章节正文
They took the candle, and went up. The candle lurched up against the
wall when they got into the room, and went out, and they had to undress
and grope into bed in the dark. This they did; but, instead of getting
into separate beds, as they thought they were doing, they both climbed
into the same one without knowing it - one getting in with his head at
the top, and the other crawling in from the opposite side of the compass,
and lying with his feet on the pillow.
There was silence for a moment, and then George's father said:
"Joe!"
"What's the matter, Tom?" replied Joe's voice from the other end of the
bed.
"Why, there's a man in my bed," said George's father; "here's his feet on
my pillow."
"Well, it's an extraordinary thing, Tom," answered the other; "but I'm
blest if there isn't a man in my bed, too!"
"What are you going to do?" asked George's father.
"Well, I'm going to chuck him out," replied Joe.
"So am I," said George's father, valiantly.
There was a brief struggle, followed by two heavy bumps on the floor, and
then a rather doleful voice said:
"I say, Tom!"
"Yes!"
"How have you got on?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, my man's chucked me out."
"So's mine! I say, I don't think much of this inn, do you?"
"What was the name of that inn?" said Harris.
"The Pig and Whistle," said George. "Why?"
"Ah, no, then it isn't the same," replied Harris.
"What do you mean?" queried George.
"Why it's so curious," murmured Harris, "but precisely that very same
thing happened to MY father once at a country inn. I've often heard him
tell the tale. I thought it might have been the same inn."
We turned in at ten that night, and I thought I should sleep well, being
tired; but I didn't. As a rule, I undress and put my head on the pillow,
and then somebody bangs at the door, and says it is half-past eight: but,
to-night, everything seemed against me; the novelty of it all, the
hardness of the boat, the cramped position (I was lying with my feet
under one seat, and my head on another), the sound of the lapping water
round the boat, and the wind among the branches, kept me restless and
disturbed.
I did get to sleep for a few hours, and then some part of the boat which
seemed to have grown up in the night - for it certainly was not there
when we started, and it had disappeared by the morning - kept digging
into my spine. I slept through it for a while, dreaming that I had
swallowed a sovereign, and that they were cutting a hole in my back with
a gimlet, so as to try and get it out. I thought it very unkind of them,
and I told them I would owe them the money, and they should have it at
the end of the month. But they would not hear of that, and said it would
be much better if they had it then, because otherwise the interest would
accumulate so. I got quite cross with them after a bit, and told them
what I thought of them, and then they gave the gimlet such an
excruciating wrench that I woke up.
The boat seemed stuffy, and my head ached; so I thought I would step out
into the cool night-air. I slipped on what clothes I could find about -
some of my own, and some of George's and Harris's - and crept under the
canvas on to the bank.
It was a glorious night. The moon had sunk, and left the quiet earth
alone with the stars. It seemed as if, in the silence and the hush,
while we her children slept, they were talking with her, their sister -
conversing of mighty mysteries in voices too vast and deep for childish
human ears to catch the sound.
They awe us, these strange stars, so cold, so clear. We are as children
whose small feet have strayed into some dim-lit temple of the god they
have been taught to worship but know not; and, standing where the echoing
dome spans the long vista of the shadowy light, glance up, half hoping,
half afraid to see some awful vision hovering there.
And yet it seems so full of comfort and of strength, the night. In its
great presence, our small sorrows creep away, ashamed. The day has been
so full of fret and care, and our hearts have been so full of evil and of
bitter thoughts, and the world has seemed so hard and wrong to us. Then
Night, like some great loving mother, gently lays her hand upon our
fevered head, and turns our little tear-stained faces up to hers, and
smiles; and, though she does not speak, we know what she would say, and
lay our hot flushed cheek against her bosom, and the pain is gone.
Sometimes, our pain is very deep and real, and we stand before her very
silent, because there is no language for our pain, only a moan. Night's
heart is full of pity for us: she cannot ease our aching; she takes our
hand in hers, and the little world grows very small and very far away
beneath us, and, borne on her dark wings, we pass for a moment into a
mightier Presence than her own, and in the wondrous light of that great
Presence, all human life lies like a book before us, and we know that
Pain and Sorrow are but the angels of God.
Only those who have worn the crown of suffering can look upon that
wondrous light; and they, when they return, may not speak of it, or tell
the mystery they know.
