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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
It was the middle of the morning, and Winston had left the cubicle1 to go to the lavatory2.
A solitary3 figure was coming towards him from the other end of the long, brightly-lit corridor. It was the girl with dark hair. Four days had gone past since the evening when he had run into her outside the junk-shop. As she came nearer he saw that her right arm was in a sling4, not noticeable at a distance because it was of the same colour as her overalls5. Probably she had crushed her hand while swinging round one of the big kaleidoscopes on which the plots of novels were ‘roughed in’. It was a common accident in the Fiction Department.
They were perhaps four metres apart when the girl stumbled and fell almost flat on her face. A sharp cry of pain was wrung6 out of her. She must have fallen right on the injured arm. Winston stopped short. The girl had risen to her knees. Her face had turned a milky7 yellow colour against which her mouth stood out redder than ever. Her eyes were fixed8 on his, with an appealing expression that looked more like fear than pain.
A curious emotion stirred in Winston’s heart. In front of him was an enemy who was trying to kill him: in front of him, also, was a human creature, in pain and perhaps with a broken bone. Already he had instinctively9 started forward to help her. In the moment when he had seen her fall on the bandaged arm, it had been as though he felt the pain in his own body.
‘You’re hurt?’ he said.
‘It’s nothing. My arm. It’ll be all right in a second.’
‘You haven’t broken anything?’
‘No, I’m all right. It hurt for a moment, that’s all.’
She held out her free hand to him, and he helped her up. She had regained12 some of her colour, and appeared very much better.
‘It’s nothing,’ she repeated shortly. ‘I only gave my wrist a bit of a bang. Thanks, comrade!’
And with that she walked on in the direction in which she had been going, as briskly as though it had really been nothing. The whole incident could not have taken as much as half a minute. Not to let one’s feelings appear in one’s face was a habit that had acquired the status of an instinct, and in any case they had been standing13 straight in front of a telescreen when the thing happened. Nevertheless it had been very difficult not to betray a momentary15 surprise, for in the two or three seconds while he was helping16 her up the girl had slipped something into his hand. There was no question that she had done it intentionally17. It was something small and flat. As he passed through the lavatory door he transferred it to his pocket and felt it with the tips of his fingers. It was a scrap18 of paper folded into a square.
While he stood at the urinal he managed, with a little more fingering, to get it unfolded. Obviously there must be a message of some kind written on it. For a moment he was tempted19 to take it into one of the water-closets and read it at once. But that would be shocking folly20, as he well knew. There was no place where you could be more certain that the telescreens were watched continuously.
He went back to his cubicle, sat down, threw the fragment of paper casually21 among the other papers on the desk, put on his spectacles and hitched22 the speakwrite towards him. ‘Five minutes,’ he told himself, ‘five minutes at the very least!’ His heart bumped in his breast with frightening loudness. Fortunately the piece of work he was engaged on was mere23 routine, the rectification24 of a long list of figures, not needing close attention.
Whatever was written on the paper, it must have some kind of political meaning. So far as he could see there were two possibilities. One, much the more likely, was that the girl was an agent of the Thought Police, just as he had feared. He did not know why the Thought Police should choose to deliver their messages in such a fashion, but perhaps they had their reasons. The thing that was written on the paper might be a threat, a summons, an order to commit suicide, a trap of some description. But there was another, wilder possibility that kept raising its head, though he tried vainly to suppress it. This was, that the message did not come from the Thought Police at all, but from some kind of underground organization. Perhaps the Brotherhood25 existed after all! Perhaps the girl was part of it! No doubt the idea was absurd, but it had sprung into his mind in the very instant of feeling the scrap of paper in his hand. It was not till a couple of minutes later that the other, more probable explanation had occurred to him. And even now, though his intellect told him that the message probably meant death — still, that was not what he believed, and the unreasonable26 hope persisted, and his heart banged, and it was with difficulty that he kept his voice from trembling as he murmured his figures into the speakwrite.
