap.
“What did I rave about?”
“How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some secret? Don’t worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you said a lot about a bulldog, and about ear-rings and chains, and about Krestovsky Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent50. And another thing that was of special interest to you was your own sock. You whined51, ‘Give me my sock.’ Zametov hunted all about your room for your socks, and with his own scented52, ring-bedecked fingers he gave you the rag. And only then were you comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched thing in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most likely somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And then you asked so piteously for fringe for your trousers. We tried to find out what sort of fringe, but we could not make it out. Now to business! Here are thirty-five roubles; I take ten of them, and shall give you an account of them in an hour or two. I will let Zossimov know at the same time, though he ought to have been here long ago, for it is nearly twelve. And you, Nastasya, look in pretty often while I am away, to see whether he wants a drink or anything else. And I will tell Pashenka what is wanted myself. Good-bye!”
“He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he’s a deep one!” said Nastasya as he went out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could not resist running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear what he would say to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumihin.
No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung off the bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a madman. With burning, twitching53 impatience54 he had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to work. But to what work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded55 him.
“Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet or not? What if they know it and are only pretending, mocking me while I am laid up, and then they will come in and tell me that it’s been discovered long ago and that they have only . . . What am I to do now? That’s what I’ve forgotten, as though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I remembered a minute ago.”
He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable56 bewilderment about him; he walked to the door, opened it, listened; but that was not what he wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling something, he rushed to the corner where there was a hole under the paper, began examining it, put his hand into the hole, fumbled57 — but that was not it. He went to the stove, opened it and began rummaging58 in the ashes; the frayed59 edges of his trousers and the rags cut off his pocket were lying there just as he had thrown them. No one had looked, then! Then he remembered the sock about which Razumihin had just been telling him. Yes, there it lay on the sofa under the quilt, but it was so covered with dust and grime that Zametov could not have seen anything on it.
“Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent for to the police office? Where’s the notice? Bah! I am mixing it up; that was then. I looked at my sock then, too, but now . . . now I have been ill. But what did Zametov come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?” he muttered, helplessly sitting on the sofa again. “What does it mean? Am I still in delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real. . . . Ah, I remember; I must escape! Make haste to escape. Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes . . . but where? And where are my clothes? I’ve no boots. They’ve taken them away! They’ve hidden them! I understand! Ah, here is my coat — they passed that over! And here is money on the table, thank God! And here’s the I O U . . . I’ll take the money and go and take another lodging. They won’t find me! . . . Yes, but the address bureau? They’ll find me, Razumihin will find me. Better escape altogether . . . far away . . . to America, and let them do their worst! And take the I O U . . . it would be of use there. . . . What else shall I take? They think I am ill! They don’t know that I can walk, ha-ha-ha! I could see by their eyes that they know all about it! If only I could get downstairs! And what if they have set a watch there — policemen! What’s this tea? Ah, and here is beer left, half a bottle, cold!”
He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful of beer, and gulped60 it down with relish61, as though quenching62 a flame in his breast. But in another minute the beer had gone to his head, and a faint and even pleasant shiver ran down his spine63. He lay down and pulled the quilt over him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more and more disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness64 came upon him. With a sense of comfort he nestled his head into the pillow, wrapped more closely about him the soft, wadded quilt which had replaced the old, ragged65 greatcoat, sighed softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing66 sleep.
He woke up, hearing someone come in. He opened his eyes and saw Razumihin standing in the doorway67, uncertain whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa and gazed at him, as though trying to recall something.
“Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in the parcel!” Razumihin shouted down the stairs. “You shall have the account directly.”
“What time is it?” asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily.
“Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it’s almost evening, it will be six o’clock directly. You have slept more than six hours.”
“Good heavens! Have I?”
“And why not? It will do you good. What’s the hurry? A tryst68, is it? We’ve all time before us. I’ve been waiting for the last three hours for you; I’ve been up twice and found you asleep. I’ve called on Zossimov twice; not at home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. And I’ve been out on my own business, too. You know I’ve been moving to-day, moving with my uncle. I have an uncle living with me now. But that’s no matter, to business. Give me the parcel, Nastasya. We will open it directly. And how do you feel now, brother?”
“I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have you been here long?”
“I tell you I’ve been waiting for the last three hours.”
“No, before.”
“How do you mean?”
“How long have you been coming here?”
“Why I told you all about it this morning. Don’t you remember?”
Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream to him. He could not remember alone, and looked inquiringly at Razumihin.
“Hm!” said the latter, “he has forgotten. I fancied then that you were not quite yourself. Now you are better for your sleep. . . . You really look much better. First-rate! Well, to business. Look here, my dear boy.”
“Believe me, brother, this is something specially48 near my heart. For we must make a man of you. Let’s begin from the top. Do you see this cap?” he said, taking out of the bundle a fairly good though cheap and ordinary cap. “Let me try it on.”