Once upon a time, through a strange country, there rode some goodly
knights, and their path lay by a deep wood, where tangled briars grew
very thick and strong, and tore the flesh of them that lost their way
therein. And the leaves of the trees that grew in the wood were very
dark and thick, so that no ray of light came through the branches to
lighten the gloom and sadness.
And, as they passed by that dark wood, one knight of those that rode,
missing his comrades, wandered far away, and returned to them no more;
and they, sorely grieving, rode on without him, mourning him as one dead.
Now, when they reached the fair castle towards which they had been
journeying, they stayed there many days, and made merry; and one night,
as they sat in cheerful ease around the logs that burned in the great
hall, and drank a lovingmeasure, there came the comrade they had lost,
and greeted them. His clothes were ragged, like a beggar's, and many sad
wounds were on his sweet flesh, but upon his face there shone a great
radiance of deep joy.
And they questioned him, asking him what had befallen him: and he told
them how in the dark wood he had lost his way, and had wandered many days
and nights, till, torn and bleeding, he had lain him down to die.
Then, when he was nigh unto death, lo! through the savage gloom there
came to him a statelymaiden, and took him by the hand and led him on
through devious paths, unknown to any man, until upon the darkness of the
wood there dawned a light such as the light of day was unto but as a
little lamp unto the sun; and, in that wondrous light, our way-worn
knight saw as in a dream a vision, and so glorious, so fair the vision
seemed, that of his bleeding wounds he thought no more, but stood as one
entranced, whose joy is deep as is the sea, whereof no man can tell the
depth.
And the vision faded, and the knight, kneeling upon the ground, thanked
the good saint who into that sad wood had strayed his steps, so he had
seen the vision that lay there hid.
And the name of the dark forest was Sorrow; but of the vision that the
good knight saw therein we may not speak nor tell.
CHAPTER XI.
HOW GEORGE, ONCE UPON A TIME, GOT UP EARLY IN THE MORNING. - GEORGE,
HARRIS, AND MONTMORENCY DO NOT LIKE THE LOOK OF THE COLD WATER. - HEROISM
AND DETERMINATION ON THE PART OF J. - GEORGE AND HIS SHIRT: STORY WITH A
MORAL. - HARRIS AS COOK. - HISTORICAL RETROSPECT, SPECIALLY INSERTED FOR
THE USE OF SCHOOLS.
I WOKE at six the next morning; and found George awake too. We both
turned round, and tried to go to sleep again, but we could not. Had
there been any particular reason why we should not have gone to sleep
again, but have got up and dressed then and there, we should have dropped
off while we were looking at our watches, and have slept till ten. As
there was no earthly necessity for our getting up under another two hours
at the very least, and our getting up at that time was an utter
absurdity, it was only in keeping with the natural cussedness of things
in general that we should both feel that lying down for five minutes more
would be death to us.
George said that the same kind of thing, only worse, had happened to him
some eighteen months ago, when he was lodging by himself in the house of
a certain Mrs. Gippings. He said his watch went wrong one evening, and
stopped at a quarter-past eight. He did not know this at the time
because, for some reason or other, he forgot to wind it up when he went
to bed (an unusualoccurrence with him), and hung it up over his pillow
without ever looking at the thing.
It was in the winter when this happened, very near the shortest day, and
a week of fog into the bargain, so the fact that it was still very dark
when George woke in the morning was no guide to him as to the time. He
reached up, and hauled down his watch. It was a quarter-past eight.
"Angels and ministers of grace defend us!" exclaimed George; "and here
have I got to be in the City by nine. Why didn't somebody call me? Oh,
this is a shame!" And he flung the watch down, and sprang out of bed,
and had a cold bath, and washed himself, and dressed himself, and shaved
himself in cold water because there was not time to wait for the hot, and
then rushed and had another look at the watch.
Whether the shaking it had received in being thrown down on the bed had
started it, or how it was, George could not say, but certain it was that
from a quarter-past eight it had begun to go, and now pointed to twenty
minutes to nine.
George snatched it up, and rushed downstairs. In the sitting-room, all
was dark and silent: there was no fire, no breakfast. George said it was
a wicked shame of Mrs. G., and he made up his mind to tell her what he
thought of her when he came home in the evening. Then he dashed on his
great-coat and hat, and, seizing his umbrella, made for the front door.
The door was not even unbolted. George anathematized Mrs. G. for a lazy
old woman, and thought it was very strange that people could not get up
at a decent, respectable time, unlocked and unbolted the door, and ran
out.