He rolled up the completed bundle of work and slid it into the pneumatic tube. Eight minutes had gone by. He re-adjusted his spectacles on his nose, sighed, and drew the next batch28 of work towards him, with the scrap of paper on top of it. He flattened29 it out. On it was written, in a large unformed handwriting:
I LOVE YOU.
For several seconds he was too stunned30 even to throw the incriminating thing into the memory hole. When he did so, although he knew very well the danger of showing too much interest, he could not resist reading it once again, just to make sure that the words were really there.
For the rest of the morning it was very difficult to work. What was even worse than having to focus his mind on a series of niggling jobs was the need to conceal31 his agitation32 from the telescreen. He felt as though a fire were burning in his belly33. Lunch in the hot, crowded, noise-filled canteen was torment34. He had hoped to be alone for a little while during the lunch hour, but as bad luck would have it the imbecile Parsons flopped35 down beside him, the tang of his sweat almost defeating the tinny smell of stew36, and kept up a stream of talk about the preparations for Hate Week. He was particularly enthusiastic about a papier-mache model of Big Brother’s head, two metres wide, which was being made for the occasion by his daughter’s troop of Spies. The irritating thing was that in the racket of voices Winston could hardly hear what Parsons was saying, and was constantly having to ask for some fatuous37 remark to be repeated. Just once he caught a glimpse of the girl, at a table with two other girls at the far end of the room. She appeared not to have seen him, and he did not look in that direction again.
The afternoon was more bearable. Immediately after lunch there arrived a delicate, difficult piece of work which would take several hours and necessitated38 putting everything else aside. It consisted in falsifying a series of production reports of two years ago, in such a way as to cast discredit39 on a prominent member of the Inner Party, who was now under a cloud. This was the kind of thing that Winston was good at, and for more than two hours he succeeded in shutting the girl out of his mind altogether. Then the memory of her face came back, and with it a raging, intolerable desire to be alone. Until he could be alone it was impossible to think this new development out. Tonight was one of his nights at the Community Centre. He wolfed another tasteless meal in the canteen, hurried off to the Centre, took part in the solemn foolery of a ‘discussion group’, played two games of table tennis, swallowed several glasses of gin, and sat for half an hour through a lecture entitled ‘Ingsoc in relation to chess’. His soul writhed40 with boredom41, but for once he had had no impulse to shirk his evening at the Centre. At the sight of the words I LOVE YOU the desire to stay alive had welled up in him, and the taking of minor42 risks suddenly seemed stupid. It was not till twenty-three hours, when he was home and in bed — in the darkness, where you were safe even from the telescreen so long as you kept silent — that he was able to think continuously.
It was a physical problem that had to be solved: how to get in touch with the girl and arrange a meeting. He did not consider any longer the possibility that she might be laying some kind of trap for him. He knew that it was not so, because of her unmistakable agitation when she handed him the note. Obviously she had been frightened out of her wits, as well she might be. Nor did the idea of refusing her advances even cross his mind. Only five nights ago he had contemplated43 smashing her skull44 in with a cobblestone, but that was of no importance. He thought of her naked, youthful body, as he had seen it in his dream. He had imagined her a fool like all the rest of them, her head stuffed with lies and hatred45, her belly full of ice. A kind of fever seized him at the thought that he might lose her, the white youthful body might slip away from him! What he feared more than anything else was that she would simply change her mind if he did not get in touch with her quickly. But the physical difficulty of meeting was enormous. It was like trying to make a move at chess when you were already mated. Whichever way you turned, the telescreen faced you. Actually, all the possible ways of communicating with her had occurred to him within five minutes of reading the note; but now, with time to think, he went over them one by one, as though laying out a row of instruments on a table.
