We arrived at the house in which I lived. I would not ask him to come in with me, but walked up the stairs without a word. He followed me, and entered the apartment on my heels. He had not been in it before, but he never gave a glance at the room I had been at pains to make pleasing to the eye. There was a tin of tobacco on the table, and, taking out his pipe, he filled it. He sat down on the only chair that had no arms and tilted1 himself on the back legs.
“If you’re going to make yourself at home, why don’t you sit in an arm-chair?” I asked irritably2.
“Why are you concerned about my comfort?”
“I’m not,” I retorted, “but only about my own. It makes me uncomfortable to see someone sit on an uncomfortable chair.”
He chuckled3, but did not move. He smoked on in silence, taking no further notice of me, and apparently4 was absorbed in thought. I wondered why he had come.
Until long habit has blunted the sensibility, there is something disconcerting to the writer in the instinct which causes him to take an interest in the singularities of human nature so absorbing that his moral sense is powerless against it. He recognises in himself an artistic5 satisfaction in the contemplation of evil which a little startles him; but sincerity6 forces him to confess that the disapproval7 he feels for certain actions is not nearly so strong as his curiosity in their reasons. The character of a scoundrel, logical and complete, has a fascination8 for his creator which is an outrage9 to law and order. I expect that Shakespeare devised Iago with a gusto which he never knew when, weaving moonbeams with his fancy, he imagined Desdemona. It may be that in his rogues10 the writer gratifies instincts deep-rooted in him, which the manners and customs of a civilised world have forced back to the mysterious recesses11 of the subconscious12. In giving to the character of his invention flesh and bones he is giving life to that part of himself which finds no other means of expression. His satisfaction is a sense of liberation.
The writer is more concerned to know than to judge.
There was in my soul a perfectly13 genuine horror of Strickland, and side by side with it a cold curiosity to discover his motives14. I was puzzled by him, and I was eager to see how he regarded the tragedy he had caused in the lives of people who had used him with so much kindness. I applied15 the scalpel boldly.
“Stroeve told me that picture you painted of his wife was the best thing you’ve ever done.”
Strickland took his pipe out of his mouth, and a smile lit up his eyes.
“It was great fun to do.”
“Why did you give it him?”
“I’d finished it. It wasn’t any good to me.”
“Do you know that Stroeve nearly destroyed it?”
“It wasn’t altogether satisfactory.”
He was quiet for a moment or two, then he took his pipe out of his mouth again, and chuckled.
“Do you know that the little man came to see me?”
“Weren’t you rather touched by what he had to say?”
“No; I thought it damned silly and sentimental16.”
“I suppose it escaped your memory that you’d ruined his life?” I remarked.
He rubbed his bearded chin reflectively.
“He’s a very bad painter.”
“But a very good man.”
“And an excellent cook,” Strickland added derisively17.
His callousness19 was inhuman20, and in my indignation I was not inclined to mince21 my words.
“As a mere22 matter of curiosity I wish you’d tell me, have you felt the smallest twinge of remorse23 for Blanche Stroeve’s death?”
I watched his face for some change of expression, but it remained impassive.
“Why should I?” he asked.
“Let me put the facts before you. You were dying, and Dirk Stroeve took you into his own house. He nursed you like a mother. He sacrificed his time and his comfort and his money for you. He snatched you from the jaws24 of death.”
Strickland shrugged25 his shoulders.
“The absurd little man enjoys doing things for other people. That’s his life.”
“Granting that you owed him no gratitude26, were you obliged to go out of your way to take his wife from him? Until you came on the scene they were happy. Why couldn’t you leave them alone?”
“What makes you think they were happy?”
“It was evident.”
“You are a discerning fellow. Do you think she could ever have forgiven him for what he did for her?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Don’t you know why he married her?”
I shook my head.
“She was a governess in the family of some Roman prince, and the son of the house seduced27 her. She thought he was going to marry her. They turned her out into the street neck and crop. She was going to have a baby, and she tried to commit suicide. Stroeve found her and married her.”
“It was just like him. I never knew anyone with so compassionate28 a heart.”
I had often wondered why that ill-assorted pair had married, but just that explanation had never occurred to me. That was perhaps the cause of the peculiar29 quality of Dirk’s love for his wife. I had noticed in it something more than passion. I remembered also how I had always fancied that her reserve concealed30 I knew not what; but now I saw in it more than the desire to hide a shameful31 secret. Her tranquillity32 was like the sullen33 calm that broods over an island which has been swept by a hurricane. Her cheerfulness was the cheerfulness of despair. Strickland interrupted my reflections with an observation the profound cynicism of which startled me.
