章节正文
away from the light. Miss Standish put her arm round her sister.
`He died very easy,' said Andy. `He was a bit off his head at times,
but that was while the fever was on him. He didn't suffer much
towards the end -- I don't think he suffered at all. . . . He talked a lot
about you and the children.' (Andy was speaking very softly now.) `He said
that you were not to fret, but to cheer up for the children's sake. . . .
It was the biggest funeral ever seen round there.'
Mrs Baker was crying softly. Andy got the packet half out of his pocket,
but shoved it back again.
`The only thing that hurts me now,' says Mrs Baker presently,
`is to think of my poor husband buried out there in the lonely Bush,
so far from home. It's -- cruel!' and she was sobbing again.
`Oh, that's all right, Mrs Baker,' said Andy, losing his head a little.
`Ned will see to that. Ned is going to arrange to have him
brought down and buried in Sydney.' Which was about the first thing
Andy had told her that evening that wasn't a lie. Ned had said he would do it
as soon as he sold his wool.
`It's very kind indeed of Ned,' sobbed Mrs Baker. `I'd never have dreamed
he was so kind-hearted and thoughtful. I misjudged him all along.
And that is all you have to tell me about poor Robert?'
`Yes,' said Andy -- then one of his `happy thoughts' struck him.
`Except that he hoped you'd shift to Sydney, Mrs Baker,
where you've got friends and relations. He thought it would be better
for you and the children. He told me to tell you that.'
`He was thoughtful up to the end,' said Mrs Baker. `It was just like
poor Robert -- always thinking of me and the children. We are going to Sydney
next week.'
Andy looked relieved. We talked a little more, and Miss Standish
wanted to make coffee for us, but we had to go and see to our horses.
We got up and bumped against each other, and got each other's hats,
and promised Mrs Baker we'd come again.
`Thank you very much for coming,' she said, shaking hands with us.
`I feel much better now. You don't know how much you have relieved me.
Now, mind, you have promised to come and see me again for the last time.'
Andy caught her sister's eye and jerked his head towards the door
to let her know he wanted to speak to her outside.
`Good-bye, Mrs Baker,' he said, holding on to her hand. `And don't you fret.
You've -- you've got the children yet. It's -- it's all for the best;
and, besides, the Boss said you wasn't to fret.' And he blundered out
after me and Miss Standish.
She came out to the gate with us, and Andy gave her the packet.
`I want you to give that to her,' he said; `it's his letters and papers.
I hadn't the heart to give it to her, somehow.'
`Tell me, Mr M`Culloch,' she said. `You've kept something back --
you haven't told her the truth. It would be better and safer for me to know.
Was it an accident -- or the drink?'
`It was the drink,' said Andy. `I was going to tell you --
I thought it would be best to tell you. I had made up my mind to do it,
but, somehow, I couldn't have done it if you hadn't asked me.'
`Tell me all,' she said. `It would be better for me to know.'
`Come a little farther away from the house,' said Andy.
She came along the fence a piece with us, and Andy told her
as much of the truth as he could.
`I'll hurry her off to Sydney,' she said. `We can get away this week
as well as next.' Then she stood for a minute before us, breathing quickly,
her hands behind her back and her eyes shining in the moonlight.
She looked splendid.
`I want to thank you for her sake,' she said quickly. `You are good men!
I like the Bushmen! They are grand men -- they are noble!
I'll probably never see either of you again, so it doesn't matter,'
and she put her white hand on Andy's shoulder and kissed him fair and square
on the mouth. `And you, too!' she said to me. I was taller than Andy,
and had to stoop. `Good-bye!' she said, and ran to the gate and in,
waving her hand to us. We lifted our hats again and turned down the road.
I don't think it did either of us any harm.
A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs.
This is a story -- about the only one -- of Job Falconer,
Boss of the Talbragar sheep-station up country in New South Wales
in the early Eighties -- when there were still runs in the Dingo-Scrubs
out of the hands of the banks, and yet squatters who lived on their stations.