Obviously the kind of encounter that had happened this morning could not be repeated. If she had worked in the Records Department it might have been comparatively simple, but he had only a very dim idea whereabouts in the building the Fiction Department lay, and he had no pretext46 for going there. If he had known where she lived, and at what time she left work, he could have contrived47 to meet her somewhere on her way home; but to try to follow her home was not safe, because it would mean loitering about outside the Ministry48, which was bound to be noticed. As for sending a letter through the mails, it was out of the question. By a routine that was not even secret, all letters were opened in transit49. Actually, few people ever wrote letters. For the messages that it was occasionally necessary to send, there were printed postcards with long lists of phrases, and you struck out the ones that were inapplicable. In any case he did not know the girl’s name, let alone her address. Finally he decided50 that the safest place was the canteen. If he could get her at a table by herself, somewhere in the middle of the room, not too near the telescreens, and with a sufficient buzz of conversation all round — if these conditions endured for, say, thirty seconds, it might be possible to exchange a few words.
For a week after this, life was like a restless dream. On the next day she did not appear in the canteen until he was leaving it, the whistle having already blown. Presumably she had been changed on to a later shift. They passed each other without a glance. On the day after that she was in the canteen at the usual time, but with three other girls and immediately under a telescreen. Then for three dreadful days she did not appear at all. His whole mind and body seemed to be afflicted51 with an unbearable52 sensitivity, a sort of transparency, which made every movement, every sound, every contact, every word that he had to speak or listen to, an agony. Even in sleep he could not altogether escape from her image. He did not touch the diary during those days. If there was any relief, it was in his work, in which he could sometimes forget himself for ten minutes at a stretch. He had absolutely no clue as to what had happened to her. There was no enquiry he could make. She might have been vaporized, she might have committed suicide, she might have been transferred to the other end of Oceania: worst and likeliest of all, she might simply have changed her mind and decided to avoid him.
The next day she reappeared. Her arm was out of the sling and she had a band of sticking-plaster round her wrist. The relief of seeing her was so great that he could not resist staring directly at her for several seconds. On the following day he very nearly succeeded in speaking to her. When he came into the canteen she was sitting at a table well out from the wall, and was quite alone. It was early, and the place was not very full. The queue edged forward till Winston was almost at the counter, then was held up for two minutes because someone in front was complaining that he had not received his tablet of saccharine53. But the girl was still alone when Winston secured his tray and began to make for her table. He walked casually towards her, his eyes searching for a place at some table beyond her. She was perhaps three metres away from him. Another two seconds would do it. Then a voice behind him called, ‘Smith!’ He pretended not to hear. ‘Smith!’ repeated the voice, more loudly. It was no use. He turned round. A blond-headed, silly-faced young man named Wilsher, whom he barely knew, was inviting54 him with a smile to a vacant place at his table. It was not safe to refuse. After having been recognized, he could not go and sit at a table with an unattended girl. It was too noticeable. He sat down with a friendly smile. The silly blond face beamed into his. Winston had a hallucination of himself smashing a pick-axe right into the middle of it. The girl’s table filled up a few minutes later.
But she must have seen him coming towards her, and perhaps she would take the hint. Next day he took care to arrive early. Surely enough, she was at a table in about the same place, and again alone. The person immediately ahead of him in the queue was a small, swiftly-moving, beetle-like man with a flat face and tiny, suspicious eyes. As Winston turned away from the counter with his tray, he saw that the little man was making straight for the girl’s table. His hopes sank again. There was a vacant place at a table further away, but something in the little man’s appearance suggested that he would be sufficiently55 attentive56 to his own comfort to choose the emptiest table. With ice at his heart Winston followed. It was no use unless he could get the girl alone. At this moment there was a tremendous crash. The little man was sprawling57 on all fours, his tray had gone flying, two streams of soup and coffee were flowing across the floor. He started to his feet with a malignant58 glance at Winston, whom he evidently suspected of having tripped him up. But it was all right. Five seconds later, with a thundering heart, Winston was sitting at the girl’s table.
