A PETTY THEFT.
HENCEFORTH we see Francis Folyat in trousers, and his broad-brimmed silk hat, like a bishop3’s without cords, has been exchanged for the soft round black felt which takes so many inches from a man’s stature4. Black trousers, elastic-sided boots, a black silk waistcoat on which hung an amethyst5 cross, a clerical frock-coat, and a round white-linen6 collar were the daily attire7 of the new Rector of St. Paul’s, Bide8 Street. On great occasions the black-silk waistcoat was renounced10 in favour of one of violet silk. All day on Sundays he wore his cassock with a black silk sash round his full stomach, and when he walked to church he wore a biretta, to the solemn awe11 of the street urchins12, who confounded him with the Greek papa, a strange figure that haunted the children of the northern district of our town and was reputed to be a wizard.
Francis was in fine middle age. His head was beginning to be bald and his golden beard was rapidly turning white. There were red veins13 on his round cheeks, but his eyes were those of a boy, bright and blue and merry, and when he laughed they used to close up into little slits14 and all his bulk would shake until tears were squeezed out of them. He had a great capacity for laughter, but always it seemed that he could not shake it out. It possessed15 him and set him quivering like a jelly, and there was nothing to be heard but a hoarse16 chuckle17 deep down in his chest.
[Pg 30]
There had been times of great difficulty in the beginning. Martha had come to our town with glowing dreams, and when she saw Fern Square and the house she was to live in they came tumbling down on her romantic head, and she wept many tears and declared that she could not bear the house or the people or the town, and she demanded to be taken away—to Potsham, to Plymouth, anywhere out of the smoke and the rain and the filth18 and the noise and away from the common, common people. She vowed19 that she would never attend service in the hideous20, squalid little church, and could never have anything to do with the nasty, dirty school. It was impossible. She could not let her children mix with the children of these barbarians21. They must find another living or give up the Church altogether. Francis could retire, and devote himself to theological literature.
Francis bore it all with excellent good-humour, and pointed22 out that he could not even write his own sermons (he had amassed23 a collection of one hundred and fifty, which he delivered in rotation). By sheer amiability24 he won his wife over to a more sweet and reasonable temper, and helped her to set her house in order.
When he came to tackle his work he found that his predecessor25 had been a lazy and unpopular man and that his congregation was never more than a hundred and twenty persons, while the Sunday-school was very meagrely attended. He began by having the church and school cleaned and decorated, and it was quickly noised abroad that the new rector had private means. Further, it soon became clear that a new church was to be added to the little ring of churches which upheld the High Church cause in our town. After much cogitation26 Francis decided27 to abolish the pew-rents and to open his church free to all and sundry28. He bought new surplices and cassocks for his choir29, and new vestments for the clergy30 and the acolytes31 whom he intended to appoint. Very soon he found adherents33 and was given presents of new altar-cloths and sacramental vessels34. Altogether his prospects35 were admirably fair.
Fern Square was a wedge-shaped piece of ground [Pg 31]enclosed on one side by six old red-brick houses four stories high, built in an imitation of the Georgian style, with three rooms on each floor except the top, which had four and an attic36. The dining-room and the study were on the ground floor, the drawing-room on the first. They were fine rooms, and the Folyats’ old furniture made a brave show in it. The house was lit by gas, and the drawing-room window looked across the square upon the deliberate ugliness of a Wesleyan chapel37. The parrot had his cage in the dining-room among the family portraits, and the dog lived where he liked. He grew very fat and lost what little intelligence he had ever had, so that it ceased to matter even to himself which was his head and which was his tail.
