章节正文
Have you anything on your mind? Is there any new trouble?
Better tell me, no matter what it is, and not go worrying and brooding
and making both our lives miserable. If you never tell one anything,
how can you expect me to understand?'
I said there was nothing the matter.
`But there must be, to make you so unbearable. Have you been drinking, Joe --
or gambling?'
I asked her what she'd accuse me of next.
`And another thing I want to speak to you about,' she went on.
`Now, don't knit up your forehead like that, Joe, and get impatient ----'
`Well, what is it?'
`I wish you wouldn't swear in the hearing of the children.
Now, little Jim to-day, he was trying to fix his little go-cart
and it wouldn't run right, and -- and ----'
`Well, what did he say?'
`He -- he' (she seemed a little hysterical, trying not to laugh) --
`he said "damn it!"'
I had to laugh. Mary tried to keep serious, but it was no use.
`Never mind, old woman,' I said, putting an arm round her,
for her mouth was trembling, and she was crying more than laughing.
`It won't be always like this. Just wait till we're a bit better off.'
Just then a black boy we had (I must tell you about him some other time)
came sidling along by the wall, as if he were afraid somebody was going
to hit him -- poor little devil! I never did.
`What is it, Harry?' said Mary.
`Buggy comin', I bin thinkit.'
`Where?'
He pointed up the creek.
`Sure it's a buggy?'
`Yes, missus.'
`How many horses?'
`One -- two.'
We knew that he could hear and see things long before we could.
Mary went and perched on the wood-heap, and shaded her eyes --
though the sun had gone -- and peered through between
the eternal grey trunks of the stunted trees on the flat across the creek.
Presently she jumped down and came running in.
`There's some one coming in a buggy, Joe!' she cried, excitedly.
`And both my white table-cloths are rough dry. Harry! put two flat-irons
down to the fire, quick, and put on some more wood. It's lucky
I kept those new sheets packed away. Get up out of that, Joe!
What are you sitting grinning like that for? Go and get on another shirt.
Hurry -- Why! It's only James -- by himself.'
She stared at me, and I sat there, grinning like a fool.
`Joe!' she said, `whose buggy is that?'
`Well, I suppose it's yours,' I said.
She caught her breath, and stared at the buggy and then at me again.
James drove down out of sight into the crossing, and came up
close to the house.
`Oh, Joe! what have you done?' cried Mary. `Why, it's a new double buggy!'
Then she rushed at me and hugged my head. `Why didn't you tell me, Joe?
You poor old boy! -- and I've been nagging at you all day!'
and she hugged me again.
James got down and started taking the horses out -- as if it was
an everydayoccurrence. I saw the double-barrel gun sticking out
from under the seat. He'd stopped to wash the buggy, and I suppose
that's what made him grumpy. Mary stood on the verandah,
with her eyes twice as big as usual, and breathing hard --
taking the buggy in.
James skimmed the harness off, and the horses shook themselves
and went down to the dam for a drink. `You'd better look under the seats,'
growled James, as he took his gun out with great care.
Mary dived for the buggy. There was a dozen of lemonade and ginger-beer
in a candle-box from Galletly -- James said that Galletly's men
had a gallon of beer, and they cheered him, James (I suppose he meant
they cheered the buggy), as he drove off; there was a `little bit of a ham'
from Pat Murphy, the storekeeper at Home Rule, that he'd `cured himself' --
it was the biggest I ever saw; there were three loaves of baker's bread,
a cake, and a dozen yards of something `to make up for the children',
from Aunt Gertrude at Gulgong; there was a fresh-water cod,
that long Dave Regan had caught the night before in the Macquarie river,
and sent out packed in salt in a box; there was a holland suit
for the black boy, with red braid to trim it; and there was
a jar of preserved ginger, and some lollies (sweets) (`for the lil' boy'),
and a rum-looking Chinese doll and a rattle (`for lil' girl')
from Sun Tong Lee, our storekeeper at Gulgong -- James was chummy
with Sun Tong Lee, and got his powder and shot and caps there on tick
when he was short of money. And James said that the people
would have loaded the buggy with `rubbish' if he'd waited.
They all seemed glad to see Joe Wilson getting on -- and these things
did me good.
We got the things inside, and I don't think either of us knew
what we were saying or doing for the next half-hour.
Then James put his head in and said, in a very injured tone, --
`What about my tea? I ain't had anything to speak of since I left Cudgeegong.
I want some grub.'
Then Mary pulled herself together.