“A woman can forgive a man for the harm he does her,” he said, “but she can never forgive him for the sacrifices he makes on her account.”
“It must be reassuring34 to you to know that you certainly run no risk of incurring35 the resentment36 of the women you come in contact with,” I retorted.
A slight smile broke on his lips.
“You are always prepared to sacrifice your principles for a repartee,” he answered.
“What happened to the child?”
“Oh, it was still-born, three or four months after they were married.”
Then I came to the question which had seemed to me most puzzling.
“Will you tell me why you bothered about Blanche Stroeve at all?”
He did not answer for so long that I nearly repeated it.
“How do I know?” he said at last. “She couldn’t bear the sight of me. It amused me.”
“I see.”
He gave a sudden flash of anger.
“Damn it all, I wanted her.”
But he recovered his temper immediately, and looked at me with a smile.
“At first she was horrified37.”
“Did you tell her?”
“There wasn’t any need. She knew. I never said a word. She was frightened. At last I took her.”
I do not know what there was in the way he told me this that extraordinarily38 suggested the violence of his desire. It was disconcerting and rather horrible. His life was strangely divorced from material things, and it was as though his body at times wreaked39 a fearful revenge on his spirit. The satyr in him suddenly took possession, and he was powerless in the grip of an instinct which had all the strength of the primitive40 forces of nature. It was an obsession41 so complete that there was no room in his soul for prudence42 or gratitude.
“But why did you want to take her away with you?” I asked.
“I didn’t,” he answered, frowning. “When she said she was coming I was nearly as surprised as Stroeve. I told her that when I’d had enough of her she’d have to go, and she said she’d risk that.” He paused a little. “She had a wonderful body, and I wanted to paint a nude43. When I’d finished my picture I took no more interest in her.”
“And she loved you with all her heart.”
He sprang to his feet and walked up and down the small room.
“I don’t want love. I haven’t time for it. It’s weakness. I am a man, and sometimes I want a woman. When I’ve satisfied my passion I’m ready for other things. I can’t overcome my desire, but I hate it; it imprisons44 my spirit; I look forward to the time when I shall be free from all desire and can give myself without hindrance46 to my work. Because women can do nothing except love, they’ve given it a ridiculous importance. They want to persuade us that it’s the whole of life. It’s an insignificant47 part. I know lust48. That’s normal and healthy. Love is a disease. Women are the instruments of my pleasure; I have no patience with their claim to be helpmates, partners, companions.”
I had never heard Strickland speak so much at one time. He spoke49 with a passion of indignation. But neither here nor elsewhere do I pretend to give his exact words; his vocabulary was small, and he had no gift for framing sentences, so that one had to piece his meaning together out of interjections, the expression of his face, gestures and hackneyed phrases.
“You should have lived at a time when women were chattels50 and men the masters of slaves,” I said.
“It just happens that I am a completely normal man.”
I could not help laughing at this remark, made in all seriousness; but he went on, walking up and down the room like a caged beast, intent on expressing what he felt, but found such difficulty in putting coherently.
“When a woman loves you she’s not satisfied until she possesses your soul. Because she’s weak, she has a rage for domination, and nothing less will satisfy her. She has a small mind, and she resents the abstract which she is unable to grasp. She is occupied with material things, and she is jealous of the ideal. The soul of man wanders through the uttermost regions of the universe, and she seeks to imprison45 it in the circle of her account-book. Do you remember my wife? I saw Blanche little by little trying all her tricks. With infinite patience she prepared to snare51 me and bind52 me. She wanted to bring me down to her level; she cared nothing for me, she only wanted me to be hers. She was willing to do everything in the world for me except the one thing I wanted: to leave me alone.”
I was silent for a while.
“What did you expect her to do when you left her?”
“She could have gone back to Stroeve,” he said irritably. “He was ready to take her.”
“You’re inhuman,” I answered. “It’s as useless to talk to you about these things as to describe colours to a man who was born blind.”
He stopped in front of my chair, and stood looking down at me with an expression in which I read a contemptuous amazement53.
“Do you really care a twopenny damn if Blanche Stroeve is alive or dead?”
I thought over his question, for I wanted to answer it truthfully, at all events to my soul.
