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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
Chapter VI
“I don’t believe it, I can’t believe it!” repeated Razumihin, trying in perplexity to refute Raskolnikov’s arguments.
They were by now approaching Bakaleyev’s lodgings2, where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dounia had been expecting them a long while. Razumihin kept stopping on the way in the heat of discussion, confused and excited by the very fact that they were for the first time speaking openly about it.
“Don’t believe it, then!” answered Raskolnikov, with a cold, careless smile. “You were noticing nothing as usual, but I was weighing every word.”
“You are suspicious. That is why you weighed their words . . . h’m . . . certainly, I agree, Porfiry’s tone was rather strange, and still more that wretch3 Zametov! . . . You are right, there was something about him — but why? Why?”
“He has changed his mind since last night.”
“Quite the contrary! If they had that brainless idea, they would do their utmost to hide it, and conceal4 their cards, so as to catch you afterwards. . . . But it was all impudent5 and careless.”
“If they had had facts — I mean, real facts — or at least grounds for suspicion, then they would certainly have tried to hide their game, in the hope of getting more (they would have made a search long ago besides). But they have no facts, not one. It is all mirage6 — all ambiguous. Simply a floating idea. So they try to throw me out by impudence7. And perhaps, he was irritated at having no facts, and blurted8 it out in his vexation — or perhaps he has some plan . . . he seems an intelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to frighten me by pretending to know. They have a psychology9 of their own, brother. But it is loathsome10 explaining it all. Stop!”
“And it’s insulting, insulting! I understand you. But . . . since we have spoken openly now (and it is an excellent thing that we have at last — I am glad) I will own now frankly11 that I noticed it in them long ago, this idea. Of course the merest hint only — an insinuation — but why an insinuation even? How dare they? What foundation have they? If only you knew how furious I have been. Think only! Simply because a poor student, unhinged by poverty and hypochondria, on the eve of a severe delirious12 illness (note that), suspicious, vain, proud, who has not seen a soul to speak to for six months, in rags and in boots without soles, has to face some wretched policemen and put up with their insolence13; and the unexpected debt thrust under his nose, the I.O.U. presented by Tchebarov, the new paint, thirty degrees Reaumur and a stifling14 atmosphere, a crowd of people, the talk about the murder of a person where he had been just before, and all that on an empty stomach — he might well have a fainting fit! And that, that is what they found it all on! Damn them! I understand how annoying it is, but in your place, Rodya, I would laugh at them, or better still, spit in their ugly faces, and spit a dozen times in all directions. I’d hit out in all directions, neatly15 too, and so I’d put an end to it. Damn them! Don’t be downhearted. It’s a shame!”
“He really has put it well, though,” Raskolnikov thought.
“Damn them? But the cross-examination again, to-morrow?” he said with bitterness. “Must I really enter into explanations with them? I feel vexed16 as it is, that I condescended17 to speak to Zametov yesterday in the restaurant . . . .”
“Damn it! I will go myself to Porfiry. I will squeeze it out of him, as one of the family: he must let me know the ins and outs of it all! And as for Zametov . . .”
“At last he sees through him!” thought Raskolnikov.
“Stay!” cried Razumihin, seizing him by the shoulder again. “Stay! you were wrong. I have thought it out. You are wrong! How was that a trap? You say that the question about the workmen was a trap. But if you had done that, could you have said you had seen them painting the flat . . . and the workmen? On the contrary, you would have seen nothing, even if you had seen it. Who would own it against himself?”
“If I had done that thing, I should certainly have said that I had seen the workmen and the flat,” Raskolnikov answered, with reluctance18 and obvious disgust.
“But why speak against yourself?”
“Because only peasants, or the most inexperienced novices19 deny everything flatly at examinations. If a man is ever so little developed and experienced, he will certainly try to admit all the external facts that can’t be avoided, but will seek other explanations of them, will introduce some special, unexpected turn, that will give them another significance and put them in another light. Porfiry might well reckon that I should be sure to answer so, and say I had seen them to give an air of truth, and then make some explanation.”
“But he would have told you at once that the workmen could not have been there two days before, and that therefore you must have been there on the day of the murder at eight o’clock. And so he would have caught you over a detail.”
“Yes, that is what he was reckoning on, that I should not have time to reflect, and should be in a hurry to make the most likely answer, and so would forget that the workmen could not have been there two days before.”
“But how could you forget it?”
“Nothing easier. It is in just such stupid things clever people are most easily caught. The more cunning a man is, the less he suspects that he will be caught in a simple thing. The more cunning a man is, the simpler the trap he must be caught in. Porfiry is not such a fool as you think . . . .”
Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the very moment, he was struck by the strangeness of his own frankness, and the eagerness with which he had made this explanation, though he had kept up all the preceding conversation with gloomy repulsion, obviously with a motive21, from necessity.