`You'll have your tea directly,' she said. `Pick up that harness at once,
and hang it on the pegs in the skillion; and you, Joe, back that buggy
under the end of the verandah, the dew will be on it presently --
and we'll put wet bags up in front of it to-morrow, to keep the sun off.
And James will have to go back to Cudgeegong for the cart, --
we can't have that buggy to knock about in.'
`All right,' said James -- `anything! Only get me some grub.'
Mary fried the fish, in case it wouldn't keep till the morning,
and rubbed over the tablecloths, now the irons were hot -- James growling
all the time -- and got out some crockery she had packed away
that had belonged to her mother, and set the table in a style
that made James uncomfortable.
`I want some grub -- not a blooming banquet!' he said. And he growled a lot
because Mary wanted him to eat his fish without a knife,
`and that sort of Tommy-rot.' When he'd finished he took his gun,
and the black boy, and the dogs, and went out 'possum-shooting.
When we were alone Mary climbed into the buggy to try the seat, and made me
get up alongside her. We hadn't had such a comfortable seat for years;
but we soon got down, in case any one came by, for we began to feel
like a pair of fools up there.
Then we sat, side by side, on the edge of the verandah, and talked more
than we'd done for years -- and there was a good deal of `Do you remember?'
in it -- and I think we got to understand each other better that night.
And at last Mary said, `Do you know, Joe, why, I feel to-night just --
just like I did the day we were married.'
And somehow I had that strange, shy sort of feeling too.
The Writer Wants to Say a Word.
In writing the first sketch of the Joe Wilson series, which happened to be
`Brighten's Sister-in-law', I had an idea of making Joe Wilson
a strong character. Whether he is or not, the reader must judge.
It seems to me that the man's natural sentimentalselfishness, good-nature,
`softness', or weakness -- call it which you like -- developed as I wrote on.
I know Joe Wilson very well. He has been through deep trouble
since the day he brought the double buggy to Lahey's Creek.
I met him in Sydney the other day. Tall and straight yet --
rather straighter than he had been -- dressed in a comfortable,
serviceable sac suit of `saddle-tweed', and wearing a new sugar-loaf,
cabbage-tree hat, he looked over the hurrying street people calmly
as though they were sheep of which he was not in charge,
and which were not likely to get `boxed' with his. Not the worst way
in which to regard the world.
He talked deliberately and quietly in all that roar and rush.
He is a young man yet, comparativelyspeaking, but it would take little Mary
a long while now to pick the grey hairs out of his head,
and the process would leave him pretty bald.
In two or three short sketches in another book I hope to complete
the story of his life.
Part II.
The Golden Graveyard.
Mother Middleton was an awful woman, an `old hand' (transported convict)
some said. The prefix `mother' in Australia mostly means `old hag',
and is applied in that sense. In early boyhood we understood,
from old diggers, that Mother Middleton -- in common with most other
`old hands' -- had been sent out for `knocking a donkey off a hen-roost.'
We had never seen a donkey. She drank like a fish and swore like a trooper
when the spirit moved her; she went on periodical sprees,
and swore on most occasions. There was a fearsome yarn,
which impressed us greatly as boys, to the effect that once,
in her best (or worst) days, she had pulled a mounted policeman off his horse,
and half-killed him with a heavy pick-handle, which she used
for poking down clothes in her boiler. She said that he had insulted her.
She could still knock down a tree and cut a load of firewood with any Bushman;
she was square and muscular, with arms like a navvy's;
she had often worked shifts, below and on top, with her husband,
when he'd be putting down a prospecting shaft without a mate,
as he often had to do -- because of her mainly. Old diggers said
that it was lovely to see how she'd spin up a heavy green-hide bucket
full of clay and `tailings', and land and empty it with a twist of her wrist.
Most men were afraid of her, and few diggers' wives were strong-minded enough
to seek a second row with Mother Middleton. Her voice could be heard
right across Golden Gully and Specimen Flat, whether raised in argument
or in friendly greeting. She came to the old Pipeclay diggings
with the `rough crowd' (mostly Irish), and when the old and new Pipeclays
were worked out, she went with the rush to Gulgong (about the last
of the great alluvial or `poor-man's' goldfields) and came back to Pipeclay
when the Log Paddock goldfield `broke out', adjacent to the old fields,
and so helped prove the truth of the old digger's saying,
that no matter how thoroughly ground has been worked, there is always room
for a new Ballarat.