Job would never tell the story himself, at least not complete,
and as his family grew up he would become as angry as it was
in his easy-going nature to become if reference were made to the incident
in his presence. But his wife -- little, plump, bright-eyed Gerty Falconer --
often told the story (in the mysterious voice which women use
in speaking of private matters amongst themselves -- but with
brightening eyes) to women friends over tea; and always to a new woman friend.
And on such occasions she would be particularly tender
towards the unconscious Job, and ruffle his thin, sandy hair in a way
that embarrassed him in company -- made him look as sheepish
as an old big-horned ram that has just been shorn and turned amongst the ewes.
And the woman friend on parting would give Job's hand a squeeze
which would surprise him mildly, and look at him as if she could love him.
According to a theory of mine, Job, to fit the story, should have been tall,
and dark, and stern, or gloomy and quick-tempered. But he wasn't.
He was fairly tall, but he was fresh-complexioned and sandy
(his skin was pink to scarlet in some weathers, with blotches of umber),
and his eyes were pale-grey; his big forehead loomed babyishly,
his arms were short, and his legs bowed to the saddle.
Altogether he was an awkward, unlovely Bush bird -- on foot;
in the saddle it was different. He hadn't even a `temper'.
The impression on Job's mind which many years afterwards
brought about the incident was strong enough. When Job was a boy of fourteen
he saw his father's horse come home riderless -- circling and snorting
up by the stockyard, head jerked down whenever the hoof trod on
one of the snapped ends of the bridle-reins, and saddle twisted over the side
with bruised pommel and knee-pad broken off.
Job's father wasn't hurt much, but Job's mother, an emotional woman,
and then in a delicate state of health, survived the shock
for three months only. `She wasn't quite right in her head,' they said,
`from the day the horse came home till the last hour before she died.'
And, strange to say, Job's father (from whom Job inherited
his seeminglyplacid nature) died three months later.
The doctor from the town was of the opinion that he must have
`sustained internal injuries' when the horse threw him.
`Doc. Wild' (eccentric Bush doctor) reckoned that Job's father was hurt inside
when his wife died, and hurt so badly that he couldn't pull round.
But doctors differ all over the world.
Well, the story of Job himself came about in this way.
He had been married a year, and had lately started wool-raising
on a pastoral lease he had taken up at Talbragar: it was a new run,
with new slab-and-bark huts on the creek for a homestead,
new shearing-shed, yards -- wife and everything new, and he was
expecting a baby. Job felt brand-new himself at the time, so he said.
It was a lonely place for a young woman; but Gerty was a settler's daughter.
The newness took away some of the loneliness, she said, and there was truth
in that: a Bush home in the scrubs looks lonelier the older it gets,
and ghostlier in the twilight, as the bark and slabs whiten,
or rather grow grey, in fierce summers. And there's nothing under God's sky
so weird, so aggressively lonely, as a deserted old home in the Bush.
Job's wife had a half-caste gin for company when Job was away on the run,
and the nearest white woman (a hard but honest Lancashire woman
from within the kicking radius in Lancashire -- wife of a selector)
was only seven miles away. She promised to be on hand,
and came over two or three times a-week; but Job grew restless
as Gerty's time drew near, and wished that he had insisted on sending her
to the nearest town (thirty miles away), as originally proposed.
Gerty's mother, who lived in town, was coming to see her over her trouble;
Job had made arrangements with the town doctor, but prompt attendance
could hardly be expected of a doctor who was very busy,
who was too fat to ride, and who lived thirty miles away.
Job, in common with most Bushmen and their families round there,
had more faith in Doc. Wild, a weird Yankee who made medicine in a saucepan,
and worked more cures on Bushmen than did the other three doctors
of the district together -- maybe because the Bushmen had faith in him,
or he knew the Bush and Bush constitutions -- or, perhaps,
because he'd do things which no `respectable practitioner' dared do.
I've described him in another story. Some said he was a quack,
and some said he wasn't. There are scores of wrecks and mysteries like him
in the Bush. He drank fearfully, and `on his own', but was seldom incapable
of performing an operation. Experienced Bushmen preferred him
three-quarters drunk: when perfectly sober he was apt to be a bit shaky.