“I am getting a relish22 for certain aspects!” he thought to himself. But almost at the same instant he became suddenly uneasy, as though an unexpected and alarming idea had occurred to him. His uneasiness kept on increasing. They had just reached the entrance to Bakaleyev’s.
“Go in alone!” said Raskolnikov suddenly. “I will be back directly.”
“Where are you going? Why, we are just here.”
“I can’t help it. . . . I will come in half an hour. Tell them.”
“Say what you like, I will come with you.”
“You, too, want to torture me!” he screamed, with such bitter irritation23, such despair in his eyes that Razumihin’s hands dropped. He stood for some time on the steps, looking gloomily at Raskolnikov striding rapidly away in the direction of his lodging1. At last, gritting24 his teeth and clenching25 his fist, he swore he would squeeze Porfiry like a lemon that very day, and went up the stairs to reassure26 Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was by now alarmed at their long absence.
When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he was breathing heavily. He went rapidly up the stairs, walked into his unlocked room and at once fastened the latch27. Then in senseless terror he rushed to the corner, to that hole under the paper where he had put the things; put his hand in, and for some minutes felt carefully in the hole, in every crack and fold of the paper. Finding nothing, he got up and drew a deep breath. As he was reaching the steps of Bakaleyev’s, he suddenly fancied that something, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper in which they had been wrapped with the old woman’s handwriting on it, might somehow have slipped out and been lost in some crack, and then might suddenly turn up as unexpected, conclusive28 evidence against him.
He stood as though lost in thought, and a strange, humiliated29, half senseless smile strayed on his lips. He took his cap at last and went quietly out of the room. His ideas were all tangled30. He went dreamily through the gateway31.
“Here he is himself,” shouted a loud voice.
He raised his head.
The porter was standing32 at the door of his little room and was pointing him out to a short man who looked like an artisan, wearing a long coat and a waistcoat, and looking at a distance remarkably33 like a woman. He stooped, and his head in a greasy34 cap hung forward. From his wrinkled flabby face he looked over fifty; his little eyes were lost in fat and they looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly.
“What is it?” Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter.
The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he looked at him attentively35, deliberately36; then he turned slowly and went out of the gate into the street without saying a word.
“What is it?” cried Raskolnikov.
“Why, he there was asking whether a student lived here, mentioned your name and whom you lodged37 with. I saw you coming and pointed38 you out and he went away. It’s funny.”
The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so, and after wondering for a moment he turned and went back to his room.
Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once caught sight of him walking along the other side of the street with the same even, deliberate step with his eyes fixed39 on the ground, as though in meditation40. He soon overtook him, but for some time walked behind him. At last, moving on to a level with him, he looked at his face. The man noticed him at once, looked at him quickly, but dropped his eyes again; and so they walked for a minute side by side without uttering a word.
“You were inquiring for me . . . of the porter?” Raskolnikov said at last, but in a curiously41 quiet voice.
The man made no answer; he didn’t even look at him. Again they were both silent.
“Why do you . . . come and ask for me . . . and say nothing. . . . What’s the meaning of it?”
Raskolnikov’s voice broke and he seemed unable to articulate the words clearly.
“Murderer!” he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and distinct voice.
Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak, a cold shiver ran down his spine43, and his heart seemed to stand still for a moment, then suddenly began throbbing44 as though it were set free. So they walked for about a hundred paces, side by side in silence.
The man did not look at him.
“What do you mean . . . what is. . . . Who is a murderer?” muttered Raskolnikov hardly audibly.
“You are a murderer,” the man answered still more articulately and emphatically, with a smile of triumphant45 hatred46, and again he looked straight into Raskolnikov’s pale face and stricken eyes.
They had just reached the cross-roads. The man turned to the left without looking behind him. Raskolnikov remained standing, gazing after him. He saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him still standing there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he fancied that he was again smiling the same smile of cold hatred and triumph.
With slow faltering47 steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made his way back to his little garret, feeling chilled all over. He took off his cap and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he stood without moving. Then he sank exhausted48 on the sofa and with a weak moan of pain he stretched himself on it. So he lay for half an hour.
He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts, some images without order or coherence49 floated before his mind — faces of people he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere once, whom he would never have recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table in a restaurant and some officers playing billiards50, the smell of cigars in some underground tobacco shop, a tavern51 room, a back staircase quite dark, all sloppy52 with dirty water and strewn with egg-shells, and the Sunday bells floating in from somewhere. . . . The images followed one another, whirling like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tried to clutch at, but they faded and all the while there was an oppression within him, but it was not overwhelming, sometimes it was even pleasant. . . . The slight shivering still persisted, but that too was an almost pleasant sensation.
He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and stood for some time in the doorway54 as though hesitating, then he stepped softly into the room and went cautiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasya’s whisper:
“Don’t disturb him! Let him sleep. He can have his dinner later.”
