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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
Mr. McCauley would be upset when she left because she’d given good service and it would be hard to replace her, but that would be all he thought about. Both he and his granddaughter were spoiled and self-centered. As for the neighbors, they would no doubt rejoice. Johanna had had problems on both sides of the property. On one side it was the neighbors’ dog digging in her garden, burying and retrieving1 his supply of bones, which he could better have done at home. And on the other it was the black cherry tree, which was on the McCauleys’ property but bore most of its cherries on the branches hanging over into the next yard. In both cases she had raised a fuss, and won. The dog was tied up and the other neighbors left the cherries alone. If she got up on the stepladder she could reach well over into their yard, but they no longer chased the birds out of the branches and it made a difference to the crop.
Mr. McCauley would have let them pick. He would have let the dog dig. He would let himself be taken advantage of. Part of the reason was that these were new people and lived in new houses and so he preferred not to pay attention to them. At one time there had been just three or four large houses on Exhibition Road. Across from them were the fairgrounds, where the fall fair was held (officially called the Agricultural Exhibition, hence the name), and in between were orchard3 trees, small meadows. A dozen years ago or so that land had been sold off in regular lot sizes and houses had been put up—small houses in alternating styles, one kind with an upstairs and the other kind without. Some were already getting to look pretty shabby.
There were only a couple of houses whose occupants Mr. McCauley knew and was friendly with—the schoolteacher, Miss Hood4, and her mother, and the Shultzes, who ran the Shoe Repair shop. The Shultzes’ daughter, Edith, was or had been Sabitha’s great friend. It was natural, with their being in the same grade at school—at least last year, once Sabitha had been held back—and living near each other. Mr. McCauley hadn’t minded—maybe he had some idea that Sabitha would be removed before long to live a different sort of life in Toronto. Johanna would not have chosen Edith, though the girl was never rude, never troublesome when she came to the house. And she was not stupid. That might have been the problem—she was smart and Sabitha was not so smart. She had made Sabitha sly.
That was all over now. Now that the cousin, Roxanne—Mrs. Huber—had shown up, the Schultz girl was all part of Sabitha’s childish past.
I am going to arrange to get all your furniture out to you on the train as soon as they can take it and prepaid as soon as they tell me what it will cost. I have been thinking you will need it now. I guess it will not be that much of a surprise that I thought you would not mind it if I went along to be of help to you as I hope can be.
This was the letter she had taken to the Post Office, before she went to make arrangements at the railway station. It was the first letter she had ever sent to him directly. The others had been slipped in with the letters she made Sabitha write. And his to her had come in the same way, tidily folded and with her name, Johanna, typed on the back of the page so there would be no mistaking. That kept the people in the Post Office from catching5 on, and it never hurt to save a stamp. Of course, Sabitha could have reported to her grandfather, or even read what was written to Johanna, but Sabitha was no more interested in communicating with the old man than she was in letters—the writing or the receiving of them.
The furniture was stored back in the barn, which was just a town barn, not a real barn with animals and a granary. When Johanna got her first look at everything a year or so ago, she found it grimy with dust and splattered with pigeon droppings. The pieces had been piled in carelessly without anything to cover them. She had hauled what she could carry out into the yard, leaving space in the barn to get at the big pieces she couldn’t carry—the sofa and buffet6 and china cabinet and dining table. The bedstead she could take apart. She went at the wood with soft dustrags, then lemon oil, and when she was finished it shone like candy. Maple7 candy—it was bird’s-eye maple wood. It looked glamorous8 to her, like satin bedspreads and blond hair. Glamorous and modern, a total contrast to all the dark wood and irksome carving9 of the furniture she cared for in the house. She thought of it as his furniture then, and still did when she got it out this Wednesday. She had put old quilts over the bottom layer to protect everything there from what was piled on top, and sheets over what was on top to protect that from the birds, and as a result there was only a light dust. But she wiped everything and lemon-oiled it before she put it back, protected in the same way, to wait for the truck on Friday.
Dear Mr. McCauley,
I am leaving on the train this afternoon (Friday). I realize this is without giving my notice to you, but I will wave my last pay, which would be three weeks owing this coming Monday. There is a beef stew10 on the stove in the double boiler11 that just needs warming up. Enough there for three meals or maybe could be stretched to a fourth. As soon as it is hot and you have got all you want, put the lid on and put it away in the fridge. Remember, put the lid on at once not to take chances with it getting spoiled. Regards to you and to Sabitha and will probably be in touch when I am settled. Johanna Parry.