Jimmy Middleton died at Log Paddock, and was buried, about the last,
in the little old cemetery -- appertaining to the old farming town
on the river, about four miles away -- which adjoined the district racecourse,
in the Bush, on the far edge of Specimen Flat. She conducted the funeral.
Some said she made the coffin, and there were alleged jokes to the effect
that her tongue had provided the corpse; but this, I think,
was unfair and cruel, for she loved Jimmy Middleton in her awful way,
and was, for all I ever heard to the contrary, a good wife to him.
She then lived in a hut in Log Paddock, on a little money in the bank,
and did sewing and washing for single diggers.
I remember hearing her one morning in neighbourly conversation,
carried on across the gully, with a selector, Peter Olsen,
who was hopelessly slaving to farm a dusty patch in the scrub.
`Why don't you chuck up that dust-hole and go up country and settle
on good land, Peter Olsen? You're only slaving your stomach out here.'
(She didn't say stomach.)
*Peter Olsen* (mild-whiskered little man, afraid of his wife). `But then
you know my wife is so delicate, Mrs Middleton. I wouldn't like to take her
out in the Bush.'
*Mrs Middleton*. `Delicate, be damned! she's only shamming!'
(at her loudest.) `Why don't you kick her off the bed and the book
out of her hand, and make her go to work? She's as delicate as I am.
Are you a man, Peter Olsen, or a ----?'
This for the edification of the wife and of all within half a mile.
Long Paddock was `petering'. There were a few claims still being worked
down at the lowest end, where big, red-and-white waste-heaps
of clay and gravel, rising above the blue-grey gum-bushes,
advertised deep sinking; and little, yellow, clay-stained streams,
running towards the creek over the drought-parched surface, told of trouble
with the water below -- time lost in baling and extra expense in timbering.
And diggers came up with their flannels and moleskins yellow and heavy,
and dripping with wet `mullock'.
Most of the diggers had gone to other fields, but there were
a few prospecting, in parties and singly, out on the flats and amongst
the ridges round Pipeclay. Sinking holes in search of a new Ballarat.
Better tell me, no matter what it is, and not go worrying and brooding
and making both our lives miserable. If you never tell one anything,
how can you expect me to understand?'
I said there was nothing the matter.
`But there must be, to make you so unbearable. Have you been drinking, Joe --
or gambling?'
I asked her what she'd accuse me of next.
`And another thing I want to speak to you about,' she went on.
`Now, don't knit up your forehead like that, Joe, and get impatient ----'
`Well, what is it?'
`I wish you wouldn't swear in the hearing of the children.
Now, little Jim to-day, he was trying to fix his little go-cart
and it wouldn't run right, and -- and ----'
`Well, what did he say?'
`He -- he' (she seemed a little hysterical, trying not to laugh) --
`he said "damn it!"'
I had to laugh. Mary tried to keep serious, but it was no use.
`Never mind, old woman,' I said, putting an arm round her,
for her mouth was trembling, and she was crying more than laughing.
`It won't be always like this. Just wait till we're a bit better off.'
Just then a black boy we had (I must tell you about him some other time)
came sidling along by the wall, as if he were afraid somebody was going
to hit him -- poor little devil! I never did.
`What is it, Harry?' said Mary.
`Buggy comin', I bin thinkit.'
`Where?'
He pointed up the creek.
`Sure it's a buggy?'
`Yes, missus.'
`How many horses?'
`One -- two.'
We knew that he could hear and see things long before we could.
Mary went and perched on the wood-heap, and shaded her eyes --
though the sun had gone -- and peered through between
the eternal grey trunks of the stunted trees on the flat across the creek.
Presently she jumped down and came running in.
`There's some one coming in a buggy, Joe!' she cried, excitedly.
`And both my white table-cloths are rough dry. Harry! put two flat-irons
down to the fire, quick, and put on some more wood. It's lucky
I kept those new sheets packed away. Get up out of that, Joe!
What are you sitting grinning like that for? Go and get on another shirt.
Hurry -- Why! It's only James -- by himself.'
She stared at me, and I sat there, grinning like a fool.
`Joe!' she said, `whose buggy is that?'
`Well, I suppose it's yours,' I said.
She caught her breath, and stared at the buggy and then at me again.
James drove down out of sight into the crossing, and came up
close to the house.
`Oh, Joe! what have you done?' cried Mary. `Why, it's a new double buggy!'
Then she rushed at me and hugged my head. `Why didn't you tell me, Joe?
You poor old boy! -- and I've been nagging at you all day!'
and she hugged me again.
