WILSON tore the page carefully out of The Downhamian and pasted a thick sheet of Colonial Office notepaper on. the back of the poem. He held it up to the light: it was impossible to read the sports results on the other side of his verses. Then he folded the page carefully and put it in his pocket; there it would probably stay, but one never knew.
He had seen Scobie drive away towards the town and with beating heart and a sense of breathlessness, much the same as he had felt when stepping into the brothel, even with the same reluctance2 - for who wanted at any given moment to change the routine of his life? - he made his way downhill towards Scobie’s house.
He began to rehearse what he considered another man in his place would do: pick up the threads at once: kiss her quite naturally, upon the mouth if possible, say ‘I’ve missed you’, no uncertainty4. But his beating heart sent out its message of fear which drowned thought.
‘It’s Wilson at last,’ Louise said. ‘I thought you’d forgotten me,’ and held out her hand. He took it like a defeat.
‘Have a drink.’
‘I was wondering whether you’d like a walk.’
‘It’s too hot, Wilson.’
‘I haven’t been up there, you know, since...’
‘Up where?’ He realized that for those who do not love time never stands still.
‘Up at the old station.’
She said vaguely5 with a remorseless lack of interest, ‘Oh yes ... yes, I haven’t been up there myself yet.’
‘That night when I got back,’ he could feel the awful immature6 flush expanding,’ I tried to write some verse.’
‘What, you, Wilson?’
He said furiously, ‘Yes, me, Wilson. Why not? And it’s been published.’
‘I wasn’t laughing. I was just surprised. Who published it?’
‘A new paper called The Circle. Of course they don’t pay much.’
‘Can I see it?’
Wilson said breathlessly, ‘I’ve got it here.’ He explained, ‘There was something on the other side I couldn’t stand. It was just too modern for me.’ He watched her with hungry embarrassment7.
‘It’s quite pretty,’ she said weakly.
‘You see the initials?’
‘I’ve never had a poem dedicated8 to me before.’
Wilson felt sick; he wanted to sit down. Why, he wondered, does one ever begin this humiliating process: why does one imagine that one is in love? He had read somewhere that love had been invented in the eleventh century by the troubadours. Why had they not left us with lust9? He said with hopeless venom10, ‘I love you.’ He thought: it’s a lie, the word means nothing off the printed page. He waited for her laughter.
‘Oh, no, Wilson,’ she said, ‘no. You don’t. It’s just Coast fever.’
He plunged11 blindly, ‘More than anything in the world.’
She said gently, ‘No one loves like that, Wilson.’
He walked restlessly up and down, his shorts flapping, waving the bit of paper from The Downhamian. ‘You ought to believe in love. You’re a Catholic. Didn’t God love the world?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘He’s capable of it But not many of us are.’
‘You love your husband. You told me so. And it’s brought you back.’
Louise said sadly, ‘I suppose I do. All I can. But it’s not the kind of love you want to imagine you feel. No poisoned chalices13, eternal doom14, black sails. We don’t die for love, Wilson - except, of course, in books. And sometimes a boy play-acting. Don’t let’s play-act, Wilson - it’s no fun at our age.’
‘I’m not play-acting,’ he said with a fury in which he could hear too easily the histrionic accent. He confronted her bookcase as though it were a witness she had forgotten. ‘Do they play-act?’
‘Not much,’ she said. ‘That’s why I like them better than your poets.’
‘All the same you came back.’ His face lit up with wicked inspiration. ‘Or was that just jealousy15?’
She said, ‘Jealousy? What on earth have I got to be jealous about?’
‘They’ve been careful,’ Wilson said, ‘but not as careful as all that.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘Your Ticki and Helen Rolt.’
Louise struck at his cheek and missing got his nose, which began to bleed copiously16. She said, ‘That’s for calling him Ticki. Nobody’s going to do that except me. You know he hates it. Here, take my handkerchief if you haven’t got one of your own.’
Wilson said, ‘I bleed awfully17 easily. Do you mind if I lie on my back?’ He stretched himself on the floor between the table and the meat safe, among the ants. First there had been Scobie watching his tears at Pende, and now - this.
‘You wouldn’t like me to put a key down your back?’ Louise asked.
‘No. No thank you.’ The blood had stained the Downhamian page.