P.S. I have shipped his furniture to Mr. Boudreau as he may need it. Remember to make sure when you reheat there is enough water in bottom part of the double boiler.
Mr. McCauley had no trouble finding out that the ticket Johanna had bought was to Gdynia, Saskatchewan. He phoned the station agent and asked. He could not think how to describe Johanna—was she old or young-looking, thin or moderately heavy, what was the color of her coat?—but that was not necessary when he mentioned the furniture.
When this call came through there were a couple of people in the station waiting for the evening train. The agent tried to keep his voice down at first, but he became excited when he heard about the stolen furniture (what Mr. McCauley actually said was “and I believe she took some furniture with her”). He swore that if he had known who she was and what she was up to he would never have let her set foot on the train. This assertion was heard and repeated and believed, nobody asking how he could have stopped a grown woman who had paid for her ticket, unless he had some proof right away that she was a thief. Most people who repeated his words believed that he could and would have stopped her—they believed in the authority of station agents and of upright-walking fine old men in three-piece suits like Mr. McCauley.
The beef stew was excellent, as Johanna’s cooking always was, but Mr. McCauley found he could not swallow it. He disregarded the instruction about the lid and left the pot sitting open on the stove and did not even turn off the burner until the water in the bottom pot boiled away and he was alerted by a smell of smoking metal.
This was the smell of treachery.
He told himself to be thankful at least that Sabitha was taken care of and he did not have that to worry about. His cousin—his wife’s cousin, actually, Roxanne—had written to tell him that from what she had seen of Sabitha on her summer visit to Lake Simcoe the girl was going to take some handling.
“Frankly I don’t think you and that woman you’ve hired are going to be up to it when the boys come swarming12 around.”
She did not go so far as to ask him whether he wanted another Marcelle on his hands, but that was what she meant. She said she would get Sabitha into a good school where she could be taught manners at least.
He turned on the television for a distraction13, but it was no use.
The fact was that three days before—on the very day that Johanna had bought her ticket, as the station agent had now told him—Mr. McCauley had received a letter from Ken Boudreau asking him to (a) advance some money against the furniture belonging to him (Ken Boudreau) and his dead wife, Marcelle, which was stored in Mr. McCauley’s barn, or (b) if he could not see his way to doing that, to sell the furniture for as much as he could get and send the money as quickly as he could to Saskatchewan. There was no mention of the loans that had already been made by father-in-law to son-in-law, all against the value of this furniture and amounting to more than it could ever be sold for. Could Ken Boudreau have forgotten all about that? Or did he simply hope—and this was more probable—that his father-in-law would have forgotten?
He was now, it seemed, the owner of a hotel. But his letter was full of diatribes15 against the fellow who had formerly16 owned it and who had misled him as to various particulars.
“If I can just get over this hurdle17,” he said, “then I am convinced I can still make a go of it.” But what was the hurdle? A need for immediate18 money, but he did not say whether it was owing to the former owner, or to the bank, or to a private mortgage holder19, or what. It was the same old story—a desperate, wheedling20 tone mixed in with some arrogance21, some sense of its being what was owed him, because of the wounds inflicted22 on him, the shame suffered, on account of Marcelle.
With many misgivings23 but remembering that Ken Boudreau was after all his son-in-law and had fought in the war and been through God-knows-what trouble in his marriage, Mr. McCauley had sat down and written a letter saying that he did not have any idea how to go about getting the best price for the furniture and it would be very difficult for him to find out and that he was enclosing a check, which he would count as an outright24 personal loan. He wished his son-in-law to acknowledge it as such and to remember the number of similar loans made in the past—already, he believed, exceeding any value of the furniture. He was enclosing a list of dates and amounts. Apart from fifty dollars paid nearly two years ago (with a promise of regular payments to follow), he had received nothing. His son-in-law must surely understand that as a result of these unpaid25 and interest-free loans Mr. McCauley’s income had declined, since he would otherwise have invested the money.
He had thought of adding, “I am not such a fool as you seem to think,” but decided26 not to, since that would reveal his irritation27 and perhaps his weakness.
And now look. The man had jumped the gun and enlisted28 Johanna in his scheme—he would always be able to get around women—and got hold of the furniture as well as the check. She had paid for the shipping29 herself, the station agent had said. The flashy-looking modern maple stuff had been overvalued in the deals already made and they would not get much for it, especially when you counted what the railway had charged. If they had been cleverer they would simply have taken something from the house, one of the old cabinets or parlor30 settees too uncomfortable to sit on, made and bought in the last century. That, of course, would have been plain stealing. But what they had done was not far off.
