章节正文
It came one day in the shape of a letter in the only hand in the world
he knew -- Vashti's. What it could mean he could not divine --
was his mother dead? This was the principal thing that occurred to him.
He studied the outside. It had been on the way a month by the postmark,
for letters travelled slowly in those days, and a private soldier
in an infantry company was hard to find unless the address was pretty clear,
which this was not. He did not open it immediately. His mother must be dead,
and this he could not face. Nothing else would have made Vashti write.
At last he went off alone and opened it, and read it, spelling it out
with some pains. It began without an address, with the simple statement
that her father had arrived with Ad's body and that it had been buried,
and that his wound was right bad and her mother was mightily cut up
with her trouble. Then it mentioned his mother and said she had come
to Ad's funeral, though she could not walk much now and had never been over
to their side since the day after he -- Darby -- had enlisted; but her father
had told her as how he had killed the man as shot Ad, and so she made out
to come that far. Then the letter broke off from giving news,
and as if under stress of feelings long pent up, suddenly broke loose:
she declared that she loved him; that she had always loved him -- always --
ever since he had been so good to her -- a great big boy to a little bit
of a girl -- at school, and that she did not know why she had been
so mean to him; for when she had treated him worst she had loved him most;
that she had gone down the path that night when they had met,
for the purpose of meeting him and of letting him know she loved him;
but something had made her treat him as she did, and all the time
she could have let him kill her for love of him. She said she had told
her mother and father she loved him and she had tried to tell his mother,
but she could not, for she was afraid of her; but she wanted him to tell her
when he came; and she had tried to help her and keep her in wood
ever since he went away, for his sake. Then the letter told how poorly
his mother was and how she had failed of late, and she said she thought
he ought to get a furlough and come home, and when he did she would marry him.
It was not very well written, nor wholly coherent; at least it took some time
to sink fully into Darby's somewhat dazed intellect; but in time
he took it in, and when he did he sat like a man overwhelmed.
At the end of the letter, as if possibly she thought, in the greatness
of her relief at her confession, that the temptation she held out
might prove too great even for him, or possibly only because she was a woman,
there was a postscript scrawled across the coarse, blue Confederate paper:
"Don't come without a furlough; for if you don't come honorable
I won't marry you." This, however, Darby scarcely read. His being was in
the letter. It was only later that the picture of his mother ill and failing
came to him, and it smote him in the midst of his happiness
and clung to him afterward like a nightmare. It haunted him. She was dying.
He applied for a furlough; but furloughs were hard to get then
and he could not hear from it; and when a letter came in his mother's name
in a lady's hand which he did not know, telling him of his mother's
poverty and sickness and asking him if he could get off to come and see her,
it seemed to him that she was dying, and he did not wait for the furlough.
He was only a few days' march from home and he felt that he could see her
and get back before he was wanted. So one day he set out in the rain.
It was a scene of desolation that he passed through, for the country was
the seat of war; fences were gone, woods burnt, and fields cut up and bare;
and it rained all the time. A little before morning, on the night
of the third day, he reached the edge of the district and plunged into
its well-known pines, and just as day broke he entered the old path
which led up the little hill to his mother's cabin. All during his journey
he had been picturing the meeting with some one else besides his mother,
and if Vashti had stood before him as he crossed the old log he would hardly
have been surprised. Now, however, he had other thoughts;
as he reached the old clearing he was surprised to find it grown up
in small pines already almost as high as his head, and tall weeds
filled the rows among the old peach-trees and grew up to the very door.
He had been struck by the desolation all the way as he came along;
but it had not occurred to him that there must be a change at his own home;
he had always pictured it as he left it, as he had always thought of Vashti
in her pink calico, with her hat in her hand and her heavy hair
almost falling down over her neck. Now a great horror seized him.
The door was wet and black. His mother must be dead.
He stopped and peered through the darkness at the dim little structure.
There was a little smoke coming out of the chimney, and the next instant
he strode up to the door. It was shut, but the string was hanging out
and he pulled it and pushed the door open. A thin figure seated in
the small split-bottomed chair on the hearth, hovering as close as possible
over the fire, straightened up and turned slowly as he stepped into the room,
and he recognized his mother -- but how changed! She was quite white
and little more than a skeleton. At sight of the figure behind her
she pulled herself to her feet, and peered at him through the gloom.
"Mother!" he said.