‘I really am sorry. I’ve got a vile18 temper. This will cure you, Wilson.’ But if romance is what one lives by, one must never be cured of it. The world has too many spoilt priests of this faith or that: better surely to pretend a belief than wander in that vicious vacuum of cruelty and despair. He said obstinately19, ‘Nothing will cure me, Louise. I love you. Nothing,’ bleeding into her handkerchief.
‘How strange,’ she said, ‘it would be if it were true.’
He grunted20 a query21 from the ground.
‘I mean,’ she explained, ‘if you were one of those people who really love. I thought Henry was. It would be strange if really it was you all the time.’ He felt an odd fear that after all he was going to be accepted at his own valuation, rather as a minor22 staff officer might feel during a rout3 when he finds that his claim to know the handling of the tanks will be accepted. It is too late to admit that he knows nothing but what he has read in the technical journals - ‘O lyric23 love, half angel and half bird.’ Bleeding into the handkerchief, he formed his lips carefully round a generous phrase, ‘I expect he loves - in his way.’
‘Who?’ Louise said. ‘Me? This Helen Rolt you are talking about? Or just himself?’
‘I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Isn’t it true? Let’s have a bit of truth, Wilson. You don’t know how tired I am of comforting lies. Is she beautiful?’
‘Oh no, no. Nothing of that sort.’
‘She’s young, of course, and I’m middle-aged24. But surely she’s a bit worn after what she’s been through.’
‘She’s very worn.’
‘But she’s not a Catholic. She’s lucky. She’s free, Wilson.’
Wilson sat up against the leg of the table. He said with genuine passion, ‘I wish to God you wouldn’t call me Wilson.’
‘I’m bleeding again,’ he said dismally25 and lay back on the floor.
‘What do you know about it all, Teddie?’
‘I think I’d rather be Edward. Louise, I’ve seen him come away from her hut at two in the morning. He was up there yesterday afternoon.’
‘He was at confession26.’
‘Harris saw him.’
‘You’re certainly watching him.’
‘It’s my belief Yusef is using him.’
‘That’s fantastic. You’re going too far.’
She stood over him as though he were a corpse27: the bloodstained handkerchief lay in his palm. They neither of them heard the car stop or the footsteps up to the threshold. It was strange to both of them, hearing a third voice from an outside world speaking into this room which had become as close and intimate and airless as a vault28. ‘Is anything wrong?’ Scobie’s voice asked.
‘It’s just...’ Louise said and made a gesture of bewilderment - as though she were saying: where does one start explaining? Wilson scrambled29 to his feet and at once his nose began to bleed.
‘Here,’ Scobie said and taking out his bundle of keys dropped them inside Wilson’s shirt collar. ‘You’ll see,’ he said, ‘the old-fashioned remedies are always best,’ and sure enough the bleeding did stop within a few seconds. ‘You should never lie on your back,’ Scobie went reasonably on. ‘Seconds use a sponge of cold water, and you certainly look as though you’d been in a fight, Wilson.’
‘I always lie on my back,’ Wilson said. ‘Blood makes me I’ll.’
‘Have a drink?’
‘No,’ Wilson said, ‘no. I must be’ off.’ He retrieved30 the keys with some difficulty and left the tail of his shirt dangling31. He only discovered it when Harris pointed32 it out to him on his return to the Nissen, and he thought: that is how I looked while I walked away and they watched side by side.
2
‘What did he want?’ Scobie said.
‘He wanted to make love to me.’
‘Does he love you?’
‘He thinks he does. You can’t ask much more than that, can you?’
‘You seem to have hit him rather hard,’ Scobie said, ‘on the nose?’
‘He made me angry. He called you Ticki. Darling, he’s spying on you.’
‘I know that.’
‘Is he dangerous?’
‘He might be - under some circumstances. But then it would be my fault.’
‘Henry, do you never get furious at anyone? Don’t you mind him making love to me?’
He said,’ I’d be a hypocrite if I were angry at that. It’s the kind of thing that happens to people. You know, quite pleasant normal people do fall in love.’
‘Have you ever fallen in love?’
‘Oh yes, yes.’ He watched her closely while he excavated33 his smile. ‘You know I have.’
‘Henry, did you really feel ill this morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘It wasn’t just an excuse?’
‘No.’
‘Then, darling, let’s go to communion together tomorrow morning.’