James got down and started taking the horses out -- as if it was
an everydayoccurrence. I saw the double-barrel gun sticking out
from under the seat. He'd stopped to wash the buggy, and I suppose
that's what made him grumpy. Mary stood on the verandah,
with her eyes twice as big as usual, and breathing hard --
taking the buggy in.
James skimmed the harness off, and the horses shook themselves
and went down to the dam for a drink. `You'd better look under the seats,'
growled James, as he took his gun out with great care.
Mary dived for the buggy. There was a dozen of lemonade and ginger-beer
in a candle-box from Galletly -- James said that Galletly's men
had a gallon of beer, and they cheered him, James (I suppose he meant
they cheered the buggy), as he drove off; there was a `little bit of a ham'
from Pat Murphy, the storekeeper at Home Rule, that he'd `cured himself' --
it was the biggest I ever saw; there were three loaves of baker's bread,
a cake, and a dozen yards of something `to make up for the children',
from Aunt Gertrude at Gulgong; there was a fresh-water cod,
that long Dave Regan had caught the night before in the Macquarie river,
and sent out packed in salt in a box; there was a holland suit
for the black boy, with red braid to trim it; and there was
a jar of preserved ginger, and some lollies (sweets) (`for the lil' boy'),
and a rum-looking Chinese doll and a rattle (`for lil' girl')
from Sun Tong Lee, our storekeeper at Gulgong -- James was chummy
with Sun Tong Lee, and got his powder and shot and caps there on tick
when he was short of money. And James said that the people
would have loaded the buggy with `rubbish' if he'd waited.
They all seemed glad to see Joe Wilson getting on -- and these things
did me good.
We got the things inside, and I don't think either of us knew
what we were saying or doing for the next half-hour.
Then James put his head in and said, in a very injured tone, --
`What about my tea? I ain't had anything to speak of since I left Cudgeegong.
I want some grub.'
Then Mary pulled herself together.
`You'll have your tea directly,' she said. `Pick up that harness at once,
and hang it on the pegs in the skillion; and you, Joe, back that buggy
under the end of the verandah, the dew will be on it presently --
and we'll put wet bags up in front of it to-morrow, to keep the sun off.
And James will have to go back to Cudgeegong for the cart, --
we can't have that buggy to knock about in.'
`All right,' said James -- `anything! Only get me some grub.'
Mary fried the fish, in case it wouldn't keep till the morning,
and rubbed over the tablecloths, now the irons were hot -- James growling
all the time -- and got out some crockery she had packed away
that had belonged to her mother, and set the table in a style
that made James uncomfortable.
`I want some grub -- not a blooming banquet!' he said. And he growled a lot
because Mary wanted him to eat his fish without a knife,
`and that sort of Tommy-rot.' When he'd finished he took his gun,
and the black boy, and the dogs, and went out 'possum-shooting.
When we were alone Mary climbed into the buggy to try the seat, and made me
get up alongside her. We hadn't had such a comfortable seat for years;
but we soon got down, in case any one came by, for we began to feel
like a pair of fools up there.
Then we sat, side by side, on the edge of the verandah, and talked more
than we'd done for years -- and there was a good deal of `Do you remember?'
in it -- and I think we got to understand each other better that night.
And at last Mary said, `Do you know, Joe, why, I feel to-night just --
just like I did the day we were married.'
And somehow I had that strange, shy sort of feeling too.
The Writer Wants to Say a Word.
In writing the first sketch of the Joe Wilson series, which happened to be
`Brighten's Sister-in-law', I had an idea of making Joe Wilson
a strong character. Whether he is or not, the reader must judge.
It seems to me that the man's natural sentimentalselfishness, good-nature,
`softness', or weakness -- call it which you like -- developed as I wrote on.
I know Joe Wilson very well. He has been through deep trouble
since the day he brought the double buggy to Lahey's Creek.
I met him in Sydney the other day. Tall and straight yet --
rather straighter than he had been -- dressed in a comfortable,
serviceable sac suit of `saddle-tweed', and wearing a new sugar-loaf,
cabbage-tree hat, he looked over the hurrying street people calmly
as though they were sheep of which he was not in charge,
and which were not likely to get `boxed' with his. Not the worst way
in which to regard the world.
He talked deliberately and quietly in all that roar and rush.
He is a young man yet, comparativelyspeaking, but it would take little Mary
a long while now to pick the grey hairs out of his head,
and the process would leave him pretty bald.
In two or three short sketches in another book I hope to complete
the story of his life.