"Darby!" She reached her arms toward him, but tottered so
that she would have fallen, had he not caught her and eased her down
into her chair.
As she became a little stronger she made him tell her about the battles
he was in. Mr. Mills had come to tell her that he had killed the man
who killed Ad. Darby was not a good narrator, however, and what he had
to tell was told in a few words. The old woman revived under it, however,
and her eyes had a brighter light in them.
Darby was too much engrossed in taking care of his mother that day
to have any thought of any one else. He was used to a soldier's scant fare,
but had never quite taken in the fact that his mother and the women at home
had less even than they in the field. He had never seen, even in their
poorest days after his father's death, not only the house absolutely empty,
but without any means of getting anything outside. It gave him a thrill
to think what she must have endured without letting him know.
As soon as he could leave her, he went into the woods with his old gun,
and shortly returned with a few squirrels which he cooked for her;
the first meat, she told him, that she had tasted for weeks. On hearing it
his heart grew hot. Why had not Vashti come and seen about her?
She explained it partly, however, when she told him that every one
had been sick at Cove Mills's, and old Cove himself had come near dying.
No doctor could be got to see them, as there was none left
in the neighborhood, and but for Mrs. Douwill she did not know
what they would have done. But Mrs. Douwill was down herself now.
The young man wanted to know about Vashti, but all he could manage
to make his tongue ask was,
"Vashti?"
She could not tell him, she did not know anything about Vashti.
Mrs. Mills used to bring her things sometimes, till she was taken down,
but Vashti had never come to see her; all she knew was that she had been sick
with the others.
That she had been sick awoke in the young man a new tenderness,
the deeper because he had done her an injustice; and he was seized with
a great longing to see her. All his old love seemed suddenly accumulated
in his heart, and he determined to go and see her at once,
as he had not long to stay. He set about his little preparations forthwith,
putting on his old clothes which his mother had kept ever since he went away,
as being more presentable than the old worn and muddy, threadbare uniform,
and brushing his long yellow hair and beard into something like order.
He changed from one coat to the other the little package which
he always carried, thinking that he would show it to her with the hole in it,
which the sharp-shooter's bullet had made that day, and he put her letter
into the same pocket; his heart beating at the sight of her hand
and the memory of the words she had written, and then he set out.
It was already late in the evening, and after the rain the air was
soft and balmy, though the western sky was becoming overcast again by a cloud,
which low down on the horizon was piling up mountain on mountain of vapor,
as if it might rain again by night. Darby, however, having dressed,
crossed the flat without much trouble, only getting a little wet
in some places where the logs were gone. As he turned into the path
up the hill, he stood face to face with Vashti. She was standing by
a little spring which came from under an old oak, the only one
on the hill-side of pines, and was in a faded black calico.
He scarcely took in at first that it was Vashti, she was so changed.
He had always thought of her as he last saw her that evening in pink,
with her white throat and her scornful eyes. She was older now
than she was then; looked more a woman and taller; and her throat if anything
was whiter than ever against her black dress; her face was whiter too,
and her eyes darker and larger. At least, they opened wide
when Darby appeared in the path. Her hands went up to her throat
as if she suddenly wanted breath. All of the young man's heart
went out to her, and the next moment he was within arm's length of her.
Her one word was in his ears:
"Darby!" He was about to catch her in his arms when a gesture restrained him,
and her look turned him to stone.
"Yer uniform?" she gasped, stepping back. Darby was not quick always,
and he looked down at his clothes and then at her again,
his dazed brain wondering.
"Whar's yer uniform?" she asked.
"At home," he said, quietly, still wondering. She seemed to catch some hope.
"Yer got a furlough?" she said, more quietly, coming a little nearer to him,
and her eyes growing softer.
"Got a furlough?" he repeated to gain time for thought. "I -- I ----"
He had never thought of it before; the words in her letter flashed into
his mind, and he felt his face flush. He would not tell her a lie.
"No, I ain't got no furlough," he said, and paused whilst he tried
to get his words together to explain. But she did not give him time.
"What you doin' with them clo'se on?" she asked again.
"I -- I ----" he began, stammering as her suspicion dawned on him.
"You're a deserter!" she said, coldly, leaning forward, her hands clenched,
her face white, her eyes contracted.
"A what!" he asked aghast, his brain not whollytaking in her words.
"You're a deserter!" she said again -- "and -- a coward!"