He woke in the house alone, with no smell of coffee or breakfast coming from the kitchen—instead, there was a whiff of the burned pot still in the air. An autumn chill had settled in all the high-ceilinged, forlorn rooms. It had been warm last evening and on preceding evenings—the furnace had not been turned on yet, and when Mr. McCauley did turn it on the warm air was accompanied by a blast of cellar damp, of mold and earth and decay. He washed and dressed slowly, with forgetful pauses, and spread some peanut butter on a piece of bread for his breakfast. He belonged to a generation in which there were men who were said not to be able even to boil water, and he was one of them. He looked out the front windows and saw the trees on the other side of the racetrack swallowed up in the morning fog, which seemed to be advancing, not retreating as it should at this hour, across the track itself. He seemed to see in the fog the looming32 buildings of the old Exhibition Grounds—homely, spacious33 buildings, like enormous barns. They had stood for years and years unused—all through the war—and he forgot what happened to them in the end. Were they torn down, or did they fall down? He abhorred34 the races that took place now, the crowds and the loudspeaker and the illegal drinking and the ruinous uproar35 of the summer Sundays. When he thought of that he thought of his poor girl Marcelle, sitting on the verandah steps and calling out to grown schoolmates who had got out of their parked cars and were hurrying to see the races. The fuss she made, the joy she expressed at being back in town, the hugging and holding people up, talking a mile a minute, rattling36 on about childhood days and how she’d missed everybody. She had said that the only thing not perfect about life was missing her husband, Ken, left out west because of his work.
She went out there in her silk pajamas37, with straggly, uncombed, dyed-blond hair. Her arms and legs were thin, but her face was somewhat bloated, and what she claimed was her tan seemed a sickly brown color not from the sun. Maybe jaundice.
The child had stayed inside and watched television—Sunday cartoons that she was surely too old for.
He couldn’t tell what was wrong, or be sure that anything was. Marcelle went away to London to have some female thing done and died in the hospital. When he phoned her husband to tell him, Ken Boudreau said, “What did she take?”
If Marcelle’s mother had been alive still, would things have been any different? The fact was that her mother, when she was alive, had been as bewildered as he was. She had sat in the kitchen crying while their teenage daughter, locked into her room, had climbed out the window and slid down the verandah roof to be welcomed by carloads of boys.
The house was full of a feeling of callous38 desertion, of deceit. He and his wife had surely been kind parents, driven to the wall by Marcelle. When she had eloped with an airman, they had hoped that she would be all right, at last. They had been generous to the two of them as to the most proper young couple. But it all fell apart. To Johanna Parry he had likewise been generous, and look how she too had gone against him.
He walked to town and went into the hotel for his breakfast. The waitress said, “You’re bright and early this morning.”
And while she was still pouring out his coffee he began to tell her about how his housekeeper39 had walked out on him without any warning or provocation40, not only left her job with no notice but taken a load of furniture that had belonged to his daughter, that now was supposed to belong to his son-in-law but didn’t really, having been bought with his daughter’s wedding money. He told her how his daughter had married an airman, a good-looking, plausible41 fellow who wasn’t to be trusted around the corner.
“Excuse me,” the waitress said. “I’d love to chat, but I got people waiting on their breakfast. Excuse me—”
He climbed the stairs to his office, and there, spread out on his desk, were the old maps he had been studying yesterday in an effort to locate exactly the very first burying ground in the county (abandoned, he believed, in 1839). He turned on the light and sat down, but he found he could not concentrate. After the waitress’s reproof—or what he took for a reproof—he hadn’t been able to eat his breakfast or enjoy his coffee. He decided to go out for a walk to calm himself down.
But instead of walking along in his usual way, greeting people and passing a few words with them, he found himself bursting into speech. The minute anybody asked him how he was this morning he began in a most uncharacteristic, even shameful42 way to blurt43 out his woes44, and like the waitress, these people had business to attend to and they nodded and shuffled45 and made excuses to get away. The morning didn’t seem to be warming up in the way foggy fall mornings usually did; his jacket wasn’t warm enough, so he sought the comfort of the shops.