The Clibran-Bells from next door but one were the first to call. Mr. Clibran-Bell was the borough38 treasurer39, a man with a huge red beak40 of a nose, a little white moustache, and a tremendous manner. He had an unfailing source of pride in his wife, who was really beautiful and had frequently been likened to the Marquise in Caste, a play which his daughters were always performing in the cause of charity. Mrs. Folyat flourished the Folyats and the Bampfields at Mrs. Clibran-Bell, who countered with the Staffordshire Bentleys, her cousins. The Clibran-Bells all talked mincingly43, as though they had eaten olives and could find no polite method of getting rid of the stones. Young George Clibran-Bell was in the head office of the Thomson-Beaton Bank, but, let it be added, the Clibran-Bells knew the manager. There were four girls and young George, and they soon became on terms of great intimacy44 with Gertrude and Mary Folyat, and they fell into the habit of running in and out of each others’ houses.
The bishop’s wife called.
Very soon St. Paul’s by its ritual attracted a number of extra-parishioners who had previously45 had to go two or three miles to the other end of our town for their religious satisfaction on a Sunday morning. Francis was encouraged and worked very hard, found some excellent people among his poor, and really tried to make his church a centre for them and a source of help in their all-too-frequent times [Pg 32]of trouble. Mrs. Folyat, by dint46 of custom, overcame her dislike of the common people with their coarse accent and rather uncouth47 manners, and went so far in her compromise with native custom as to renounce9 dinner in the evening and take to a heavy mid-day meal, a solid tea, and a betwixt-and-between sort of supper about nine in the evening. On Sunday she kept open house. Acquaintances and personages were fed at half-past one, and the familiars of the house at nine, after evening service.
At first she kept three servants, but when one of them gave notice she did not replace her and was content with two. Even that was found to be over-expensive, and she came down to one and a charwoman, and then, on Sunday evenings, Gertrude and Mary were forced to cook the supper and to wash up the dinner afterwards. They were very disagreeable about it until they found that most of the young women they knew, including the Clibran-Bells, did far more housework and did it as a matter of course. Then it became part of the routine of their existence and they raised no further objection, but Sunday supper became a cold feast, and they never cooked anything but potatoes and perhaps a Welsh rarebit for their father, whom they called “Pa.”
Soon everybody, including the parrot, called Francis “Pa,” and he sunned himself in his new popularity and had no further misgivings49 as to the wisdom of the step he had taken. Certainly he seemed to have disposed of the strained relations that had existed in his family in the country. The girls were busy and occupied all day long and every day. The boys seemed to have many friends, desirable and otherwise. Martha had taken to knitting and crochet-work, and she had Mrs. Clibran-Bell and Mrs. Starkey, the solicitor50’s wife, and Mrs. Tuke, the widow of the man who built the Albert Bridge and was killed on the day it opened, all ready and pleased to listen to her tattle of her husband’s ancestry51 and her own property and her hopes for her children. She had taken to lace caps and had settled down to a style in dress and a general appearance which should last to the Judgment52 Day. She read The Family Herald53 every week, and every [Pg 33]month purchased the threepenny novel published by the same firm. She had and was allowed a feeling of superiority, and enjoyed herself immensely. When Francis came to her with misgivings as to their capacity to live within their income she refused to listen to him, observed that they knew all the best people in the place—and what more could they want? Every Sunday they had a splendid congregation, and if the worse came to the worst they could restore the pew-rents. Francis had a vague, uneasy feeling that the worse had come to the worst, but nothing would induce him to do that. He let the subject drop.
Leedham had been sent to the grammar school, and James attended a dame’s school round the corner in the Bury Road. Annette at first accompanied him, but her godmother had stepped in and sent her to a school in Edinburgh. Minna, who all her life had done exactly what she wanted, refused to be educated any more, put up her hair and let down her frocks, and claimed equal rights with her two elder sisters. She enjoyed their privileges and avoided their duties.