‘If you want to,’ he said. It was the moment he had known would come. With bravado34, to show that his hand was not shaking, he took down a glass. ‘Drink?’
‘It’s too early, dear,’ Louise said; he knew she was watching him closely like all the others. He put the glass down and said, ‘I’ve just got to run back to the station for some papers. When I get back it will be time for drinks.’
He drove unsteadily down the road, his eyes blurred35 with nausea36. O God, he thought, the decisions you force on people, suddenly, with no time to consider. I am too tired to think: this ought to be worked out on paper like a problem in mathematics, and the answer arrived at without pain. But the pain made him physically37 sick, so that he retched over the wheel. The trouble is, he thought, we know the answers - we Catholics are damned by our knowledge. There’s no need for me to work anything out - there is only one answer: to kneel down in the confessional and say, ‘Since my last confession I have committed adultery so many times etcetera etcetera’; to hear Father Rank telling me to avoid the occasion: never see the woman alone (speaking in those terrible abstract terms: Helen - the woman, the occasion, no longer the bewildered child clutching the stamp-album, listening to Bagster howling outside the door: that moment of peace and darkness and tenderness and pity ‘adultery’). And I to make my act of contrition38, the promise ‘never more to offend thee’, and then tomorrow the communion: taking God in my mouth in what they call the state of grace. That’s the right answer - there is no other answer: to save my own soul and abandon her to Bagster and despair. One must be reasonable, he told himself, and recognize that despair doesn’t last (is that true?), that love doesn’t last (but isn’t that the very reason that despair does?), that in a few weeks or months she’ll be all right again. She has survived forty days in an open boat and the death of her husband and can’t she survive the mere39 death of love? As I can, as I know I can.
He drew up outside the church and sat hopelessly at the wheel. Death never comes when one desires it most. He thought: of course there’s the ordinary honest wrong answer, to leave Louise, forget that private vow40, resign my job. To abandon Helen to Bagster or Louise to what? I am trapped, he told himself, catching41 sight of an expressionless stranger’s face in the driving mirror, trapped. Nevertheless he left the car and went into the church. While he was waiting for Father Rank to go into the confessional he knelt and prayed: the only prayer he could rake up. Even the words of the ‘Our Father’ and the ‘Hail Mary’ deserted42 him. He prayed for a miracle, ‘O God convince me, help me, convince me. Make me feel that I am more important than that girl,’ It was not Helen’s face he saw as he prayed but the dying child who called him father: a face in a photograph staring from the dressing-table: the face of a black girl of twelve a sailor had raped43 and killed glaring blindly up at him in a yellow paraffin light. ‘Make me put my own soul first Give me trust in your mercy to the one I abandon.’ He could hear Father Rank close the door of his box and nausea twisted him again on his knees. ‘O God,’ he said, ‘if instead I should abandon you, punish me but let the others get some happiness.’ He went into the box. He thought, a miracle may still happen. Even Father Rank may for once find the word, the right word ... Kneeling in the space of an upturned coffin44 he said, ‘Since my last confession I have committed adultery.’
‘How many times?’
‘I don’t know, Father, many times.’
‘Are you married?’
‘Yes.’ He remembered that evening when Father Rank had nearly broken down before him, admitting his failure to help ... Was he, even while he was struggling to retain the complete anonymity45 of the confessional, remembering it too? He wanted to say, ‘Help me, Father. Convince me that I would do right to abandon her to Bagster. Make me believe in the mercy of God,’ but he knelt silently waiting: he was unaware46 of the slightest tremor47 of hope. Father Rank said, ‘Is it one woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must avoid seeing her. Is that possible?’
He shook his head.
‘If you must see her, you must never be alone with her. Do you promise to do that, promise God not me?’ He thought: how foolish it was of me to expect the magic word. This is the formula used so many times on so many people. Presumably people promised and went away and came back and confessed again. Did they really believe they were going to try? He thought: I am cheating human beings every day I live, I am not going to try to cheat myself or God. He replied, ‘It would be no good my promising48 that, Father.’
‘You must promise. You can’t desire the end without desiring the means.’
Ah, but one can, he thought, one can: one can desire the peace of victory without desiring the ravaged49 towns.
Father Rank said, ‘I don’t need to tell you surely that there’s nothing automatic in the confessional or in absolution. It depends on your state of mind whether you are forgiven. It’s no good coming and kneeling hers unprepared. Before you come here you must know the wrong you’ve done.’