People who had known him the longest were the most dismayed. He had never been anything but reticent—the well-mannered gentleman, his mind on other times, his courtesy a deft46 apology for privilege (which was a bit of a joke, because the privilege was mostly in his recollections and not apparent to others). He should have been the last person to air wrongs or ask for sympathy—he hadn’t when his wife died, or even when his daughter died—yet here he was, pulling out some letter, asking if it wasn’t a shame the way this fellow had taken him for money over and over again, and even now when he’d taken pity on him once more the fellow had connived47 with his housekeeper to steal the furniture. Some thought it was his own furniture he was talking about—they believed the old man had been left without a bed or a chair in his house. They advised him to go to the police.
“That’s no good, that’s no good,” he said. “How can you get blood from a stone?”
He went into the Shoe Repair shop and greeted Herman Shultz.
“Do you remember those boots you resoled for me, the ones I got in England? You resoled them four or five years ago.”
The shop was like a cave, with shaded bulbs hanging down over various workplaces. It was abominably48 ventilated, but its manly49 smells—of glue and leather and shoe-blacking and fresh-cut felt soles and rotted old ones—were comfortable to Mr. McCauley. Here his neighbor Herman Shultz, a sallow, expert, spectacled workman, bent-shouldered, was occupied in all seasons—driving in iron nails and clinch50 nails and, with a wicked hooked knife, cutting the desired shapes out of leather. The felt was cut by something like a miniature circular saw. The buffers51 made a scuffing52 noise and the sandpaper wheel made a rasp and the emery stone on a tool’s edge sang high like a mechanical insect and the sewing machine punched the leather in an earnest industrial rhythm. All the sounds and smells and precise activities of the place had been familiar to Mr. McCauley for years but never identified or reflected upon before. Now Herman, in his blackened leather apron53 with a boot on one hand, straightened up, smiled, nodded, and Mr. McCauley saw the man’s whole life in this cave. He wished to express sympathy or admiration54 or something more that he didn’t understand.
“Yes, I do,” Herman said. “They were nice boots.”
“Fine boots. You know I got them on my wedding trip. I got them in England. I can’t remember now where, but it wasn’t in London.”
“I remember you telling me.”
“You did a fine job on them. They’re still doing well. Fine job, Herman. You do a good job here. You do honest work.”
“That’s good.” Herman took a quick look at the boot on his hand. Mr. McCauley knew that the man wanted to get back to his work, but he couldn’t let him.
“I’ve just had an eye-opener. A shock.”
“Have you?”
The old man pulled out the letter and began to read bits of it aloud, with interjections of dismal55 laughter.
“Bronchitis. He says he’s sick with bronchitis. He doesn’t know where to turn. I don’t know who to turn to. Well he always knows who to turn to. When he’s run through everything else, turn to me. A few hundred just till I get on my feet. Begging and pleading with me and all the time he’s conniving56 with my housekeeper. Did you know that? She stole a load of furniture and went off out west with it. They were hand in glove. This is a man I’ve saved the skin of, time and time again. And never a penny back. No, no, I have to be honest and say fifty dollars. Fifty out of hundreds and hundreds. Thousands. He was in the Air Force in the war, you know. Those shortish fellows, they were often in the Air Force. Strutting57 around thinking they were war heroes. Well, I guess I shouldn’t say that, but I think the war spoiled some of those fellows, they never could adjust to life afterwards. But that’s not enough of an excuse. Is it? I can’t excuse him forever because of the war.” No you can t.
“I knew he wasn’t to be trusted the first time I met him. That’s the extraordinary thing. I knew it and I let him rook me all the same. There are people like that. You take pity on them just for being the crooks58 they are. I got him his insurance job out there, I had some connections. Of course he mucked it up. A bad egg. Some just are.”
“You’re right about that.”
Mrs. Shultz was not in the store that day. Usually she was the one at the counter, taking in the shoes and showing them to her husband and reporting back what he said, making out the slips, and taking the payment when the restored shoes were handed back. Mr. McCauley remembered that she had had some kind of operation during the summer.
“Your wife isn’t in today? Is she well?”
“She thought she’d better take it easy today. I’ve got my girl in.”
Herman Shultz nodded towards the shelves to the right of the counter, where the finished shoes were displayed. Mr. McCauley turned his head and saw Edith, the daughter, whom he hadn’t noticed when he came in. A childishly thin girl with straight black hair, who kept her back to him, rearranging the shoes.
That was just the way she had seemed to slide in and out of sight when she came to his house as Sabitha’s friend. You never got a good look at her face.
“You’re going to help your father out now?” Mr. McCauley said. “You’re through with school?”