He was tall, gaunt, had a pointed black moustache, bushy eyebrows,
and piercing black eyes. His movements were eccentric. He lived
where he happened to be -- in a town hotel, in the best room of a homestead,
in the skillion of a sly-grog shanty, in a shearer's, digger's, shepherd's,
or boundary-rider's hut; in a surveyor's camp or a black-fellows' camp --
or, when the horrors were on him, by a log in the lonely Bush.
It seemed all one to him. He lost all his things sometimes --
even his clothes; but he never lost a pigskin bag which contained
his surgical instruments and papers. Except once; then he gave the blacks
5 Pounds to find it for him.
His patients included all, from the big squatter to Black Jimmy;
and he rode as far and fast to a squatter's home as to a swagman's camp.
When nothing was to be expected from a poor selector or a station hand,
and the doctor was hard up, he went to the squatter for a few pounds.
He had on occasions been offered cheques of 50 Pounds and 100 Pounds
by squatters for `pulling round' their wives or children;
but such offers always angered him. When he asked for 5 Pounds
he resented being offered a 10 Pound cheque. He once sued a doctor
for alleging that he held no diploma; but the magistrate, on reading
certain papers, suggested a settlement out of court, which both doctors
agreed to -- the other doctor apologising briefly in the local paper.
It was noticed thereafter that the magistrate and town doctors
treated Doc. Wild with great respect -- even at his worst.
The thing was never explained, and the case deepened the mystery
which surrounded Doc. Wild.
As Job Falconer's crisis approached Doc. Wild was located at a shanty
on the main road, about half-way between Job's station and the town.
(Township of Come-by-Chance -- expressive name; and the shanty was
the `Dead Dingo Hotel', kept by James Myles -- known as `Poisonous Jimmy',
perhaps as a compliment to, or a libel on, the liquor he sold.)
Job's brother Mac. was stationed at the Dead Dingo Hotel
with instructions to hang round on some pretence, see that the doctor
didn't either drink himself into the `D.T.'s' or get sober enough
to become restless; to prevent his going away, or to follow him if he did;
and to bring him to the station in about a week's time.
Mac. (rather more careless, brighter, and more energetic than his brother)
was carrying out these instructions while pretending,
with rather great success, to be himself on the spree at the shanty.
But one morning, early in the specified week, Job's uneasiness
was suddenly greatly increased by certain symptoms, so he sent the black boy
for the neighbour's wife and decided to ride to Come-by-Chance
to hurry out Gerty's mother, and see, by the way, how Doc. Wild and Mac.
were getting on. On the arrival of the neighbour's wife, who drove over
in a spring-cart, Job mounted his horse (a freshly broken filly) and started.
`Don't be anxious, Job,' said Gerty, as he bent down to kiss her.
`We'll be all right. Wait! you'd better take the gun --
you might see those dingoes again. I'll get it for you.'
The dingoes (native dogs) were very bad amongst the sheep;
and Job and Gerty had started three together close to the track
the last time they were out in company -- without the gun, of course.
Gerty took the loaded gun carefully down from its straps on the bedroom wall,
carried it out, and handed it up to Job, who bent and kissed her again
and then rode off.
It was a hot day -- the beginning of a long drought, as Job found
to his bitter cost. He followed the track for five or six miles
through the thick, monotonous scrub, and then turned off
to make a short cut to the main road across a big ring-barked flat.
The tall gum-trees had been ring-barked (a ring of bark taken out
round the butts), or rather `sapped' -- that is, a ring cut in through the sap
`He died very easy,' said Andy. `He was a bit off his head at times,
but that was while the fever was on him. He didn't suffer much
towards the end -- I don't think he suffered at all. . . . He talked a lot
about you and the children.' (Andy was speaking very softly now.) `He said
that you were not to fret, but to cheer up for the children's sake. . . .
It was the biggest funeral ever seen round there.'
Mrs Baker was crying softly. Andy got the packet half out of his pocket,
but shoved it back again.