“Come, Rodya, my boy, don’t oppose it, afterwards will be too late; and I shan’t sleep all night, for I bought it by guess, without measure. Just right!” he cried triumphantly71, fitting it on, “just your size! A proper head-covering is the first thing in dress and a recommendation in its own way. Tolstyakov, a friend of mine, is always obliged to take off his pudding basin when he goes into any public place where other people wear their hats or caps. People think he does it from slavish politeness, but it’s simply because he is ashamed of his bird’s nest; he is such a boastful fellow! Look, Nastasya, here are two specimens72 of headgear: this Palmerston”— he took from the corner Raskolnikov’s old, battered73 hat, which for some unknown reason, he called a Palmerston —“or this jewel! Guess the price, Rodya, what do you suppose I paid for it, Nastasya!” he said, turning to her, seeing that Raskolnikov did not speak.
“Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say,” answered Nastasya.
“Twenty copecks, silly!” he cried, offended. “Why, nowadays you would cost more than that — eighty copecks! And that only because it has been worn. And it’s bought on condition that when’s it’s worn out, they will give you another next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now let us pass to the United States of America, as they called them at school. I assure you I am proud of these breeches,” and he exhibited to Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer trousers of grey woollen material. “No holes, no spots, and quite respectable, although a little worn; and a waistcoat to match, quite in the fashion. And its being worn really is an improvement, it’s softer, smoother. . . . You see, Rodya, to my thinking, the great thing for getting on in the world is always to keep to the seasons; if you don’t insist on having asparagus in January, you keep your money in your purse; and it’s the same with this purchase. It’s summer now, so I’ve been buying summer things — warmer materials will be wanted for autumn, so you will have to throw these away in any case . . . especially as they will be done for by then from their own lack of coherence74 if not your higher standard of luxury. Come, price them! What do you say? Two roubles twenty-five copecks! And remember the condition: if you wear these out, you will have another suit for nothing! They only do business on that system at Fedyaev’s; if you’ve bought a thing once, you are satisfied for life, for you will never go there again of your own free will. Now for the boots. What do you say? You see that they are a bit worn, but they’ll last a couple of months, for it’s foreign work and foreign leather; the secretary of the English Embassy sold them last week — he had only worn them six days, but he was very short of cash. Price — a rouble and a half. A bargain?”
“But perhaps they won’t fit,” observed Nastasya.
“Not fit? Just look!” and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov’s old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. “I did not go empty-handed — they took the size from this monster. We all did our best. And as to your linen75, your landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin with are three shirts, hempen76 but with a fashionable front. . . . Well now then, eighty copecks the cap, two roubles twenty-five copecks the suit — together three roubles five copecks — a rouble and a half for the boots — for, you see, they are very good — and that makes four roubles fifty-five copecks; five roubles for the underclothes — they were bought in the lo — which makes exactly nine roubles fifty-five copecks. Forty-five copecks change in coppers77. Will you take it? And so, Rodya, you are set up with a complete new rig-out, for your overcoat will serve, and even has a style of its own. That comes from getting one’s clothes from Sharmer’s! As for your socks and other things, I leave them to you; we’ve twenty-five roubles left. And as for Pashenka and paying for your lodging, don’t you worry. I tell you she’ll trust you for anything. And now, brother, let me change your linen, for I daresay you will throw off your illness with your shirt.”
“Let me be! I don’t want to!” Raskolnikov waved him off. He had listened with disgust to Razumihin’s efforts to be playful about his purchases.
“Come, brother, don’t tell me I’ve been trudging78 around for nothing,” Razumihin insisted. “Nastasya, don’t be bashful, but help me — that’s it,” and in spite of Raskolnikov’s resistance he changed his linen. The latter sank back on the pillows and for a minute or two said nothing.
“It will be long before I get rid of them,” he thought. “What money was all that bought with?” he asked at last, gazing at the wall.
“Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin, your mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?”
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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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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inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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9
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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11
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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12
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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13
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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remit
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| v.汇款，汇寄；豁免（债务），免除（处罚等） | |
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remittance
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| n.汇款，寄款，汇兑 | |
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19
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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20
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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22
treacle
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| n.糖蜜 | |
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23
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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30
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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34
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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muddles
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| v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的第三人称单数 )；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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uproot
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| v.连根拔起，拔除；根除，灭绝；赶出家园，被迫移开 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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algebra
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| n.代数学 | |
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43
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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44
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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45
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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47
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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49
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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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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whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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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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53
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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54
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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55
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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61
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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62
quenching
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| 淬火，熄 | |
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63
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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64
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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66
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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68
tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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69
untying
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| untie的现在分词 | |
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70
pettishly
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71
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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72
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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74
coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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75
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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76
hempen
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| adj. 大麻制的, 大麻的 | |
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77
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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78
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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79
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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stout
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| adj.强壮的，粗大的，结实的，勇猛的，矮胖的 | |
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