“Quite so,” answered Razumihin. Both withdrew carefully and closed the door. Another half-hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, turned on his back again, clasping his hands behind his head.
“Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the earth? Where was he, what did he see? He has seen it all, that’s clear. Where was he then? And from where did he see? Why has he only now sprung out of the earth? And how could he see? Is it possible? Hm . . .” continued Raskolnikov, turning cold and shivering, “and the jewel case Nikolay found behind the door — was that possible? A clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and you can build it into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible?” He felt with sudden loathing55 how weak, how physically56 weak he had become. “I ought to have known it,” he thought with a bitter smile. “And how dared I, knowing myself, knowing how I should be, take up an axe57 and shed blood! I ought to have known beforehand. . . . Ah, but I did know!” he whispered in despair. At times he came to a standstill at some thought.
“No, those men are not made so. The real Master to whom all is permitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre58 in Paris, forgets an army in Egypt, wastes half a million men in the Moscow expedition and gets off with a jest at Vilna. And altars are set up to him after his death, and so allis permitted. No, such people, it seems, are not of flesh but of bronze!”
One sudden irrelevant59 idea almost made him laugh. Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old woman, a pawnbroker60 with a red trunk under her bed — it’s a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch to digest! How can they digest it! It’s too inartistic. “A Napoleon creep under an old woman’s bed! Ugh, how loathsome!”
At moments he felt he was raving61. He sank into a state of feverish62 excitement. “The old woman is of no consequence,” he thought, hotly and incoherently. “The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is not what matters! The old woman was only an illness. . . . I was in a hurry to overstep. . . . I didn’t kill a human being, but a principle! I killed the principle, but I didn’t overstep, I stopped on this side. . . . I was only capable of killing63. And it seems I wasn’t even capable of that . . . Principle? Why was that fool Razumihin abusing the socialists64? They are industrious65, commercial people; ‘the happiness of all’ is their case. No, life is only given to me once and I shall never have it again; I don’t want to wait for ‘the happiness of all.’ I want to live myself, or else better not live at all. I simply couldn’t pass by my mother starving, keeping my rouble in my pocket while I waited for the ‘happiness of all.’ I am putting my little brick into the happiness of all and so my heart is at peace. Ha-ha! Why have you let me slip? I only live once, I too want. . . . Ech, I am an æsthetic louse and nothing more,” he added suddenly, laughing like a madman. “Yes, I am certainly a louse,” he went on, clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing with it with vindictive66 pleasure. “In the first place, because I can reason that I am one, and secondly67, because for a month past I have been troubling benevolent68 Providence69, calling it to witness that not for my own fleshly lusts70 did I undertake it, but with a grand and noble object — ha-ha! Thirdly, because I aimed at carrying it out as justly as possible, weighing, measuring and calculating. Of all the lice I picked out the most useless one and proposed to take from her only as much as I needed for the first step, no more nor less (so the rest would have gone to a monastery71, according to her will, ha-ha!). And what shows that I am utterly72 a louse,” he added, grinding his teeth, “is that I am perhaps viler73 and more loathsome than the louse I killed, and I felt beforehand that I should tell myself so after killing her. Can anything be compared with the horror of that? The vulgarity! The abjectness74! I understand the ‘prophet’ with his sabre, on his steed: Allah commands and ‘trembling’ creation must obey! The ‘prophet’ is right, he is right when he sets a battery across the street and blows up the innocent and the guilty without deigning75 to explain! It’s for you to obey, trembling creation, and not to have desires, for that’s not for you! . . . I shall never, never forgive the old woman!”
His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched76, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling.
“Mother, sister — how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I can’t bear them near me. . . . I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember. . . . To embrace her and think if she only knew . . . shall I tell her then? That’s just what I might do. . . . She must be the same as I am,” he added, straining himself to think, as it were struggling with delirium77. “Ah, how I hate the old woman now! I feel I should kill her again if she came to life! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she come in? . . . It’s strange though, why is it I scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn’t killed her? Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle eyes. . . . Dear women! Why don’t they weep? Why don’t they moan? They give up everything . . . their eyes are soft and gentle. . . . Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!”