‘I do know that’
‘And you must have a real purpose of amendment50. We are told to forgive our brother seventy times seven and we needn’t fear God will be any less forgiving than we are, but nobody can begin to forgive the uncontrite. It’s better to sin seventy times and repent51 each time than sin once and never repent.’ He could see Father Rank’s hand go up to wipe the sweat out of his eyes: it was like a gesture of weariness. He thought: what is the good of keeping him in this discomfort52? He’s right, of course, he’s right. I was a fool to imagine that somehow in this airless box I would find a conviction ... He said, ‘I think I was wrong to come, Father.’
‘I don’t want to refuse you absolution, but I think if you would just go away and turn things over in your mind, you’d come back in a better frame of mind.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘I will pray for you.’
When he came out of the box it seemed to Scobie that for the first time his footsteps had taken him out of sight of hope. There was no hope anywhere he turned his eyes: the dead figure of the God upon the cross, the plaster Virgin53, the hideous54 stations representing a series of events that had happened a long time ago. It seemed to him that he had only left for his exploration the territory of despair.
He drove down to the station, collected a file and returned home. ‘You’ve been a long time,’ Louise said. He didn’t even know the lie he was going to tell before it was on his lips. ‘That pain came back,’ he said, ‘so I waited for a while.’
‘Do you think you ought to have a drink?’
‘Yes. until anybody tells me not to.’
‘And you’ll see a doctor?’
‘Of course.’
That night he dreamed that he was in a boat drifting down just such an underground river as his boyhood hero Allan Quatermain had taken towards the lost city of Milosis. But Quatermain had companions while he was alone, for you couldn’t count the dead body on the stretcher as a companion. He felt a sense of urgency, for he told himself that bodies in this climate kept for a very short time and the smell of decay was already in his nostrils55. Then, sitting there guiding the boat down the mid-stream, he realized that it was not the dead body that smelt56 but his own living one. He felt as though his blood had ceased to run: when he tried to lift his arm it dangled57 uselessly from his shoulder. He woke and it was Louise who had lifted his arm. She said, ‘Darling, it’s time to be off.’
‘Off?’ he asked.
‘We’re going to Mass,’ and again he was aware of how closely she was watching him. What was the good of yet another delaying lie? He wondered what Wilson had said to her. Could he go on lying week after week, finding some reason of work, of health, of forgetfulness for avoiding the issue at the altar rail? He thought hopelessly: I am damned already -I may as well go the whole length of my chain. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘of course. I’ll get up,’ and was suddenly surprised by her putting the excuse into his mouth, giving him his chance. ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘if you aren’t well, stay where you are. I don’t want to drag you to Mass.’
But the excuse it seemed to him was also a trap. He could see where the turf had been replaced over the hidden stakes. If he took the excuse she offered he would have all but confessed his guilt58. Once and for all now at whatever eternal cost, he was determined59 that he would clear himself in her eyes and give her the reassurance60 she needed. He said, ‘No, no. I will come with you.’ When he walked beside her into the church it was as if he had entered this building for the first time - a stranger. An immeasurable distance already separated him from these people who knelt and prayed and would presently receive God in peace. He knelt and pretended to pray.
The words of the Mass were like an indictment61. ‘I will go in unto the altar of God: to God who giveth joy to my youth.’ But there was no joy anywhere. He looked up from between his hands and the plaster images of the Virgin and the saints seemed to be holding out hands to everyone, on either side, beyond him. He was the unknown guest at a party who is introduced to no one. The gentle painted smiles were unbearably62 directed elsewhere. When the Kyrie Eleison was reached he again tried to pray. ‘Lord have mercy ... Christ have mercy ... Lord have mercy,’ but the fear and the shame of the act he was going to commit chilled his brain. Those ruined priests who presided at a Black Mass, consecrating63 the Host over the naked body of a woman, consuming God in an absurd and horrifying64 ritual, were at least performing the act of damnation with an emotion larger than human love: they were doing it from hate of God or some odd perverse65 devotion to God’s enemy. But he had no love of evil or hate of God. How was he to hate this God who of His own accord was surrendering Himself into his power? He was desecrating66 God because he loved a woman - was it even love, or was it just a feeling of pity and responsibility? He tried again to excuse himself: ‘You can look after yourself. You survive the cross every day. You can only suffer. You can never be lost. Admit that you must come second to these others.’ And myself, he thought, watching the priest pour the wine and water into the chalice12, his own damnation being prepared like a meal at the altar, I must come last: I am the Deputy Commissioner67 of Police: a hundred men serve under me: I am the responsible man. It is my job to look after the others. I am conditioned to serve.