`The only thing that hurts me now,' says Mrs Baker presently,
`is to think of my poor husband buried out there in the lonely Bush,
so far from home. It's -- cruel!' and she was sobbing again.
`Oh, that's all right, Mrs Baker,' said Andy, losing his head a little.
`Ned will see to that. Ned is going to arrange to have him
brought down and buried in Sydney.' Which was about the first thing
Andy had told her that evening that wasn't a lie. Ned had said he would do it
as soon as he sold his wool.
`It's very kind indeed of Ned,' sobbed Mrs Baker. `I'd never have dreamed
he was so kind-hearted and thoughtful. I misjudged him all along.
And that is all you have to tell me about poor Robert?'
`Yes,' said Andy -- then one of his `happy thoughts' struck him.
`Except that he hoped you'd shift to Sydney, Mrs Baker,
where you've got friends and relations. He thought it would be better
for you and the children. He told me to tell you that.'
`He was thoughtful up to the end,' said Mrs Baker. `It was just like
poor Robert -- always thinking of me and the children. We are going to Sydney
next week.'
Andy looked relieved. We talked a little more, and Miss Standish
wanted to make coffee for us, but we had to go and see to our horses.
We got up and bumped against each other, and got each other's hats,
and promised Mrs Baker we'd come again.
`Thank you very much for coming,' she said, shaking hands with us.
`I feel much better now. You don't know how much you have relieved me.
Now, mind, you have promised to come and see me again for the last time.'
Andy caught her sister's eye and jerked his head towards the door
to let her know he wanted to speak to her outside.
`Good-bye, Mrs Baker,' he said, holding on to her hand. `And don't you fret.
You've -- you've got the children yet. It's -- it's all for the best;
and, besides, the Boss said you wasn't to fret.' And he blundered out
after me and Miss Standish.
She came out to the gate with us, and Andy gave her the packet.
`I want you to give that to her,' he said; `it's his letters and papers.
I hadn't the heart to give it to her, somehow.'
`Tell me, Mr M`Culloch,' she said. `You've kept something back --
you haven't told her the truth. It would be better and safer for me to know.
Was it an accident -- or the drink?'
`It was the drink,' said Andy. `I was going to tell you --
I thought it would be best to tell you. I had made up my mind to do it,
but, somehow, I couldn't have done it if you hadn't asked me.'
`Tell me all,' she said. `It would be better for me to know.'
`Come a little farther away from the house,' said Andy.
She came along the fence a piece with us, and Andy told her
as much of the truth as he could.
`I'll hurry her off to Sydney,' she said. `We can get away this week
as well as next.' Then she stood for a minute before us, breathing quickly,
her hands behind her back and her eyes shining in the moonlight.
She looked splendid.
`I want to thank you for her sake,' she said quickly. `You are good men!
I like the Bushmen! They are grand men -- they are noble!
I'll probably never see either of you again, so it doesn't matter,'
and she put her white hand on Andy's shoulder and kissed him fair and square
on the mouth. `And you, too!' she said to me. I was taller than Andy,
and had to stoop. `Good-bye!' she said, and ran to the gate and in,
waving her hand to us. We lifted our hats again and turned down the road.
I don't think it did either of us any harm.
A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs.
This is a story -- about the only one -- of Job Falconer,
Boss of the Talbragar sheep-station up country in New South Wales
in the early Eighties -- when there were still runs in the Dingo-Scrubs
out of the hands of the banks, and yet squatters who lived on their stations.
Job would never tell the story himself, at least not complete,
and as his family grew up he would become as angry as it was
in his easy-going nature to become if reference were made to the incident
in his presence. But his wife -- little, plump, bright-eyed Gerty Falconer --
often told the story (in the mysterious voice which women use
in speaking of private matters amongst themselves -- but with
brightening eyes) to women friends over tea; and always to a new woman friend.
And on such occasions she would be particularly tender
towards the unconscious Job, and ruffle his thin, sandy hair in a way
that embarrassed him in company -- made him look as sheepish
as an old big-horned ram that has just been shorn and turned amongst the ewes.
And the woman friend on parting would give Job's hand a squeeze
which would surprise him mildly, and look at him as if she could love him.