After the family had been a year in Fern Square Frederic returned a full-blown solicitor, and after a few weeks’ idleness was taken into the office of Mr. Starkey at a nominal54 salary. He had grown a little moustache, which made the weakness of his chin even more pronounced, and, for some reason best known to himself, he wore a monocle. In Plymouth he had discovered a light tenor55 voice, and he became very useful to the Clibran-Bells in their amateur theatricals56. He joined forces with young George, and together they indulged in all those follies57 with which young men fortify58 their uneasy sense of manhood. He had pale straw-coloured hair and a very pale complexion59. He had a ready wit and a quick tongue, and soon won a reputation for cleverness. His brother Leedham hated him but always shrank away from Frederic’s irony60. Leedham had a great respect and admiration61 for his father, while Frederic regarded him with a contempt which originated, perhaps, in the episode of his intoxication62 at St. Withans. Mrs. Folyat doted on [Pg 34]Frederic, and he never had the slightest difficulty in obtaining money from her. He used to play the buffoon63 to her, set her laughing until the tears ran, and then, with a sudden turn of sentiment, he would make her cry until she laughed. When he could do neither of these things he would shock her with an audacious jest. Always he would contrive64 to keep her entertained.
Francis, then, had no anxiety about his family. There was always plenty of fun and merriment in his house, and a constant stream of young people enjoying themselves as though the world had only just come into being and was to go on for ever and ever. If the atmosphere was not altogether pious65, they were none the worse for that. They attended church regularly, worked in the Sunday-school, and in many other directions for the parish, and their happiness won the confidence of the poor, who made surprising efforts to please the rector and his family. Best of all, from Francis’s point of view, numbers of young men were attracted to the house and from there were drawn66 off into various activities. Enthusiasm for the High Church cause ran high.
Our town is composed of a number of smaller towns and boroughs67, all now under one city council, but at that time many of the boroughs and urban districts maintained their separate entities68 and had their own councils and their own newspapers. The district in which St. Paul’s was situate was still a separate borough, and it had a newspaper called The Pendle Times and Lower Brighton Gazette, which published local news and copious69 police reports. The editor of this sheet was a fanatical Low Churchman whose whole religious force had gone into worship of a certain Calvinistic divine, the Reverend Humphrey Clay, a rigid70 temperance reformer, Puritan and moralist, who, perceiving the growing laxness of the new industrial population, flung himself with fierce zeal71 into the task of castigating72 their immorality73 and whipping them up into a state of religious fervour. He had pictured their lives—ugly and stunted74 as they were in fact—as a gay rout48 of sin, and he strove to counteract75 this peculiar76 fiction of his own mind by a religion of appalling77 dulness. [Pg 35]He had a commanding spirit and found many disciples78. He substituted the intoxication of conversion79 for that of alcohol, and drew hundreds to the corrugated-iron church he had built on a piece of waste land opposite a public-house and a theatre. His sermons were printed week by week in The Pendle News—half a page of fierce exhortation80, while the other half was filled with racing81 results and advertisements of rat-pits and coursing. When he died twenty thousand men and women followed him to the grim cemetery82 overlooking the canal, and the streets were lined for two miles. In his obituary83, Flynn, the editor, called him “the Sainted Humphrey Clay,” and the name stuck. A movement was set on foot to replace his iron church with a stone building to be called the “Humphrey Clay Memorial Church”—none of your old Romish saints was to give his name to it—and a house-to-house canvas was instituted. The factory hands gave their pence, the better class their shillings and pounds, and after many years of unceasing work the fund was completed. The building was erected84 and consecrated85 by the bishop just six months after Francis Folyat came to St. Paul’s.
Flynn, the editor, scented86 the presence of the enemy, and began the attack by the publication of the “Literary Remains87 of Humphrey Clay,” containing stern denunciations of Popish mummery and medi?val witchcraft88. The wildest stories flew, and very soon Francis was credited with worshipping the Virgin89 Mary and maintaining a secret shrine90 in his vestry. Flynn wrote two denunciatory articles, blindly prejudiced and pitifully ignorant. Francis read them and wrote to the editor to invite him to attend service in St. Paul’s and see for himself.