“It’s Saturday,” said Edith, half turning, faintly smiling.
“So it is. Well, it’s a good thing to help your father, anyway. You must take care of your parents. They’ve worked hard and they’re good people.” With a slight air of apology, as if he knew he was being sententious, Mr. McCauley said, “Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the—”
Edith said something not for him to hear. She said, “Shoe Repair shop.”
“There’s no need for you to be sarcastic,” said Edith’s father when the old man had gone.
He told Edith’s mother all about Mr. McCauley at supper. “He’s not himself,” he said. “Something’s come over him.”
“Maybe a little stroke,” she said. Since her own operation—for gallstones—she spoke60 knowledgeably61 and with a placid62 satisfaction about the afflictions of other people.
Now that Sabitha had gone, vanished into another sort of life that had, it seemed, always been waiting for her, Edith had reverted63 to being the person she had been before Sabitha came here. “Old for her age,” diligent64, critical. After three weeks at high school she knew that she was going to be very good at all the new subjects—Latin, Algebra65, English Literature. She believed that her cleverness was going to be recognized and acclaimed66 and an important future would open out for her. The past year’s silliness with Sabitha was slipping out of sight.
Yet when she thought about Johanna’s going off out west she felt a chill from her past, an invasive alarm. She tried to bang a lid down on that, but it wouldn’t stay.
As soon as she had finished washing the dishes she went off to her room with the book they had been assigned for literature class. David Copperfield.
She was a child who had never received more than tepid67 reproofs68 from her parents—old parents to have a child of her age, which was said to account for her being the way she was— but she felt in perfect accord with David in his unhappy situation. She felt that she was one like him, one who might as well have been an orphan69, because she would probably have to run away, go into hiding, fend70 for herself, when the truth became known and her past shut off her future.
It had all begun with Sabitha saying, on the way to school, “We have to go by the Post Office. I have to send a letter to my dad.”
They walked to and from school together every day. Sometimes they walked with their eyes closed, or backwards71. Sometimes when they met people they gabbled away softly in a nonsense language, to cause confusion. Most of their good ideas were Edith’s. The only idea Sabitha introduced was the writing down of a boy’s name and your own, and the stroking out of all letters that were duplicated and the counting of the remainder. Then you ticked off the counted number on your fingers, saying, Hateship, friendship, courtship, loveship, marriage, till you got the verdict on what could happen between you and that boy.
“That’s a fat letter,” said Edith. She noticed everything, and she remembered everything, quickly memorizing whole pages of the textbooks in a way the other children found sinister72. “Did you have a lot of things to write to your dad?” she said, surprised, because she could not credit this—or at least could not credit that Sabitha would get them on paper.
“I only wrote on one page,” Sabitha said, feeling the letter.
“A-ha,” said Edith. “Ah. Ha.”
“Aha what?”
“I bet she put something else in. Johanna did.”
The upshot of this was that they did not take the letter directly to the Post Office, but saved it and steamed it open at Edith’s house after school. They could do such things at Edith’s house because her mother worked all day at the Shoe Repair shop.
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1
retrieving
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| n.检索（过程），取还v.取回( retrieve的现在分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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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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boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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diatribes
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| n.谩骂，讽刺( diatribe的名词复数 ) | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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hurdle
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| n.跳栏，栏架；障碍，困难；vi.进行跨栏赛 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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holder
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| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
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wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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37
pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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40
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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41
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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42
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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43
blurt
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| vt.突然说出，脱口说出 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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45
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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connived
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| v.密谋 ( connive的过去式和过去分词 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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clinch
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| v.敲弯，钉牢；确定；扭住对方 [参]clench | |
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51
buffers
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| 起缓冲作用的人（或物）( buffer的名词复数 )； 缓冲器； 减震器； 愚蠢老头 | |
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scuffing
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| n.刮[磨，擦，划]伤v.使磨损( scuff的现在分词 )；拖着脚走 | |
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53
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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54
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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conniving
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| v.密谋 ( connive的现在分词 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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58
crooks
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| n.骗子( crook的名词复数 )；罪犯；弯曲部分；（牧羊人或主教用的）弯拐杖v.弯成钩形( crook的第三人称单数 ) | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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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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knowledgeably
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| adj.知识渊博地，有见识地 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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algebra
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| n.代数学 | |
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acclaimed
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| adj.受人欢迎的 | |
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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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reproofs
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| n.责备，责难，指责( reproof的名词复数 ) | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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70
fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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72
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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