According to a theory of mine, Job, to fit the story, should have been tall,
and dark, and stern, or gloomy and quick-tempered. But he wasn't.
He was fairly tall, but he was fresh-complexioned and sandy
(his skin was pink to scarlet in some weathers, with blotches of umber),
and his eyes were pale-grey; his big forehead loomed babyishly,
his arms were short, and his legs bowed to the saddle.
Altogether he was an awkward, unlovely Bush bird -- on foot;
in the saddle it was different. He hadn't even a `temper'.
The impression on Job's mind which many years afterwards
brought about the incident was strong enough. When Job was a boy of fourteen
he saw his father's horse come home riderless -- circling and snorting
up by the stockyard, head jerked down whenever the hoof trod on
one of the snapped ends of the bridle-reins, and saddle twisted over the side
with bruised pommel and knee-pad broken off.
Job's father wasn't hurt much, but Job's mother, an emotional woman,
and then in a delicate state of health, survived the shock
for three months only. `She wasn't quite right in her head,' they said,
`from the day the horse came home till the last hour before she died.'
And, strange to say, Job's father (from whom Job inherited
his seeminglyplacid nature) died three months later.
The doctor from the town was of the opinion that he must have
`sustained internal injuries' when the horse threw him.
`Doc. Wild' (eccentric Bush doctor) reckoned that Job's father was hurt inside
when his wife died, and hurt so badly that he couldn't pull round.
But doctors differ all over the world.
Well, the story of Job himself came about in this way.
He had been married a year, and had lately started wool-raising
on a pastoral lease he had taken up at Talbragar: it was a new run,
with new slab-and-bark huts on the creek for a homestead,
new shearing-shed, yards -- wife and everything new, and he was
expecting a baby. Job felt brand-new himself at the time, so he said.
It was a lonely place for a young woman; but Gerty was a settler's daughter.
The newness took away some of the loneliness, she said, and there was truth
in that: a Bush home in the scrubs looks lonelier the older it gets,
and ghostlier in the twilight, as the bark and slabs whiten,
or rather grow grey, in fierce summers. And there's nothing under God's sky
so weird, so aggressively lonely, as a deserted old home in the Bush.
Job's wife had a half-caste gin for company when Job was away on the run,
and the nearest white woman (a hard but honest Lancashire woman
from within the kicking radius in Lancashire -- wife of a selector)
was only seven miles away. She promised to be on hand,
and came over two or three times a-week; but Job grew restless
as Gerty's time drew near, and wished that he had insisted on sending her
to the nearest town (thirty miles away), as originally proposed.
Gerty's mother, who lived in town, was coming to see her over her trouble;
Job had made arrangements with the town doctor, but prompt attendance
could hardly be expected of a doctor who was very busy,
who was too fat to ride, and who lived thirty miles away.
Job, in common with most Bushmen and their families round there,
had more faith in Doc. Wild, a weird Yankee who made medicine in a saucepan,
and worked more cures on Bushmen than did the other three doctors
of the district together -- maybe because the Bushmen had faith in him,
or he knew the Bush and Bush constitutions -- or, perhaps,
because he'd do things which no `respectable practitioner' dared do.
I've described him in another story. Some said he was a quack,
and some said he wasn't. There are scores of wrecks and mysteries like him
in the Bush. He drank fearfully, and `on his own', but was seldom incapable
of performing an operation. Experienced Bushmen preferred him
three-quarters drunk: when perfectly sober he was apt to be a bit shaky.
He was tall, gaunt, had a pointed black moustache, bushy eyebrows,
and piercing black eyes. His movements were eccentric. He lived
where he happened to be -- in a town hotel, in the best room of a homestead,
in the skillion of a sly-grog shanty, in a shearer's, digger's, shepherd's,
or boundary-rider's hut; in a surveyor's camp or a black-fellows' camp --
or, when the horrors were on him, by a log in the lonely Bush.