“It may be a lack of sympathy in myself if it does not make any great difference to me that she is dead. Life had a great deal to offer her. I think it’s terrible that she should have been deprived of it in that cruel way, and I am ashamed because I do not really care.”
“You have not the courage of your convictions. Life has no value. Blanche Stroeve didn’t commit suicide because I left her, but because she was a foolish and unbalanced woman. But we’ve talked about her quite enough; she was an entirely54 unimportant person. Come, and I’ll show you my pictures.”
He spoke as though I were a child that needed to be distracted. I was sore, but not with him so much as with myself. I thought of the happy life that pair had led in the cosy studio in Montmartre, Stroeve and his wife, their simplicity55, kindness, and hospitality; it seemed to me cruel that it should have been broken to pieces by a ruthless chance; but the cruellest thing of all was that in fact it made no great difference. The world went on, and no one was a penny the worse for all that wretchedness. I had an idea that Dirk, a man of greater emotional reactions than depth of feeling, would soon forget; and Blanche’s life, begun with who knows what bright hopes and what dreams, might just as well have never been lived. It all seemed useless and inane56.
Strickland had found his hat, and stood looking at me.
“Are you coming?”
“Why do you seek my acquaintance?” I asked him. “You know that I hate and despise you.”
He chuckled good-humouredly.
“Your only quarrel with me really is that I don’t care a twopenny damn what you think about me.”
I felt my cheeks grow red with sudden anger. It was impossible to make him understand that one might be outraged57 by his callous18 selfishness. I longed to pierce his armour58 of complete indifference59. I knew also that in the end there was truth in what he said. Unconsciously, perhaps, we treasure the power we have over people by their regard for our opinion of them, and we hate those upon whom we have no such influence. I suppose it is the bitterest wound to human pride. But I would not let him see that I was put out.
“Is it possible for any man to disregard others entirely?” I said, though more to myself than to him. “You’re dependent on others for everything in existence. It’s a preposterous60 attempt to try to live only for yourself and by yourself. Sooner or later you’ll be ill and tired and old, and then you’ll crawl back into the herd61. Won’t you be ashamed when you feel in your heart the desire for comfort and sympathy? You’re trying an impossible thing. Sooner or later the human being in you will yearn62 for the common bonds of humanity.”
“Come and look at my pictures.”
“Have you ever thought of death?”
“Why should I? It doesn’t matter.”
I stared at him. He stood before me, motionless, with a mocking smile in his eyes; but for all that, for a moment I had an inkling of a fiery63, tortured spirit, aiming at something greater than could be conceived by anything that was bound up with the flesh. I had a fleeting64 glimpse of a pursuit of the ineffable65. I looked at the man before me in his shabby clothes, with his great nose and shining eyes, his red beard and untidy hair; and I had a strange sensation that it was only an envelope, and I was in the presence of a disembodied spirit.
“Let us go and look at your pictures,” I said.
1 tilted [tɪltɪd] 第7级 | |
v. 倾斜的 | |
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2 irritably ['iritəbli] 第9级 | |
ad.易生气地 | |
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3 chuckled [ˈtʃʌkld] 第9级 | |
轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4 apparently [əˈpærəntli] 第7级 | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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5 artistic [ɑ:ˈtɪstɪk] 第7级 | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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6 sincerity [sɪn'serətɪ] 第7级 | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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7 disapproval [ˌdɪsəˈpru:vl] 第8级 | |
n.反对,不赞成 | |
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8 fascination [ˌfæsɪˈneɪʃn] 第8级 | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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9 outrage [ˈaʊtreɪdʒ] 第7级 | |
n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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10 rogues [rəʊgz] 第12级 | |
n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 );无赖;调皮捣蛋的人;离群的野兽 | |
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11 recesses [rɪ'sesɪz] 第8级 | |
n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 );(工作或业务活动的)中止或暂停期间;学校的课间休息;某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 );将(墙)做成凹形,在(墙)上做壁龛;休息,休会,休庭 | |
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12 subconscious [ˌsʌbˈkɒnʃəs] 第10级 | |
n./adj.潜意识(的),下意识(的) | |
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13 perfectly [ˈpɜ:fɪktli] 第8级 | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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14 motives [ˈməutivz] 第7级 | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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15 applied [əˈplaɪd] 第8级 | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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16 sentimental [ˌsentɪˈmentl] 第7级 | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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17 derisively [dɪ'raɪsɪvlɪ] 第11级 | |
adv. 嘲笑地,嘲弄地 | |
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18 callous [ˈkæləs] 第9级 | |