All the blood in him seemed to surge to his head and leave his heart like ice.
He seized her arm with a grip like steel.
"Vashti Mills," he said, with his face white, "don't you say that to me --
if yer were a man I'd kill yer right here where yer stan'!"
He tossed her hand from him, and turned on his heel.
The next instant she was standing alone, and when she reached the point
in the path where she could see the crossing, Darby was already
on the other side of the swamp, striding knee-deep through the water
as if he were on dry land. She could not have made him hear if she had
wished it; for on a sudden a great rushing wind swept through the pines,
bending them down like grass and blowing the water in the bottom
into white waves, and the thunder which had been rumbling in the distance
suddenly broke with a great peal just overhead.
In a few minutes the rain came; but the girl did not mind it.
She stood looking across the bottom until it came in sheets,
wetting her to the skin and shutting out everything a few yards away.
The thunder-storm passed, but all that night the rain came down,
and all the next day, and when it held up a little in the evening
the bottom was a sea.
The rain had not prevented Darby from going out -- he was used to it;
and he spent most of the day away from home. When he returned
he brought his mother a few provisions, as much meal perhaps
as a child might carry, and spent the rest of the evening
sitting before the fire, silent and motionless, a flame burning
back deep in his eyes and a cloud fixed on his brow. He was in his uniform,
which he had put on again the night before as soon as he got home,
and the steam rose from it as he sat. The other clothes were in a bundle
on the floor where he had tossed them the evening before. He never moved
except when his mother now and then spoke, and then sat down again as before.
Presently he rose and said he must be going; but as he rose to his feet,
a pain shot through him like a knife; everything turned black before him
and he staggered and fell full length on the floor.
He was still on the floor next morning, for his mother had not been able
to get him to the bed, or to leave to get any help; but she had made him
a pallet, and he was as comfortable as a man might be with a raging fever.
Feeble as she was, the sudden demand on her had awakened the
old woman's faculties and she was stronger than might have seemed possible.
One thing puzzled her: in his incoherent mutterings,
Darby constantly referred to a furlough and a deserter.
he knew -- Vashti's. What it could mean he could not divine --
was his mother dead? This was the principal thing that occurred to him.
He studied the outside. It had been on the way a month by the postmark,
for letters travelled slowly in those days, and a private soldier
in an infantry company was hard to find unless the address was pretty clear,
which this was not. He did not open it immediately. His mother must be dead,
and this he could not face. Nothing else would have made Vashti write.
At last he went off alone and opened it, and read it, spelling it out
with some pains. It began without an address, with the simple statement
that her father had arrived with Ad's body and that it had been buried,
and that his wound was right bad and her mother was mightily cut up
with her trouble. Then it mentioned his mother and said she had come
to Ad's funeral, though she could not walk much now and had never been over
to their side since the day after he -- Darby -- had enlisted; but her father
had told her as how he had killed the man as shot Ad, and so she made out
to come that far. Then the letter broke off from giving news,
and as if under stress of feelings long pent up, suddenly broke loose:
she declared that she loved him; that she had always loved him -- always --
ever since he had been so good to her -- a great big boy to a little bit
of a girl -- at school, and that she did not know why she had been
so mean to him; for when she had treated him worst she had loved him most;
that she had gone down the path that night when they had met,
for the purpose of meeting him and of letting him know she loved him;
but something had made her treat him as she did, and all the time
she could have let him kill her for love of him. She said she had told
her mother and father she loved him and she had tried to tell his mother,
but she could not, for she was afraid of her; but she wanted him to tell her
when he came; and she had tried to help her and keep her in wood
ever since he went away, for his sake. Then the letter told how poorly
his mother was and how she had failed of late, and she said she thought
he ought to get a furlough and come home, and when he did she would marry him.
It was not very well written, nor wholly coherent; at least it took some time
to sink fully into Darby's somewhat dazed intellect; but in time
he took it in, and when he did he sat like a man overwhelmed.
At the end of the letter, as if possibly she thought, in the greatness
of her relief at her confession, that the temptation she held out
might prove too great even for him, or possibly only because she was a woman,
there was a postscript scrawled across the coarse, blue Confederate paper:
"Don't come without a furlough; for if you don't come honorable
I won't marry you." This, however, Darby scarcely read. His being was in
the letter. It was only later that the picture of his mother ill and failing
came to him, and it smote him in the midst of his happiness
and clung to him afterward like a nightmare. It haunted him. She was dying.