It seemed all one to him. He lost all his things sometimes --
even his clothes; but he never lost a pigskin bag which contained
his surgical instruments and papers. Except once; then he gave the blacks
5 Pounds to find it for him.
His patients included all, from the big squatter to Black Jimmy;
and he rode as far and fast to a squatter's home as to a swagman's camp.
When nothing was to be expected from a poor selector or a station hand,
and the doctor was hard up, he went to the squatter for a few pounds.
He had on occasions been offered cheques of 50 Pounds and 100 Pounds
by squatters for `pulling round' their wives or children;
but such offers always angered him. When he asked for 5 Pounds
he resented being offered a 10 Pound cheque. He once sued a doctor
for alleging that he held no diploma; but the magistrate, on reading
certain papers, suggested a settlement out of court, which both doctors
agreed to -- the other doctor apologising briefly in the local paper.
It was noticed thereafter that the magistrate and town doctors
treated Doc. Wild with great respect -- even at his worst.
The thing was never explained, and the case deepened the mystery
which surrounded Doc. Wild.
As Job Falconer's crisis approached Doc. Wild was located at a shanty
on the main road, about half-way between Job's station and the town.
(Township of Come-by-Chance -- expressive name; and the shanty was
the `Dead Dingo Hotel', kept by James Myles -- known as `Poisonous Jimmy',
perhaps as a compliment to, or a libel on, the liquor he sold.)
Job's brother Mac. was stationed at the Dead Dingo Hotel
with instructions to hang round on some pretence, see that the doctor
didn't either drink himself into the `D.T.'s' or get sober enough
to become restless; to prevent his going away, or to follow him if he did;
and to bring him to the station in about a week's time.
Mac. (rather more careless, brighter, and more energetic than his brother)
was carrying out these instructions while pretending,
with rather great success, to be himself on the spree at the shanty.
But one morning, early in the specified week, Job's uneasiness
was suddenly greatly increased by certain symptoms, so he sent the black boy
for the neighbour's wife and decided to ride to Come-by-Chance
to hurry out Gerty's mother, and see, by the way, how Doc. Wild and Mac.
were getting on. On the arrival of the neighbour's wife, who drove over
in a spring-cart, Job mounted his horse (a freshly broken filly) and started.
`Don't be anxious, Job,' said Gerty, as he bent down to kiss her.
`We'll be all right. Wait! you'd better take the gun --
you might see those dingoes again. I'll get it for you.'
The dingoes (native dogs) were very bad amongst the sheep;
and Job and Gerty had started three together close to the track
the last time they were out in company -- without the gun, of course.
Gerty took the loaded gun carefully down from its straps on the bedroom wall,
carried it out, and handed it up to Job, who bent and kissed her again
and then rode off.