He did not look at her. He unpacked59 his tray and promptly60 began eating. It was all-important to speak at once, before anyone else came, but now a terrible fear had taken possession of him. A week had gone by since she had first approached him. She would have changed her mind, she must have changed her mind! It was impossible that this affair should end successfully; such things did not happen in real life. He might have flinched61 altogether from speaking if at this moment he had not seen Ampleforth, the hairy-eared poet, wandering limply round the room with a tray, looking for a place to sit down. In his vague way Ampleforth was attached to Winston, and would certainly sit down at his table if he caught sight of him. There was perhaps a minute in which to act. Both Winston and the girl were eating steadily62. The stuff they were eating was a thin stew, actually a soup, of haricot beans. In a low murmur27 Winston began speaking. Neither of them looked up; steadily they spooned the watery63 stuff into their mouths, and between spoonfuls exchanged the few necessary words in low expressionless voices.
‘What time do you leave work?’
‘Eighteen-thirty.’
‘Where can we meet?’
‘Victory Square, near the monument.’
‘It’s full of telescreens.’
‘It doesn’t matter if there’s a crowd.’
‘Any signal?’
‘No. Don’t come up to me until you see me among a lot of people. And don’t look at me. Just keep somewhere near me.’
‘What time?’
‘Nineteen hours.’
‘All right.’
Ampleforth failed to see Winston and sat down at another table. They did not speak again, and, so far as it was possible for two people sitting on opposite sides of the same table, they did not look at one another. The girl finished her lunch quickly and made off, while Winston stayed to smoke a cigarette.
Winston was in Victory Square before the appointed time. He wandered round the base of the enormous fluted64 column, at the top of which Big Brother’s statue gazed southward towards the skies where he had vanquished65 the Eurasian aeroplanes (the Eastasian aeroplanes, it had been, a few years ago) in the Battle of Airstrip One. In the street in front of it there was a statue of a man on horseback which was supposed to represent Oliver Cromwell. At five minutes past the hour the girl had still not appeared. Again the terrible fear seized upon Winston. She was not coming, she had changed her mind! He walked slowly up to the north side of the square and got a sort of pale-coloured pleasure from identifying St Martin’s Church, whose bells, when it had bells, had chimed ‘You owe me three farthings.’ Then he saw the girl standing at the base of the monument, reading or pretending to read a poster which ran spirally up the column. It was not safe to go near her until some more people had accumulated. There were telescreens all round the pediment. But at this moment there was a din14 of shouting and a zoom66 of heavy vehicles from somewhere to the left. Suddenly everyone seemed to be running across the square. The girl nipped nimbly round the lions at the base of the monument and joined in the rush. Winston followed. As he ran, he gathered from some shouted remarks that a convoy67 of Eurasian prisoners was passing.
Already a dense68 mass of people was blocking the south side of the square. Winston, at normal times the kind of person who gravitates to the outer edge of any kind of scrimmage, shoved, butted69, squirmed his way forward into the heart of the crowd. Soon he was within arm’s length of the girl, but the way was blocked by an enormous prole and an almost equally enormous woman, presumably his wife, who seemed to form an impenetrable wall of flesh. Winston wriggled70 himself sideways, and with a violent lunge managed to drive his shoulder between them. For a moment it felt as though his entrails were being ground to pulp71 between the two muscular hips72, then he had broken through, sweating a little. He was next to the girl. They were shoulder to shoulder, both staring fixedly73 in front of them.
A long line of trucks, with wooden-faced guards armed with sub-machine guns standing upright in each corner, was passing slowly down the street. In the trucks little yellow men in shabby greenish uniforms were squatting74, jammed close together. Their sad, Mongolian faces gazed out over the sides of the trucks utterly75 incurious. Occasionally when a truck jolted76 there was a clank-clank of metal: all the prisoners were wearing leg-irons. Truck-load after truck-load of the sad faces passed. Winston knew they were there but he saw them only intermittently77. The girl’s shoulder, and her arm right down to the elbow, were pressed against his. Her cheek was almost near enough for him to feel its warmth. She had immediately taken charge of the situation, just as she had done in the canteen. She began speaking in the same expressionless voice as before, with lips barely moving, a mere murmur easily drowned by the din of voices and the rumbling78 of the trucks.