He ran hard for a quarter of a mile, and at the end of that distance it
began to be borne in upon him as a strange and curious thing that there
were so few people about, and that there were no shops open. It was
certainly a very dark and foggy morning, but still it seemed an unusual
course to stop all business on that account. HE had to go to business:
why should other people stop in bed merely because it was dark and foggy!
At length he reached Holborn. Not a shutter was down! not a bus was
about! There were three men in sight, one of whom was a policeman; a
market-cart full of cabbages, and a dilapidated looking cab. George
pulled out his watch and looked at it: it was five minutes to nine! He
stood still and counted his pulse. He stooped down and felt his legs.
Then, with his watch still in his hand, he went up to the policeman, and
asked him if he knew what the time was.
"What's the time?" said the man, eyeing George up and down with evident
suspicion; "why, if you listen you will hear it strike."
George listened, and a neighbouring clock immediately obliged.
"But it's only gone three!" said George in an injured tone, when it had
finished.
"Well, and how many did you want it to go?" replied the constable.
"Why, nine," said George, showing his watch.
"Do you know where you live?" said the guardian of public order,
severely.
George thought, and gave the address.
"Oh! that's where it is, is it?" replied the man; "well, you take my
advice and go there quietly, and take that watch of yours with you; and
don't let's have any more of it."
And George went home again, musing as he walked along, and let himself
in.
At first, when he got in, he determined to undress and go to bed again;
but when he thought of the redressing and re-washing, and the having of
another bath, he determined he would not, but would sit up and go to
sleep in the easy-chair.
But he could not get to sleep: he never felt more wakeful in his life; so
he lit the lamp and got out the chess-board, and played himself a game of
chess. But even that did not enliven him: it seemed slow somehow; so he
gave chess up and tried to read. He did not seem able to take any sort
of interest in reading either, so he put on his coat again and went out
wall when they got into the room, and went out, and they had to undress
and grope into bed in the dark. This they did; but, instead of getting
into separate beds, as they thought they were doing, they both climbed
into the same one without knowing it - one getting in with his head at
the top, and the other crawling in from the opposite side of the compass,
and lying with his feet on the pillow.
There was silence for a moment, and then George's father said:
"Joe!"
"What's the matter, Tom?" replied Joe's voice from the other end of the
bed.
"Why, there's a man in my bed," said George's father; "here's his feet on
my pillow."
"Well, it's an extraordinary thing, Tom," answered the other; "but I'm
blest if there isn't a man in my bed, too!"
"What are you going to do?" asked George's father.
"Well, I'm going to chuck him out," replied Joe.
"So am I," said George's father, valiantly.
There was a brief struggle, followed by two heavy bumps on the floor, and
then a rather doleful voice said:
"I say, Tom!"
"Yes!"
"How have you got on?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, my man's chucked me out."
"So's mine! I say, I don't think much of this inn, do you?"
"What was the name of that inn?" said Harris.
"The Pig and Whistle," said George. "Why?"
"Ah, no, then it isn't the same," replied Harris.
"What do you mean?" queried George.
"Why it's so curious," murmured Harris, "but precisely that very same
thing happened to MY father once at a country inn. I've often heard him
tell the tale. I thought it might have been the same inn."
We turned in at ten that night, and I thought I should sleep well, being
tired; but I didn't. As a rule, I undress and put my head on the pillow,
and then somebody bangs at the door, and says it is half-past eight: but,
to-night, everything seemed against me; the novelty of it all, the
hardness of the boat, the cramped position (I was lying with my feet
under one seat, and my head on another), the sound of the lapping water
round the boat, and the wind among the branches, kept me restless and
disturbed.
I did get to sleep for a few hours, and then some part of the boat which
seemed to have grown up in the night - for it certainly was not there
when we started, and it had disappeared by the morning - kept digging
into my spine. I slept through it for a while, dreaming that I had
swallowed a sovereign, and that they were cutting a hole in my back with
a gimlet, so as to try and get it out. I thought it very unkind of them,
and I told them I would owe them the money, and they should have it at
the end of the month. But they would not hear of that, and said it would
be much better if they had it then, because otherwise the interest would
accumulate so. I got quite cross with them after a bit, and told them
what I thought of them, and then they gave the gimlet such an
excruciating wrench that I woke up.