Flynn waited for some weeks until Easter Sunday, when he fully91 expected to see a statue of the Virgin carried round the church. There was, in fact, a procession, and there was incense92 which stank93 in the editor’s nostrils94. His first impression as he entered had been one of disgust, for the whole place was filled with flowers, in the windows, on the pulpit, on the altar, twined about the lectern—daffodils [Pg 36]and tulips and hyacinths and violets and lilies. He sat in his pew at the back of the church and saw men and women enter, cross themselves, and curtsey and bow to the East in the central aisle95, and his gorge96 rose at it all. When the organ began to boom and send music whirring up to the roof and flooding the nave97 and the chancel, and a young man in a purple cassock and a lace surplice appeared bearing the Cross, and behind him two censer-bearers, and behind them again the choir, the curate, the special preacher, and Francis Folyat, in robe, cope and stole, carrying his biretta, he was fain to scream out upon the blasphemy98 of it all—blasphemy upon the memory of Humphrey Clay. He watched the procession wind round the church, singing the gladdest of Easter hymns99, and move up into the chancel, where the choir, still singing in their harsh, untrained voices, filed into their places, and the three priests stood solemnly upon the altar steps and waited for the last notes of the organ to die away. Two acolytes appeared in purple cassocks and little lace surplices and stood below the priests, and the solemn service began.
Flynn rushed away and walked for miles until he was dog-weary. He took his class in Sunday-school in the afternoon in a sort of dream, and in the evening with wide-staring eyes he sat unheedingly through the sombre evening service in the Humphrey Clay Memorial. He saw the whole town, the whole world, imperilled. He saw in Francis an emissary of the great whore of Babylon that sitteth upon many waters, a man bent41 upon seducing101 souls from salvation102, the very devil quoting Scripture103 to his ends.
Flynn’s sensations were those of a pious young man who for the first time in his life enters a music-hall, with this difference, that for Flynn the abhorred104 thing had no charm nor peril100 for himself, only for others—those others whom his hero’s life had been given to save.
On the Easter Monday his wife discovered that their charwoman had decamped with a sheet and two blankets, and he laid that sin at the door of the new source of corruption105 he had discovered, called for strong tea, wrapped [Pg 37]a wet towel round his aching head, and wrote the first of his famous series of articles. The following is an abstract under the heading:
“Non Angli sed Romani:
The Enemy within our Gates.
There is a church in this town, for so long devoted106 under the leadership of our great and sainted Humphrey Clay, a church where Sunday after Sunday, and on week-days also, blasphemy is committed, blasphemy and a painted mummery. I have been to this church. With my own eyes I have seen the finger-marks of the painted, scented hand of Rome. In this church I saw three priests—priests, not ministers—clothed like actors in a theatre. They wore purple and fine linen and they carried funny little hats in their hands. They had decked up two young laymen107 in purple and silk and fine embroidery108, and their feet trod upon rich carpets, with gleaming brass109 stair-rods. The very air was thick and oppressive with the smell of flowers, and to this was added the fulsome110 stench of incense, carried by conceited111, mincing42 little boys. No pen, least of all mine, could describe the impiousness of the processions, the bowings, the scrapings, the befouling and vulgarisation of things sacred that happen in this church, this so-called church, which is in reality a booth, a theatre. Why, the very costumes are indecent. The choir-boys do not wear surplices, but little laced shirts or shifts which do not even cover their spinal112 bulbs. Their behaviour, their demeanour, is an affront113 to all truly religious-minded persons. Had I not remembered that I was in the House of God I should have spat114 in the face of the arch-mummer as he passed me and bade him begone to Babylon whence he came. Who is this man? Why should he be suffered to defile115 the religion which he is supposed to practise? Why should this play-actor be permitted to strut116 and mow117 and paw the air in the Holy of Holies? Three times at least I saw him change his costume—in public! And each time he was assisted with a mock solemnity by the valet whom he is pleased to call an acolyte32. They say this man is a gentleman, the kinsman118 [Pg 38]of a noble family, a rich man, one who has kept his carriage. Let him not play the priest. Humphrey Clay, of blessed memory, was the son of a carpenter, a working carpenter in this town, but before his Maker119 he was a gentleman indeed. It is but twelve months since our bishop consecrated the memorial which is the crowning edifice120 that pinnacles121 the glorious career of Humphrey Clay. Can that same bishop within his diocese tolerate the splendid memorial to the one and the impious practices of the other man? I say he cannot. Such churches as this have not hitherto been tolerated in our part of the town. Citizens, shall we endure it now?