Part II.
The Golden Graveyard.
Mother Middleton was an awful woman, an `old hand' (transported convict)
some said. The prefix `mother' in Australia mostly means `old hag',
and is applied in that sense. In early boyhood we understood,
from old diggers, that Mother Middleton -- in common with most other
`old hands' -- had been sent out for `knocking a donkey off a hen-roost.'
We had never seen a donkey. She drank like a fish and swore like a trooper
when the spirit moved her; she went on periodical sprees,
and swore on most occasions. There was a fearsome yarn,
which impressed us greatly as boys, to the effect that once,
in her best (or worst) days, she had pulled a mounted policeman off his horse,
and half-killed him with a heavy pick-handle, which she used
for poking down clothes in her boiler. She said that he had insulted her.
She could still knock down a tree and cut a load of firewood with any Bushman;
she was square and muscular, with arms like a navvy's;
she had often worked shifts, below and on top, with her husband,
when he'd be putting down a prospecting shaft without a mate,
as he often had to do -- because of her mainly. Old diggers said
that it was lovely to see how she'd spin up a heavy green-hide bucket
full of clay and `tailings', and land and empty it with a twist of her wrist.
Most men were afraid of her, and few diggers' wives were strong-minded enough
to seek a second row with Mother Middleton. Her voice could be heard
right across Golden Gully and Specimen Flat, whether raised in argument
or in friendly greeting. She came to the old Pipeclay diggings
with the `rough crowd' (mostly Irish), and when the old and new Pipeclays
were worked out, she went with the rush to Gulgong (about the last
of the great alluvial or `poor-man's' goldfields) and came back to Pipeclay
when the Log Paddock goldfield `broke out', adjacent to the old fields,
and so helped prove the truth of the old digger's saying,
that no matter how thoroughly ground has been worked, there is always room
for a new Ballarat.
Jimmy Middleton died at Log Paddock, and was buried, about the last,
in the little old cemetery -- appertaining to the old farming town
on the river, about four miles away -- which adjoined the district racecourse,
in the Bush, on the far edge of Specimen Flat. She conducted the funeral.
Some said she made the coffin, and there were alleged jokes to the effect
that her tongue had provided the corpse; but this, I think,
was unfair and cruel, for she loved Jimmy Middleton in her awful way,
and was, for all I ever heard to the contrary, a good wife to him.
She then lived in a hut in Log Paddock, on a little money in the bank,
and did sewing and washing for single diggers.
I remember hearing her one morning in neighbourly conversation,
carried on across the gully, with a selector, Peter Olsen,
who was hopelessly slaving to farm a dusty patch in the scrub.
`Why don't you chuck up that dust-hole and go up country and settle
on good land, Peter Olsen? You're only slaving your stomach out here.'
(She didn't say stomach.)
*Peter Olsen* (mild-whiskered little man, afraid of his wife). `But then
you know my wife is so delicate, Mrs Middleton. I wouldn't like to take her
out in the Bush.'
*Mrs Middleton*. `Delicate, be damned! she's only shamming!'
(at her loudest.) `Why don't you kick her off the bed and the book
out of her hand, and make her go to work? She's as delicate as I am.
Are you a man, Peter Olsen, or a ----?'
This for the edification of the wife and of all within half a mile.
Long Paddock was `petering'. There were a few claims still being worked
down at the lowest end, where big, red-and-white waste-heaps
of clay and gravel, rising above the blue-grey gum-bushes,
advertised deep sinking; and little, yellow, clay-stained streams,
running towards the creek over the drought-parched surface, told of trouble
with the water below -- time lost in baling and extra expense in timbering.
And diggers came up with their flannels and moleskins yellow and heavy,
and dripping with wet `mullock'.
Most of the diggers had gone to other fields, but there were
a few prospecting, in parties and singly, out on the flats and amongst
the ridges round Pipeclay. Sinking holes in search of a new Ballarat.