The boat seemed stuffy, and my head ached; so I thought I would step out
into the cool night-air. I slipped on what clothes I could find about -
some of my own, and some of George's and Harris's - and crept under the
canvas on to the bank.
It was a glorious night. The moon had sunk, and left the quiet earth
alone with the stars. It seemed as if, in the silence and the hush,
while we her children slept, they were talking with her, their sister -
conversing of mighty mysteries in voices too vast and deep for childish
human ears to catch the sound.
They awe us, these strange stars, so cold, so clear. We are as children
whose small feet have strayed into some dim-lit temple of the god they
have been taught to worship but know not; and, standing where the echoing
dome spans the long vista of the shadowy light, glance up, half hoping,
half afraid to see some awful vision hovering there.
And yet it seems so full of comfort and of strength, the night. In its
great presence, our small sorrows creep away, ashamed. The day has been
so full of fret and care, and our hearts have been so full of evil and of
bitter thoughts, and the world has seemed so hard and wrong to us. Then
Night, like some great loving mother, gently lays her hand upon our
fevered head, and turns our little tear-stained faces up to hers, and
smiles; and, though she does not speak, we know what she would say, and
lay our hot flushed cheek against her bosom, and the pain is gone.
Sometimes, our pain is very deep and real, and we stand before her very
silent, because there is no language for our pain, only a moan. Night's
heart is full of pity for us: she cannot ease our aching; she takes our
hand in hers, and the little world grows very small and very far away
beneath us, and, borne on her dark wings, we pass for a moment into a
mightier Presence than her own, and in the wondrous light of that great
Presence, all human life lies like a book before us, and we know that
Pain and Sorrow are but the angels of God.
Only those who have worn the crown of suffering can look upon that
wondrous light; and they, when they return, may not speak of it, or tell
the mystery they know.
Once upon a time, through a strange country, there rode some goodly
knights, and their path lay by a deep wood, where tangled briars grew
very thick and strong, and tore the flesh of them that lost their way
therein. And the leaves of the trees that grew in the wood were very
dark and thick, so that no ray of light came through the branches to
lighten the gloom and sadness.
And, as they passed by that dark wood, one knight of those that rode,
missing his comrades, wandered far away, and returned to them no more;
and they, sorely grieving, rode on without him, mourning him as one dead.
Now, when they reached the fair castle towards which they had been
journeying, they stayed there many days, and made merry; and one night,
as they sat in cheerful ease around the logs that burned in the great
hall, and drank a lovingmeasure, there came the comrade they had lost,
and greeted them. His clothes were ragged, like a beggar's, and many sad
wounds were on his sweet flesh, but upon his face there shone a great
radiance of deep joy.
And they questioned him, asking him what had befallen him: and he told
them how in the dark wood he had lost his way, and had wandered many days
and nights, till, torn and bleeding, he had lain him down to die.
Then, when he was nigh unto death, lo! through the savage gloom there
came to him a statelymaiden, and took him by the hand and led him on
through devious paths, unknown to any man, until upon the darkness of the
wood there dawned a light such as the light of day was unto but as a
little lamp unto the sun; and, in that wondrous light, our way-worn
knight saw as in a dream a vision, and so glorious, so fair the vision
seemed, that of his bleeding wounds he thought no more, but stood as one
entranced, whose joy is deep as is the sea, whereof no man can tell the
depth.
And the vision faded, and the knight, kneeling upon the ground, thanked
the good saint who into that sad wood had strayed his steps, so he had
seen the vision that lay there hid.
And the name of the dark forest was Sorrow; but of the vision that the
good knight saw therein we may not speak nor tell.
CHAPTER XI.
HOW GEORGE, ONCE UPON A TIME, GOT UP EARLY IN THE MORNING. - GEORGE,
HARRIS, AND MONTMORENCY DO NOT LIKE THE LOOK OF THE COLD WATER. - HEROISM
AND DETERMINATION ON THE PART OF J. - GEORGE AND HIS SHIRT: STORY WITH A
MORAL. - HARRIS AS COOK. - HISTORICAL RETROSPECT, SPECIALLY INSERTED FOR
THE USE OF SCHOOLS.