N.B.—Further articles on the subject will appear until something is done. If those in authority will not move, we shall take the matter into our own hands.”
Francis read this effusion and was hurt by it. Since he had thumped122 his brother William on the nose he had quarrelled with no man and deliberately123 hurt none. Behind the wild writing he could feel the torment124, and he was sorry. He felt that he was to a certain extent to blame because he had invited the man to his church in a challenging spirit, and so had perhaps increased prejudice in him. He tried to write to Flynn but could find nothing to say. As he sifted125 his thoughts he could only discover that he wished his church to be free. All sorts and conditions of men were free to come and free to stay away. He had once found one of his sidesmen turning a ragged126 old beggar-woman out, and had reproved him and led the old woman to a pew. She spat on the floor and sat fingering an old clay-pipe, but, to Francis’s way of thinking, these things might not be unacceptable to the God he honoured, however distasteful they might be to human creatures. The church, then, was free, and Francis desired only to make it pleasing and attractive to those who came to it, to have it a place of beauty amid so much ugliness. The Saturday before Easter had been one of the happiest he ever remembered—a day of hard work in the church, surrounded with young people all gay and blithe127 and busy with the flowers and draperies and vestments. [Pg 39]One such day, he felt, could do much to redeem128 the waste and folly129 of years.
However, it was all odious130 and disgusting to Flynn, and Francis sighed as he reached out for his tin of bird’s-eye and filled his pipe. The parrot scrambled131 out of its cage, shuffled132 along the floor and climbed up the back of his chair, perched on his shoulders, and stood combing its beak through his beard.
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1
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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amethyst
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| n.紫水晶 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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9
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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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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slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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cogitation
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| n.仔细思考，计划，设计 | |
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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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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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30
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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acolytes
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| n.助手( acolyte的名词复数 )；随从；新手；（天主教）侍祭 | |
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acolyte
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| n.助手，侍僧 | |
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adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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mincingly
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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49
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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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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51
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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52
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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53
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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54
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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55
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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56
theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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57
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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58
fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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59
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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60
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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61
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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62
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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63
buffoon
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| n.演出时的丑角 | |
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64
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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65
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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66
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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67
boroughs
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| （尤指大伦敦的）行政区( borough的名词复数 )； 议会中有代表的市镇 | |
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68
entities
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| 实体对像； 实体，独立存在体，实际存在物( entity的名词复数 ) | |
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69
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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70
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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71
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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72
castigating
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| v.严厉责骂、批评或惩罚（某人）( castigate的现在分词 ) | |
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73
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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74
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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75
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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76
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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77
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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78
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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79
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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80
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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81
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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82
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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83
obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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84
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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85
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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86
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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87
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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88
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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89
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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90
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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91
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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92
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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93
stank
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| n. (英)坝，堰，池塘 动词stink的过去式 | |
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94
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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95
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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96
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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97
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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98
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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99
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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100
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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101
seducing
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| 诱奸( seduce的现在分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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102
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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103
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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104
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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105
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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106
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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107
laymen
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| 门外汉，外行人( layman的名词复数 )； 普通教徒（有别于神职人员） | |
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108
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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109
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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110
fulsome
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| adj.可恶的，虚伪的，过分恭维的 | |
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111
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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112
spinal
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| adj.针的，尖刺的，尖刺状突起的；adj.脊骨的，脊髓的 | |
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113
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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114
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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115
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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116
strut
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| v.肿胀，鼓起；大摇大摆地走；炫耀；支撑；撑开；n.高视阔步；支柱，撑杆 | |
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117
mow
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| v.割（草、麦等），扫射，皱眉；n.草堆，谷物堆 | |
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118
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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119
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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120
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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121
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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122
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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124
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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125
sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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126
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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127
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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128
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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129
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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130
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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131
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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132
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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