He applied for a furlough; but furloughs were hard to get then
and he could not hear from it; and when a letter came in his mother's name
in a lady's hand which he did not know, telling him of his mother's
poverty and sickness and asking him if he could get off to come and see her,
it seemed to him that she was dying, and he did not wait for the furlough.
He was only a few days' march from home and he felt that he could see her
and get back before he was wanted. So one day he set out in the rain.
It was a scene of desolation that he passed through, for the country was
the seat of war; fences were gone, woods burnt, and fields cut up and bare;
and it rained all the time. A little before morning, on the night
of the third day, he reached the edge of the district and plunged into
its well-known pines, and just as day broke he entered the old path
which led up the little hill to his mother's cabin. All during his journey
he had been picturing the meeting with some one else besides his mother,
and if Vashti had stood before him as he crossed the old log he would hardly
have been surprised. Now, however, he had other thoughts;
as he reached the old clearing he was surprised to find it grown up
in small pines already almost as high as his head, and tall weeds
filled the rows among the old peach-trees and grew up to the very door.
He had been struck by the desolation all the way as he came along;
but it had not occurred to him that there must be a change at his own home;
he had always pictured it as he left it, as he had always thought of Vashti
in her pink calico, with her hat in her hand and her heavy hair
almost falling down over her neck. Now a great horror seized him.
The door was wet and black. His mother must be dead.
He stopped and peered through the darkness at the dim little structure.
There was a little smoke coming out of the chimney, and the next instant
he strode up to the door. It was shut, but the string was hanging out
and he pulled it and pushed the door open. A thin figure seated in
the small split-bottomed chair on the hearth, hovering as close as possible
over the fire, straightened up and turned slowly as he stepped into the room,
and he recognized his mother -- but how changed! She was quite white
and little more than a skeleton. At sight of the figure behind her
she pulled herself to her feet, and peered at him through the gloom.
"Mother!" he said.
"Darby!" She reached her arms toward him, but tottered so
that she would have fallen, had he not caught her and eased her down
into her chair.
As she became a little stronger she made him tell her about the battles
he was in. Mr. Mills had come to tell her that he had killed the man
who killed Ad. Darby was not a good narrator, however, and what he had
to tell was told in a few words. The old woman revived under it, however,
and her eyes had a brighter light in them.
Darby was too much engrossed in taking care of his mother that day
to have any thought of any one else. He was used to a soldier's scant fare,
but had never quite taken in the fact that his mother and the women at home
had less even than they in the field. He had never seen, even in their
poorest days after his father's death, not only the house absolutely empty,
but without any means of getting anything outside. It gave him a thrill
to think what she must have endured without letting him know.
As soon as he could leave her, he went into the woods with his old gun,
and shortly returned with a few squirrels which he cooked for her;
the first meat, she told him, that she had tasted for weeks. On hearing it
his heart grew hot. Why had not Vashti come and seen about her?
She explained it partly, however, when she told him that every one
had been sick at Cove Mills's, and old Cove himself had come near dying.
No doctor could be got to see them, as there was none left
in the neighborhood, and but for Mrs. Douwill she did not know
what they would have done. But Mrs. Douwill was down herself now.
The young man wanted to know about Vashti, but all he could manage
to make his tongue ask was,
"Vashti?"
She could not tell him, she did not know anything about Vashti.
Mrs. Mills used to bring her things sometimes, till she was taken down,
but Vashti had never come to see her; all she knew was that she had been sick
with the others.
That she had been sick awoke in the young man a new tenderness,
the deeper because he had done her an injustice; and he was seized with
a great longing to see her. All his old love seemed suddenly accumulated
in his heart, and he determined to go and see her at once,
as he had not long to stay. He set about his little preparations forthwith,
putting on his old clothes which his mother had kept ever since he went away,
as being more presentable than the old worn and muddy, threadbare uniform,
and brushing his long yellow hair and beard into something like order.
He changed from one coat to the other the little package which
he always carried, thinking that he would show it to her with the hole in it,
which the sharp-shooter's bullet had made that day, and he put her letter
into the same pocket; his heart beating at the sight of her hand
and the memory of the words she had written, and then he set out.