‘Can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you get Sunday afternoon off?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then listen carefully. You’ll have to remember this. Go to Paddington Station ——’
With a sort of military precision that astonished him, she outlined the route that he was to follow. A half-hour railway journey; turn left outside the station; two kilometres along the road; a gate with the top bar missing; a path across a field; a grass-grown lane; a track between bushes; a dead tree with moss79 on it. It was as though she had a map inside her head. ‘Can you remember all that?’ she murmured finally.
‘Yes.’
‘You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gate’s got no top bar.’
‘Yes. What time?’
‘About fifteen. You may have to wait. I’ll get there by another way. Are you sure you remember everything?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then get away from me as quick as you can.’
She need not have told him that. But for the moment they could not extricate80 themselves from the crowd. The trucks were still filing past, the people still insatiably gaping81. At the start there had been a few boos and hisses82, but it came only from the Party members among the crowd, and had soon stopped. The prevailing83 emotion was simply curiosity. Foreigners, whether from Eurasia or from Eastasia, were a kind of strange animal. One literally84 never saw them except in the guise85 of prisoners, and even as prisoners one never got more than a momentary glimpse of them. Nor did one know what became of them, apart from the few who were hanged as war-criminals: the others simply vanished, presumably into forced-labour camps. The round Mogol faces had given way to faces of a more European type, dirty, bearded and exhausted86. From over scrubby cheekbones eyes looked into Winston’s, sometimes with strange intensity87, and flashed away again. The convoy was drawing to an end. In the last truck he could see an aged10 man, his face a mass of grizzled hair, standing upright with wrists crossed in front of him, as though he were used to having them bound together. It was almost time for Winston and the girl to part. But at the last moment, while the crowd still hemmed88 them in, her hand felt for his and gave it a fleeting89 squeeze.
It could not have been ten seconds, and yet it seemed a long time that their hands were clasped together. He had time to learn every detail of her hand. He explored the long fingers, the shapely nails, the work-hardened palm with its row of callouses90, the smooth flesh under the wrist. Merely from feeling it he would have known it by sight. In the same instant it occurred to him that he did not know what colour the girl’s eyes were. They were probably brown, but people with dark hair sometimes had blue eyes. To turn his head and look at her would have been inconceivable folly. With hands locked together, invisible among the press of bodies, they stared steadily in front of them, and instead of the eyes of the girl, the eyes of the aged prisoner gazed mournfully at Winston out of nests of hair.
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1
cubicle
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| n.大房间中隔出的小室 | |
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lavatory
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| n.盥洗室，厕所 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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12
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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13
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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rectification
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| n. 改正, 改订, 矫正 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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28
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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35
flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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37
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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38
necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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40
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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42
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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43
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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45
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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46
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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47
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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48
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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49
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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50
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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51
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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53
saccharine
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| adj.奉承的，讨好的 | |
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54
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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55
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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56
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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57
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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58
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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59
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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60
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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61
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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63
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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64
fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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65
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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66
zoom
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| n.急速上升；v.突然扩大，急速上升 | |
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67
convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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68
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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69
butted
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| 对接的 | |
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70
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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71
pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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72
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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73
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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74
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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75
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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76
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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78
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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79
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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80
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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81
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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82
hisses
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| 嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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83
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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84
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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85
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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86
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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87
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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88
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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89
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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90
callouses
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| n.硬皮，老茧( callous的名词复数 )v.（使）硬结，（使）起茧( callous的第三人称单数 )；（使）冷酷无情 | |
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