adj.无情的,冷淡的,硬结的,起老茧的 | |
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19 callousness [] 第9级 | |
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20 inhuman [ɪnˈhju:mən] 第9级 | |
adj.残忍的,不人道的,无人性的 | |
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21 mince [mɪns] 第8级 | |
n.切碎物;v.切碎,矫揉做作地说 | |
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22 mere [mɪə(r)] 第7级 | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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23 remorse [rɪˈmɔ:s] 第9级 | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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24 jaws [dʒɔ:z] 第7级 | |
n.口部;嘴 | |
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25 shrugged [ʃ'rʌɡd] 第7级 | |
vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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26 gratitude [ˈgrætɪtju:d] 第7级 | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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27 seduced [siˈdju:st] 第8级 | |
诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 ); 勾引; 诱使堕落; 使入迷 | |
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28 compassionate [kəmˈpæʃənət] 第9级 | |
adj.有同情心的,表示同情的 | |
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29 peculiar [pɪˈkju:liə(r)] 第7级 | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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30 concealed [kən'si:ld] 第7级 | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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31 shameful [ˈʃeɪmfl] 第8级 | |
adj.可耻的,不道德的 | |
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32 tranquillity [træŋ'kwɪlətɪ] 第7级 | |
n. 平静, 安静 | |
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33 sullen [ˈsʌlən] 第9级 | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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34 reassuring [ˌri:ə'ʃuəriŋ] 第7级 | |
a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的,使人放心的 | |
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35 incurring [ɪn'kɜ:rɪŋ] 第7级 | |
遭受,招致,引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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36 resentment [rɪˈzentmənt] 第8级 | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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37 horrified ['hɔrifaid] 第8级 | |
a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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38 extraordinarily [ɪk'strɔ:dnrəlɪ] 第9级 | |
adv.格外地;极端地 | |
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39 wreaked [ri:kt] 第10级 | |
诉诸(武力),施行(暴力),发(脾气)( wreak的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40 primitive [ˈprɪmətɪv] 第7级 | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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41 obsession [əbˈseʃn] 第7级 | |
n.困扰,无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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42 prudence ['pru:dns] 第11级 | |
n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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43 nude [nju:d] 第10级 | |
adj.裸体的;n.裸体者,裸体艺术品 | |
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44 imprisons [ɪmˈprɪzənz] 第8级 | |
v.下狱,监禁( imprison的第三人称单数 ) | |
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45 imprison [ɪmˈprɪzn] 第8级 | |
vt.监禁,关押,限制,束缚 | |
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46 hindrance [ˈhɪndrəns] 第9级 | |
n.妨碍,障碍 | |
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47 insignificant [ˌɪnsɪgˈnɪfɪkənt] 第9级 | |
adj.无关紧要的,可忽略的,无意义的 | |
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48 lust [lʌst] 第10级 | |
n.性(淫)欲;渴(欲)望;vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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49 spoke [spəʊk] 第11级 | |
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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50 chattels [tʃætlz] 第11级 | |
n.动产,奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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51 snare [sneə(r)] 第10级 | |
n.陷阱,诱惑,圈套;(去除息肉或者肿瘤的)勒除器;响弦,小军鼓;vt.以陷阱捕获,诱惑 | |
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52 bind [baɪnd] 第7级 | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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53 amazement [əˈmeɪzmənt] 第8级 | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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54 entirely [ɪnˈtaɪəli] 第9级 | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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55 simplicity [sɪmˈplɪsəti] 第7级 | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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56 inane [ɪˈneɪn] 第10级 | |
adj.空虚的,愚蠢的,空洞的 | |
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57 outraged ['autreidʒəd] 第7级 | |
a.震惊的,义愤填膺的 | |
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58 armour ['ɑ:mə(r)] 第9级 | |
(=armor)n.盔甲;装甲部队 | |
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59 indifference [ɪnˈdɪfrəns] 第8级 | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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60 preposterous [prɪˈpɒstərəs] 第10级 | |
adj.荒谬的,可笑的 | |
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61 herd [hɜ:d] 第7级 | |
n.兽群,牧群;vt.使集中,把…赶在一起 | |
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62 yearn [jɜ:n] 第9级 | |
vi.想念;怀念;渴望 | |
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63 fiery [ˈfaɪəri] 第9级 | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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