It was already late in the evening, and after the rain the air was
soft and balmy, though the western sky was becoming overcast again by a cloud,
which low down on the horizon was piling up mountain on mountain of vapor,
as if it might rain again by night. Darby, however, having dressed,
crossed the flat without much trouble, only getting a little wet
in some places where the logs were gone. As he turned into the path
up the hill, he stood face to face with Vashti. She was standing by
a little spring which came from under an old oak, the only one
on the hill-side of pines, and was in a faded black calico.
He scarcely took in at first that it was Vashti, she was so changed.
He had always thought of her as he last saw her that evening in pink,
with her white throat and her scornful eyes. She was older now
than she was then; looked more a woman and taller; and her throat if anything
was whiter than ever against her black dress; her face was whiter too,
and her eyes darker and larger. At least, they opened wide
when Darby appeared in the path. Her hands went up to her throat
as if she suddenly wanted breath. All of the young man's heart
went out to her, and the next moment he was within arm's length of her.
Her one word was in his ears:
"Darby!" He was about to catch her in his arms when a gesture restrained him,
and her look turned him to stone.
"Yer uniform?" she gasped, stepping back. Darby was not quick always,
and he looked down at his clothes and then at her again,
his dazed brain wondering.
"Whar's yer uniform?" she asked.
"At home," he said, quietly, still wondering. She seemed to catch some hope.
"Yer got a furlough?" she said, more quietly, coming a little nearer to him,
and her eyes growing softer.
"Got a furlough?" he repeated to gain time for thought. "I -- I ----"
He had never thought of it before; the words in her letter flashed into
his mind, and he felt his face flush. He would not tell her a lie.
"No, I ain't got no furlough," he said, and paused whilst he tried
to get his words together to explain. But she did not give him time.
"What you doin' with them clo'se on?" she asked again.
"I -- I ----" he began, stammering as her suspicion dawned on him.
"You're a deserter!" she said, coldly, leaning forward, her hands clenched,
her face white, her eyes contracted.
"A what!" he asked aghast, his brain not whollytaking in her words.
"You're a deserter!" she said again -- "and -- a coward!"
All the blood in him seemed to surge to his head and leave his heart like ice.
He seized her arm with a grip like steel.
"Vashti Mills," he said, with his face white, "don't you say that to me --
if yer were a man I'd kill yer right here where yer stan'!"
He tossed her hand from him, and turned on his heel.
The next instant she was standing alone, and when she reached the point
in the path where she could see the crossing, Darby was already
on the other side of the swamp, striding knee-deep through the water
as if he were on dry land. She could not have made him hear if she had
wished it; for on a sudden a great rushing wind swept through the pines,
bending them down like grass and blowing the water in the bottom
into white waves, and the thunder which had been rumbling in the distance
suddenly broke with a great peal just overhead.
In a few minutes the rain came; but the girl did not mind it.
She stood looking across the bottom until it came in sheets,
wetting her to the skin and shutting out everything a few yards away.
The thunder-storm passed, but all that night the rain came down,
and all the next day, and when it held up a little in the evening
the bottom was a sea.
The rain had not prevented Darby from going out -- he was used to it;
and he spent most of the day away from home. When he returned
he brought his mother a few provisions, as much meal perhaps
as a child might carry, and spent the rest of the evening
sitting before the fire, silent and motionless, a flame burning
back deep in his eyes and a cloud fixed on his brow. He was in his uniform,
which he had put on again the night before as soon as he got home,
and the steam rose from it as he sat. The other clothes were in a bundle
on the floor where he had tossed them the evening before. He never moved
except when his mother now and then spoke, and then sat down again as before.
Presently he rose and said he must be going; but as he rose to his feet,
a pain shot through him like a knife; everything turned black before him
and he staggered and fell full length on the floor.
He was still on the floor next morning, for his mother had not been able
to get him to the bed, or to leave to get any help; but she had made him
a pallet, and he was as comfortable as a man might be with a raging fever.
Feeble as she was, the sudden demand on her had awakened the
old woman's faculties and she was stronger than might have seemed possible.
One thing puzzled her: in his incoherent mutterings,
Darby constantly referred to a furlough and a deserter.