Sanctus. Sanctus. Sanctus. The Canon of the Mass had started: Father Rank’s whisper at the altar hurried remorselessly towards the consecration68. ‘To order our days in thy peace ... that we be preserved from eternal damnation ...’ Pax, pacis, pacem: all the declinations of the word ‘peace’ drummed on his ears through the Mass. He thought: I have left even the hope of peace for ever. I am the responsible man. I shall soon have gone too far in my design of deception69 ever to go back. Hoc est enim Corpus: the bell rang, and Father Rank raised God in his fingers - this God as light now as a wafer whose coming lay or Scobie’s heart as heavily as lead. Hic est enim calix sanguinis and the second bell.
Louise touched his hand. ‘Dear, are you well?’ He thought: here is the second chance. The return of my pain. I can go out. But if he went out of church now, he knew that there would be only one thing left to do - to follow Father Rank’s advice, to settle his affairs, to desert, to come back in a few days’ time and take God with a clear conscience and a knowledge that he had pushed innocence70 back where it properly belonged - under the Atlantic surge. Innocence must die young if it isn’t to kill the souls of men.
‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you.’
‘I’m all right,’ he said, the old longing71 pricking72 at the eyeballs, and looking up towards the cross on the altar he thought savagely73: Take your sponge of gall74. You made me what I am. Take the spear thrust. He didn’t need to open his Missal to know how this prayer ended. ‘May the receiving of Thy Body, O Lord Jesus Christ, which I unworthy presume to take, turn not to my judgment75 and condemnation76.’ He shut his eyes and let the darkness in. Mass rushed towards its end: Domine, non sum dignus ... Domine, non sum dignus... Domine, non sum dignus.... At the foot of the scaffold he opened his eyes and saw the old black women shuffling77 up towards the altar rail, a few soldiers, an aircraft mechanic, one of his own policemen, a clerk from the bank: they moved sedately78 towards peace, and Scobie felt an envy of their simplicity79, their goodness. Yes, now at this moment of time they were good.
‘Aren’t you coming, dear?’ Louise asked, and again the hand touched him: the kindly80 firm detective hand. He rose and followed her and knelt by her side like a spy in a foreign land who has been taught the customs and to speak the language like a native. Only a miracle can save me now, Scobie told himself, watching Father Rank at the altar opening the tabernacle, but God would never work a miracle to save Himself, I am the cross, he thought. He will never speak the word to save Himself from the cross, but if only wood were made so that it didn’t feel, if only the nails were senseless as people believed.
Father Rank came down the steps from the altar bearing the Host. The saliva81 had dried in Scobie’s mouth: it was as though his veins82 had dried. He couldn’t look up; he saw only the priest’s skirt like the skirt of the mediaeval war-horse bearing down upon him: the flapping of feet: the charge of God. If only the archers83 would let fly from ambush84, and for a moment he dreamed that the priest’s steps had indeed faltered85 : perhaps after all something may yet happen before he reaches me: some incredible interposition ... But with open mouth (the time had come) he made one last attempt at prayer, ‘O God, I offer up my damnation to you. Take it. Use it for them,’ and was aware of the pale papery taste of an eternal sentence on the tongue.
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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chalices
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| n.高脚酒杯( chalice的名词复数 )；圣餐杯；金杯毒酒；看似诱人实则令人讨厌的事物 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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copiously
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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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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lyric
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middle-aged
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dismally
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confession
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corpse
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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retrieved
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| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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excavated
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| v.挖掘( excavate的过去式和过去分词 )；开凿；挖出；发掘 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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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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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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raped
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| v.以暴力夺取，强夺( rape的过去式和过去分词 )；强奸 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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anonymity
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| n.the condition of being anonymous | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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consecrating
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| v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的现在分词 )；奉献 | |
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horrifying
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| a.令人震惊的，使人毛骨悚然的 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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desecrating
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的现在分词 ) | |
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commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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saliva
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| n.唾液，口水 | |
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82
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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84
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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