It was a hot day -- the beginning of a long drought, as Job found
to his bitter cost. He followed the track for five or six miles
through the thick, monotonous scrub, and then turned off
to make a short cut to the main road across a big ring-barked flat.
The tall gum-trees had been ring-barked (a ring of bark taken out
round the butts), or rather `sapped' -- that is, a ring cut in through the sap
- softly [´sɔftli]
ad.软化地；柔和地 (初中英语单词) - funeral [´fju:nərəl] n.葬礼，丧葬；困难 (初中英语单词)
- lonely [´ləunli] a.孤独的；无人烟的 (初中英语单词)
- reference [´refərəns] n.参考；参照；出处 (初中英语单词)
- mysterious [mi´stiəriəs] a.神秘的；难以理解的 (初中英语单词)
- scarlet [´skɑ:lit] n.猩红色 a.猩红的 (初中英语单词)
- forehead [´fɔrid] n.额，前部 (初中英语单词)
- saddle [´sædl] n.鞍子 v.装鞍(于) (初中英语单词)
- impression [im´preʃən] n.印刷；印象；效果 (初中英语单词)
- incident [´insidənt] n.小事件；事变 (初中英语单词)
- whenever [wen´evə] conj.&ad.无论何时 (初中英语单词)
- emotional [i´məuʃənəl] a.易动感情的；情感的 (初中英语单词)
- delicate [´delikət] a.精美的；微妙的 (初中英语单词)
- differ [´difə] vi.不同；有差别 (初中英语单词)
- lately [´leitli] ad.近来，不久前 (初中英语单词)
- twilight [´twailait] n.黎明；黄昏 (初中英语单词)
- fierce [fiəs] a.残忍的；强烈的 (初中英语单词)
- yankee [´jæŋki] n.美国佬；美国公民 (初中英语单词)
- pointed [´pɔintid] a.尖(锐)的；中肯的 (初中英语单词)
- briefly [´bri:fli] ad.简短地；简略地 (初中英语单词)
- liquor [´likə] n.酒类；(溶)液 (初中英语单词)
- restless [´restləs] a.没有休息的 (初中英语单词)
- careless [´keəlis] a.粗心的；草率的 (初中英语单词)
- arrival [ə´raivəl] n.到达；到达的人(物) (初中英语单词)
- anxious [´æŋkʃəs] a.担忧的；渴望的 (初中英语单词)
- beginning [bi´giniŋ] n.开始，开端；起源 (初中英语单词)
- thoughtful [´θɔ:tfəl] a.深思的；体贴的 (高中英语单词)
- amongst [ə´mʌŋst] prep.其中之一 =among (高中英语单词)
- unconscious [ʌn´kɔnʃəs] a.无意识的；不觉察的 (高中英语单词)
- ruffle [´rʌfl] v.弄皱；扰乱 n.轻擂 (高中英语单词)
- gloomy [´glu:mi] a.昏暗的；忧郁的 (高中英语单词)
- awkward [´ɔ:kwəd] a.笨拙的；为难的 (高中英语单词)
- internal [in´tə:nl] a.内部的；国内的 (高中英语单词)
- loneliness [´ləunliniz] n.孤独，寂寞 (高中英语单词)
- originally [ə´ridʒənəli] ad.本来；独创地 (高中英语单词)
- prompt [prɔmpt] a.敏捷的 vt.促使 (高中英语单词)
- perfectly [´pə:fiktli] ad.理想地；完美地 (高中英语单词)
- thereafter [ðeə´rɑ:ftə] adv.此后，其后 (高中英语单词)
- crisis [´kraisis] n.转折点；危机 (高中英语单词)
- half-way [´hɑ:fwei] ad.半途；几乎 (高中英语单词)
- compliment [´kɔmplimənt] n.敬意 vt.赞美；祝贺 (高中英语单词)
- pretence [pri´tens] n.假装；托词；无理要求 (高中英语单词)
- decided [di´saidid] a.明显的；决定的 (高中英语单词)
- packet [´pækit] n.盒 vt....打成小包 (英语四级单词)
- parting [´pɑ:tiŋ] a.&n.分离(的) (英语四级单词)
- mildly [´maildli] ad.温和地；适度地 (英语四级单词)
- seemingly [´si:miŋli] ad.表面上；似乎 (英语四级单词)
- placid [´plæsid] a.平静的；温和的 (英语四级单词)
- pastoral [´pɑ:stərəl] a.牧(羊)人的 n.田园诗 (英语四级单词)
- experienced [ik´spiəriənst] a.有经验的；熟练的 (英语四级单词)
- energetic [,enə´dʒetik] a.精力旺盛的；有力的 (英语四级单词)
- freshly [´freʃli] ad.新近，刚才 (英语四级单词)
- drought [draut] n.旱灾；干旱 (英语四级单词)
- monotonous [mə´nɔtənəs] a.单(音)调的 (英语四级单词)
- speaking [´spi:kiŋ] n.说话 a.发言的 (英语六级单词)
- sydney [´sidni] n.悉尼 (英语六级单词)
- holding [´həuldiŋ] n.保持，固定，存储 (英语六级单词)
- radius [´reidiəs] n.辐射光线；半径范围 (英语六级单词)
- piercing [´piəsiŋ] a.刺(贯)穿的；尖刻的 (英语六级单词)
- eccentric [ik´sentrik] a.古怪的；离心的 (英语六级单词)
- diploma [di´pləumə] n.文凭，证书 (英语六级单词)
- expressive [ik´spresiv] a.有表现力的 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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