I WOKE at six the next morning; and found George awake too. We both
turned round, and tried to go to sleep again, but we could not. Had
there been any particular reason why we should not have gone to sleep
again, but have got up and dressed then and there, we should have dropped
off while we were looking at our watches, and have slept till ten. As
there was no earthly necessity for our getting up under another two hours
at the very least, and our getting up at that time was an utter
absurdity, it was only in keeping with the natural cussedness of things
in general that we should both feel that lying down for five minutes more
would be death to us.
George said that the same kind of thing, only worse, had happened to him
some eighteen months ago, when he was lodging by himself in the house of
a certain Mrs. Gippings. He said his watch went wrong one evening, and
stopped at a quarter-past eight. He did not know this at the time
because, for some reason or other, he forgot to wind it up when he went
to bed (an unusualoccurrence with him), and hung it up over his pillow
without ever looking at the thing.
It was in the winter when this happened, very near the shortest day, and
a week of fog into the bargain, so the fact that it was still very dark
when George woke in the morning was no guide to him as to the time. He
reached up, and hauled down his watch. It was a quarter-past eight.
"Angels and ministers of grace defend us!" exclaimed George; "and here
have I got to be in the City by nine. Why didn't somebody call me? Oh,
this is a shame!" And he flung the watch down, and sprang out of bed,
and had a cold bath, and washed himself, and dressed himself, and shaved
himself in cold water because there was not time to wait for the hot, and
then rushed and had another look at the watch.
Whether the shaking it had received in being thrown down on the bed had
started it, or how it was, George could not say, but certain it was that
from a quarter-past eight it had begun to go, and now pointed to twenty
minutes to nine.
George snatched it up, and rushed downstairs. In the sitting-room, all
was dark and silent: there was no fire, no breakfast. George said it was
a wicked shame of Mrs. G., and he made up his mind to tell her what he
thought of her when he came home in the evening. Then he dashed on his
great-coat and hat, and, seizing his umbrella, made for the front door.
The door was not even unbolted. George anathematized Mrs. G. for a lazy
old woman, and thought it was very strange that people could not get up
at a decent, respectable time, unlocked and unbolted the door, and ran
out.
He ran hard for a quarter of a mile, and at the end of that distance it
began to be borne in upon him as a strange and curious thing that there
were so few people about, and that there were no shops open. It was
certainly a very dark and foggy morning, but still it seemed an unusual
course to stop all business on that account. HE had to go to business:
why should other people stop in bed merely because it was dark and foggy!
At length he reached Holborn. Not a shutter was down! not a bus was
about! There were three men in sight, one of whom was a policeman; a
market-cart full of cabbages, and a dilapidated looking cab. George
pulled out his watch and looked at it: it was five minutes to nine! He
stood still and counted his pulse. He stooped down and felt his legs.
Then, with his watch still in his hand, he went up to the policeman, and
asked him if he knew what the time was.
"What's the time?" said the man, eyeing George up and down with evident
suspicion; "why, if you listen you will hear it strike."
George listened, and a neighbouring clock immediately obliged.
"But it's only gone three!" said George in an injured tone, when it had
finished.
"Well, and how many did you want it to go?" replied the constable.
"Why, nine," said George, showing his watch.
"Do you know where you live?" said the guardian of public order,
severely.
George thought, and gave the address.
"Oh! that's where it is, is it?" replied the man; "well, you take my
advice and go there quietly, and take that watch of yours with you; and
don't let's have any more of it."
And George went home again, musing as he walked along, and let himself
in.
At first, when he got in, he determined to undress and go to bed again;
but when he thought of the redressing and re-washing, and the having of
another bath, he determined he would not, but would sit up and go to
sleep in the easy-chair.