He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn’t remember how he got into the street. It was late evening. The twilight78 had fallen and the full moon was shining more and more brightly; but there was a peculiar79 breathlessness in the air. There were crowds of people in the street; workmen and business people were making their way home; other people had come out for a walk; there was a smell of mortar80, dust and stagnant81 water. Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious; he was distinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to do something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly he stood still and saw a man standing on the other side of the street, beckoning83 to him. He crossed over to him, but at once the man turned and walked away with his head hanging, as though he had made no sign to him. “Stay, did he really beckon82?” Raskolnikov wondered, but he tried to overtake him. When he was within ten paces he recognised him and was frightened; it was the same man with stooping shoulders in the long coat. Raskolnikov followed him at a distance; his heart was beating; they went down a turning; the man still did not look round. “Does he know I am following him?” thought Raskolnikov. The man went into the gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov hastened to the gate and looked in to see whether he would look round and sign to him. In the court-yard the man did turn round and again seemed to beckon him. Raskolnikov at once followed him into the yard, but the man was gone. He must have gone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. He heard slow measured steps two flights above. The staircase seemed strangely familiar. He reached the window on the first floor; the moon shone through the panes85 with a melancholy86 and mysterious light; then he reached the second floor. Bah! this is the flat where the painters were at work . . . but how was it he did not recognise it at once? The steps of the man above had died away. “So he must have stopped or hidden somewhere.” He reached the third storey, should he go on? There was a stillness that was dreadful. . . . But he went on. The sound of his own footsteps scared and frightened him. How dark it was! The man must be hiding in some corner here. Ah! the flat was standing wide open, he hesitated and went in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, as though everything had been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the parlour which was flooded with moonlight. Everything there was as before, the chairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa and the pictures in the frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows. “It’s the moon that makes it so still, weaving some mystery,” thought Raskolnikov. He stood and waited, waited a long while, and the more silent the moonlight, the more violently his heart beat, till it was painful. And still the same hush87. Suddenly he heard a momentary88 sharp crack like the snapping of a splinter and all was still again. A fly flew up suddenly and struck the window pane84 with a plaintive89 buzz. At that moment he noticed in the corner between the window and the little cupboard something like a cloak hanging on the wall. “Why is that cloak here?” he thought, “it wasn’t there before . . . .” He went up to it quietly and felt that there was someone hiding behind it. He cautiously moved the cloak and saw, sitting on a chair in the corner, the old woman bent90 double so that he couldn’t see her face; but it was she. He stood over her. “She is afraid,” he thought. He stealthily took the axe from the noose91 and struck her one blow, then another on the skull92. But strange to say she did not stir, as though she were made of wood. He was frightened, bent down nearer and tried to look at her; but she, too, bent her head lower. He bent right down to the ground and peeped up into her face from below, he peeped and turned cold with horror: the old woman was sitting and laughing, shaking with noiseless laughter, doing her utmost that he should not hear it. Suddenly he fancied that the door from the bedroom was opened a little and that there was laughter and whispering within. He was overcome with frenzy93 and he began hitting the old woman on the head with all his force, but at every blow of the axe the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder and the old woman was simply shaking with mirth. He was rushing away, but the passage was full of people, the doors of the flats stood open and on the landing, on the stairs and everywhere below there were people, rows of heads, all looking, but huddled94 together in silence and expectation. Something gripped his heart, his legs were rooted to the spot, they would not move. . . . He tried to scream and woke up.
He drew a deep breath — but his dream seemed strangely to persist: his door was flung open and a man whom he had never seen stood in the doorway watching him intently.
Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed them again. He lay on his back without stirring.
“Is it still a dream?” he wondered and again raised his eyelids95 hardly perceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place, still watching him.
He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after him, went up to the table, paused a moment, still keeping his eyes on Raskolnikov, and noiselessly seated himself on the chair by the sofa; he put his hat on the floor beside him and leaned his hands on his cane53 and his chin on his hands. It was evident that he was prepared to wait indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from his stolen glances, he was a man no longer young, stout96, with a full, fair, almost whitish beard.
Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get dusk. There was complete stillness in the room. Not a sound came from the stairs. Only a big fly buzzed and fluttered against the window pane. It was unbearable97 at last. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa.
“Come, tell me what you want.”
“I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending,” the stranger answered oddly, laughing calmly. “Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov, allow me to introduce myself . . . .”
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1
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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novices
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| n.新手( novice的名词复数 )；初学修士（或修女）；（修会等的）初学生；尚未赢过大赛的赛马 | |
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knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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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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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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gritting
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的现在分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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gateway
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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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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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35
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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37
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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38
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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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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40
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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41
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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42
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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43
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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44
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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45
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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46
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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47
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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48
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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49
coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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50
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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51
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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52
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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53
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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54
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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55
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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56
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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57
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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58
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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59
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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60
pawnbroker
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| n.典当商，当铺老板 | |
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61
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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62
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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63
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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64
socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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65
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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66
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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67
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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70
lusts
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| 贪求（lust的第三人称单数形式） | |
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71
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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72
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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73
viler
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的比较级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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abjectness
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| 凄惨； 绝望； 卑鄙； 卑劣 | |
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75
deigning
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
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76
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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77
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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78
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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79
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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80
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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81
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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82
beckon
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| v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意，召唤 | |
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83
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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84
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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85
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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86
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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87
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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88
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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89
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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90
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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91
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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92
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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93
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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94
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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95
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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96
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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97
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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