- miserable [´mizərəbəl]
a.悲惨的；可怜的 (初中英语单词) - accuse [ə´kju:z] vt.谴责；控告，告发 (初中英语单词)
- forehead [´fɔrid] n.额，前部 (初中英语单词)
- pointed [´pɔintid] a.尖(锐)的；中肯的 (初中英语单词)
- eternal [i´tə:nəl] a.永远的；永恒的 (初中英语单词)
- running [´rʌniŋ] a.奔跑的；流动的 (初中英语单词)
- breath [breθ] n.呼吸；气息 (初中英语单词)
- harness [´hɑ:nis] vt.上马具 n.马具 (初中英语单词)
- holland [´hɔlənd] n.荷兰 (初中英语单词)
- rattle [´rætl] n.嘎吱声 (初中英语单词)
- presently [´prezəntli] ad.不久；目前 (初中英语单词)
- writer [´raitə] n.作者；作家 (初中英语单词)
- writing [´raitiŋ] n.书写；写作；书法 (初中英语单词)
- sketch [sketʃ] n.素描；短剧 v.草拟 (初中英语单词)
- series [´siəri:z] n.连续；系列；丛书 (初中英语单词)
- character [´kæriktə] n.特性；性质；人物；字 (初中英语单词)
- weakness [´wi:knis] n.虚弱；弱点，缺点 (初中英语单词)
- comparatively [kəm´pærətivli] ad.比较地；比较上 (初中英语单词)
- mostly [´məustli] ad.主要地；多半；通常 (初中英语单词)
- policeman [pə´li:smən] n.警察 (初中英语单词)
- mainly [´meinli] ad.主要地；大体上 (初中英语单词)
- thoroughly [´θʌrəli] ad.完全地，彻底地 (初中英语单词)
- contrary [´kɔntrəri] a.相反的 n.相反 (初中英语单词)
- stomach [´stʌmək] n.胃；胃口，食欲 (初中英语单词)
- delicate [´delikət] a.精美的；微妙的 (初中英语单词)
- impatient [im´peiʃənt] a.不耐烦的，急躁的 (高中英语单词)
- hearing [´hiəriŋ] n.听力；听证会；审讯 (高中英语单词)
- everyday [´evridei] a.每日的，日常的 (高中英语单词)
- occurrence [ə´kʌrəns] n.发生；(偶发)事件 (高中英语单词)
- gallon [´gælən] n.加伦 (高中英语单词)
- ginger [´dʒindʒə] n.姜；精神，元气 (高中英语单词)
- saying [´seiŋ, ´sei-iŋ] n.言语；言论；格言 (高中英语单词)
- alongside [əlɔŋ´said] ad.在旁 prep.横靠 (高中英语单词)
- deliberately [di´libərətli] ad.故意地；慎重地 (高中英语单词)
- boyhood [´bɔihud] n.少年时代(期) (高中英语单词)
- donkey [´dɔŋki] n.驴子；蠢人；顽固的人 (高中英语单词)
- boiler [´bɔilə] n.锅炉 (高中英语单词)
- muscular [´mʌskjulə] a.肌肉的；强有力的 (高中英语单词)
- specimen [´spesimən] n.标本，样品；抽样 (高中英语单词)
- cemetery [´semitri] n.墓地，公墓 (高中英语单词)
- coffin [´kɔfin] n.棺材，柩 (高中英语单词)
- sewing [´səuiŋ] n.缝纫；(书的)装订 (高中英语单词)
- gravel [´grævəl] n.砾石 vt.铺砾石 (高中英语单词)
- trying [´traiiŋ] a.难堪的；费劲的 (英语四级单词)
- lemonade [,lemə´neid] n.柠檬水 (英语四级单词)
- blooming [´blu:miŋ] a.正开花的；妙龄的 (英语四级单词)
- sentimental [,senti´mentl] a.感伤的；多愁善感的 (英语四级单词)
- periodical [,piəri´ɔdikəl] a.定期的 n.期刊 (英语四级单词)
- adjacent [ə´dʒeisənt] a.接近的；紧接着的 (英语四级单词)
- corpse [kɔ:ps] n.尸体 (英语四级单词)
- unfair [ʌn´feə] a.不公平的；不正直的 (英语四级单词)
- hopelessly [´həuplisli] ad.无希望地，绝望地 (英语四级单词)
- unbearable [ʌn´beərəbəl] a.不堪忍受的 (英语六级单词)
- hysterical [hi´sterikəl] a.歇斯底里的，癔病的 (英语六级单词)
- taking [´teikiŋ] a.迷人的 n.捕获物 (英语六级单词)
- selfishness [´selfiʃnis] n.自私；不顾别人 (英语六级单词)
- sydney [´sidni] n.悉尼 (英语六级单词)
- speaking [´spi:kiŋ] n.说话 a.发言的 (英语六级单词)
- applied [ə´plaid] a.实用的，应用的 (英语六级单词)
- firewood [´faiəwud] n.柴，薪 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
章节正文
京公网安备 11011202003401号