But he could not get to sleep: he never felt more wakeful in his life; so
he lit the lamp and got out the chess-board, and played himself a game of
chess. But even that did not enliven him: it seemed slow somehow; so he
gave chess up and tried to read. He did not seem able to take any sort
of interest in reading either, so he put on his coat again and went out
- knowing [´nəuiŋ]
a.会意的，心照不宣的 (初中英语单词) - extraordinary [ik´strɔ:dinəri] a.非常的；额外的 (初中英语单词)
- restless [´restləs] a.没有休息的 (初中英语单词)
- sovereign [´sɔvrin] a.至高无上的 n.君主 (初中英语单词)
- otherwise [´ʌðəwaiz] ad.另外 conj.否则 (初中英语单词)
- glorious [´glɔ:riəs] a.光荣的；辉煌的 (初中英语单词)
- temple [´tempəl] n.庙宇；寺院；太阳穴 (初中英语单词)
- worship [´wə:ʃip] n.&v.崇拜；敬仰 (初中英语单词)
- standing [´stændiŋ] n.持续 a.直立的 (初中英语单词)
- vision [´viʒən] n.视觉；想象力；幻影 (初中英语单词)
- ashamed [ə´ʃeimd] a.惭愧；不好意思 (初中英语单词)
- gently [´dʒentli] ad.温和地；静静地 (初中英语单词)
- suffering [´sʌfəriŋ] n.痛苦；灾害 (初中英语单词)
- mystery [´mistəri] n.神秘；秘密；故弄玄虚 (初中英语单词)
- mourning [´mɔ:niŋ] n.悲伤；治丧；戴孝 (初中英语单词)
- cheerful [´tʃiəful] a.快乐的；高兴的 (初中英语单词)
- measure [´meʒə] n.量度；范围 vt.测量 (初中英语单词)
- savage [´sævidʒ] a.野蛮的 n.蛮人 (初中英语单词)
- maiden [´meidn] n.少女 a.未婚的 (初中英语单词)
- unusual [ʌn´ju:ʒuəl] a.不平常的；异常的 (初中英语单词)
- bargain [´bɑ:gin] n.买卖合同 v.议(价) (初中英语单词)
- sprang [spræŋ] spring 的过去式 (初中英语单词)
- pointed [´pɔintid] a.尖(锐)的；中肯的 (初中英语单词)
- downstairs [,daun´steəz] ad.在楼下 a.楼下的 (初中英语单词)
- wicked [´wikid] a.邪恶的；不道德的 (初中英语单词)
- account [ə´kaunt] vi.说明 vt.认为 n.帐目 (初中英语单词)
- policeman [pə´li:smən] n.警察 (初中英语单词)
- reading [´ri:diŋ] n.(阅)读；朗读；读物 (初中英语单词)
- precisely [pri´saisli] ad.精确地；刻板地 (高中英语单词)
- novelty [´nɔvəlti] n.新奇(的事物) (高中英语单词)
- stuffy [´stʌfi] a.不通气的；闷热的 (高中英语单词)
- mighty [´maiti] a.强有力的 ad.很 (高中英语单词)
- shadowy [´ʃædəui] a.有阴影的；模糊的 (高中英语单词)
- loving [´lʌviŋ] a.爱的，有爱情的 (高中英语单词)
- knight [nait] n.骑士；爵士 (高中英语单词)
- ragged [´rægid] a.衣服破烂的 (高中英语单词)
- stately [´steitli] a.庄严的，雄伟的 (高中英语单词)
- therein [ðeə´rin] ad.在那里，在其中 (高中英语单词)
- determination [di,tə:mi´neiʃən] n.决心；决定 (高中英语单词)
- historical [his´tɔrikəl] a.历史(上)的 (高中英语单词)
- specially [´speʃəli] ad.专门地；特别地 (高中英语单词)
- earthly [´ə:θli] a.地球的；世俗的 (高中英语单词)
- lodging [´lɔdʒiŋ] n.寄宿，住宿 (高中英语单词)
- occurrence [ə´kʌrəns] n.发生；(偶发)事件 (高中英语单词)
- umbrella [ʌm´brelə] n.伞 (高中英语单词)
- decent [´di:sənt] a.体面的，正派的 (高中英语单词)
- respectable [ri´spektəbəl] a.可敬的；有身价的 (高中英语单词)
- shutter [´ʃʌtə] n.百叶窗；(相机)快门 (高中英语单词)
- guardian [´gɑ:diən] n.监护人；保护人 (高中英语单词)
- undress [ʌn´dres] v.(给)脱衣 (英语四级单词)
- unkind [,ʌn´kaind] a.不客气的；不和善的 (英语四级单词)
- wrench [rentʃ] n.&vt.拧；急拉；猛推 (英语四级单词)
- wondrous [´wʌndrəs] a.极好的 ad.惊人地 (英语四级单词)
- befallen [bi´fɔ:lən] befall的过去分词 (英语四级单词)
- whereof [weər´ɔv] ad.关于什么；关于那事 (英语四级单词)
- doleful [´dəulful] a.悲哀的；忧郁的 (英语六级单词)
- sorely [´sɔ:li] ad.痛苦地；剧烈地 (英语六级单词)
- enliven [in´laivən] vt.使活跃 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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