- divine [di´vain]
a.神圣的 v.预言 (初中英语单词) - principal [´prinsəpəl] a.主要的 n.负责人 (初中英语单词)
- spelling [´speliŋ] n.拼法；缀字 (初中英语单词)
- funeral [´fju:nərəl] n.葬礼，丧葬；困难 (初中英语单词)
- stress [stres] n.强调；压力 vt.强调 (初中英语单词)
- wholly [´həul-li] ad.完全，十足；统统 (初中英语单词)
- relief [ri´li:f] n.救济；援救；减轻 (初中英语单词)
- coarse [kɔ:s] a.粗(糙)的；粗鲁的 (初中英语单词)
- haunted [´hɔ:tid] a.常出现鬼的，闹鬼的 (初中英语单词)
- sickness [´siknis] n.生病；呕吐，恶心 (初中英语单词)
- well-known [,wel´nəun] a.著名的，众所周知的 (初中英语单词)
- horror [´hɔrə] n.恐怖；战栗 (初中英语单词)
- absolutely [´æbsəlu:tli] ad.绝对地；确实 (初中英语单词)
- shortly [´ʃɔ:tli] ad.立刻，马上；不久 (初中英语单词)
- partly [´pɑ:tli] ad.部分地；不完全地 (初中英语单词)
- neighborhood [´neibəhud] n.邻居；邻近；附近 (初中英语单词)
- package [´pækidʒ] n.包(裹) vt.组装 (初中英语单词)
- bullet [´bulit] n.子弹 (初中英语单词)
- western [´westən] a.西的；西方的 (初中英语单词)
- horizon [hə´raizən] n.地平线；范围；视野 (初中英语单词)
- standing [´stændiŋ] n.持续 a.直立的 (初中英语单词)
- throat [θrəut] n.咽喉；嗓子；出入口 (初中英语单词)
- breath [breθ] n.呼吸；气息 (初中英语单词)
- gesture [´dʒestʃə] n.手势 v.打手势 (初中英语单词)
- suspicion [sə´spiʃən] n.怀(猜)疑；嫌疑 (初中英语单词)
- coldly [´kəuldli] ad.冷淡地 (初中英语单词)
- instant [´instənt] a.立即的 n.紧迫；瞬间 (初中英语单词)
- thunder [´θʌndə] n.雷 vi.打雷 vt.吼出 (初中英语单词)
- constantly [´kɔnstəntli] ad.经常地；不断地 (初中英语单词)
- studied [´stʌdid] a.故意的；有计划的 (高中英语单词)
- infantry [´infəntri] n.步兵(部队) (高中英语单词)
- confession [kən´feʃən] n.招供；认错；交待 (高中英语单词)
- temptation [temp´teiʃən] n.引诱，诱惑(物) (高中英语单词)
- confederate [kən´fedəreit] a.同盟的 n.同盟者 (高中英语单词)
- strode [strəud] stride的过去式 (高中英语单词)
- hanging [´hæŋiŋ] n.绞刑 a.悬挂着的 (高中英语单词)
- hearth [hɑ:θ] n.炉边；家庭(生活) (高中英语单词)
- skeleton [´skelitən] n.骨骼；骷髅 (高中英语单词)
- hearing [´hiəriŋ] n.听力；听证会；审讯 (高中英语单词)
- injustice [in´dʒʌstis] n.不公正，不公平 (高中英语单词)
- longing [´lɔŋiŋ] n.&a.渴望(的) (高中英语单词)
- repeated [ri´pi:tid] a.反复的；重复的 (高中英语单词)
- whilst [wailst] conj.当...时候；虽然 (高中英语单词)
- motionless [´məuʃənləs] a.静止的；固定的 (高中英语单词)
- intellect [´intilekt] n.智力；有才智的人 (英语四级单词)
- nightmare [´naitmeə] n.梦魇；恶梦 (英语四级单词)
- desolation [desə´leiʃ(ə)n] n.荒凉 (英语四级单词)
- clearing [´kliəriŋ] n.(森林中的)空旷地 (英语四级单词)
- calico [´kælikəu] n.白棉布；印花布 (英语四级单词)
- postscript [´pəust,skript] n.(信末的)附言；附录 (英语六级单词)
- applied [ə´plaid] a.实用的，应用的 (英语六级单词)
- taking [´teikiŋ] a.迷人的 n.捕获物 (英语六级单词)
- beating [´bi:tiŋ] n.敲；搅打；失败 (英语六级单词)
- scornful [´skɔ:nful] a.轻蔑的，藐视的 (英语六级单词)
- aghast [ə´gɑ:st] a.吓呆的，吃惊的 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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