PURITAN hostility1 to the proceedings2 in St. Paul’s survived the demise3 of Flynn and his newspaper and spluttered into activity upon occasion, as when Francis instituted the Litany as a separate Sunday afternoon service or allowed his school-room to be used for musical entertainments organised by the local nigger minstrels—(the annual visit of Moore and Burgess gave birth to numerous amateur troupes)—or when in the jumble4 sales which were held at intervals6 he countenanced7 and even patronised raffles8. One pretext9 was as good as another, but the fundamental grievance10 was his friendship with Father Soledano, a priest attached to the Roman Catholic Cathedral. The offence was greater in that he had no friend, hardly a kindly11 acquaintance among the Anglican clergy12. They fought shy of him because he had incurred13 the disapproval14 of the dean, though their wives occasionally called on Mrs. Folyat because she was still visited by the bishop’s wife.
Father Soledano was an Irishman of Spanish extraction, a little ugly man, with a lame15 leg, stiff bristling16 hair receding17 from a knobby, wrinkled forehead, little eyes glowing under bushy brows, a long upper lip and a sensitive mouth, and a chin that looked as though he had to shave it every half hour.
The Roman Catholic Cathedral was about a mile away from St. Paul’s, and Father Soledano lived in the priest’s house in an asphalt court that lay under its shadow. The surrounding district was inhabited mostly by poor Irish—ignorant, drunken, superstitious18, and Jews, whose morality was a reproach to the rest of the dwellers19 in the slums; and there were French people, and Bavarians, Lithuanians, not a few Poles, and refugees from Russia. All these [Pg 96]were swept into the various trades and manufactories—sweated tailoring, sweated shirt-making, sweated jam-making, sweated engineering. And Father Soledano found his work of digging for their souls infinitely20 amusing. Several of his Catholics lived over in the parish of St. Paul’s, and he had sought Francis out on hearing a tale of his kindness to an old woman who, by practising midwifery, supported her daughter-in-law and four children. This old woman was a Catholic, and every penny she could spare was spent in buying images of saints. She had the Virgin21, and St. Peter, and St. Anthony of Padua, and a little Saint Catherine of Siena. One day two of the men who had assaulted Frederic and overturned the gravestone of the boy James, made a round of all the Catholic houses they could discover and destroyed all the images. When Francis heard of it he went from house to house and was given a list of all that had been destroyed, and a week later he went round with his chief sidesman carrying a clothes-basket full of saints, and made good every loss. When the aforesaid old woman found herself with a new Virgin, a new Saint Peter, and a new Saint Anthony of Padua and a more beautiful new Saint Catherine of Siena than she had ever thought of in her wildest dreams, she knelt down and began to pray for the soul of the English Father. And Francis knelt down and prayed with her, and all the children gathered round and stared at their grandmother and the portly bearded man kneeling there by the kitchen table, and their mother began to cry, and the old woman began to cry, until Francis lifted her up and kissed her on the cheek. Then he sent the children out to buy bread and jam and cake and they had a lovely tea together.
Francis did not tell the tale to anybody, but it was soon out all over the parish, and there was much indignation. A few of the parishioners left the church and Mrs. Folyat was shocked and affronted22. What offended her most was that Francis had carried the images publicly and openly through the streets. Being an inveterate23 gossip herself, she could not endure being the subject of it, except it were flattering to her vanity.
[Pg 97]
Father Soledano wrote to Francis and thanked him, and Francis invited him to come and see him. The invitation was accepted, and the two men found that they had many things in common outside their profession, and they had many a long talk about old Dublin days. Soledano was amused by the Anglican’s easy-going optimism, and Francis was shocked, interested, and stimulated24 by the priest’s almost cynical25 pessimism26. They never discussed religion. To a certain extent they secretly allied27 forces in their work of dealing28 with the moral and economic difficulties of their poor, a certain substratum of whom were ultimately Catholic and Anglican according as they could win the attention and sympathy of the district visitors or the Little Sisters, though they hardly ever attended service either in the Cathedral or in St. Paul’s.
Every now and then Soledano would come to supper at Fern Square on Sundays, and it so happened that he was there when Bennett Lawrie appeared for the first time dressed sprucely for the occasion with a new suit and a very high collar and a blue birds-eye tie. The whole family was present, having been to church in full force—Serge read the Lessons—and they had sat down to their meal, having forgotten all about young Lawrie, when there came a resounding29 peal30 at the bell. The servant was out and Gertrude opened the door to him. His face was utterly31 tragic32, and he could hardly find his voice to ask if Mrs. Folyat were in. Gertrude admitted him, showed him into the dining-room, where several people were talking all at once, and disappeared into the kitchen to fetch him plate, knife, and fork. It was some moments before Frederic recognised him—two gas-jets in glass globes do not give very much light—and Bennett suffered agonies of shyness and began to wish he had never come. He saw Francis open his mouth and insert a large piece of cold beef and his beard wag as he chewed it slowly, and he rather resented it. He had romanticised Francis, and had always pictured him in his vestments very saintly and impressive. The other man, Soledano, sitting between Mrs. Folyat and Minna, looked much more like a saint. . . . [Pg 98]Minna gazed at Bennett with mischievous33 approval, and he thought her very beautiful and cast down his eyes. Frederic said “Hullo” and told his mother who Bennett was, and Mrs. Folyat bade Serge and Mary make room for the young man between them. Gertrude returned with plate, knife and fork. Bennett sat down at the place made for him, and conversation was resumed and flowed on over him. It was chiefly concerned with food, and Mrs. Folyat was very anxious to know what Father Soledano had to eat at the priests’ house. He told her they ate very little meat and a great deal of macaroni. Mary tried to talk to Bennett but could get nothing out of him but “Yes” and “No.” He liked music but knew nothing about it, and had never been to a concert.
Serge tackled him. The directness of his questions embarrassed Bennett, and the kindliness34 of his interest moved him so that a lump rose in his throat and he could hardly get out his replies. He had, he said, been born in the town and had hardly ever been away from it; once to Scotland, where his father came from, and once to Westmoreland and once to Derbyshire. His family were so poor, you see, though they had once been quite rich and lived in a big house with a garden. He could just remember the garden. He was nineteen and had been in business since he was sixteen, first of all in a little office where there was only one clerk, and then, by the influence of his uncles, in a great firm of shippers where, if you did not earn very much, you were at any rate safe. His mother was Low Church and his father was a Presbyterian but never went to any place of worship. He had two brothers and two sisters, but they were all older than himself and didn’t care about the things he cared for, though one of his brothers sang in the choir35 at the Church of the Ascension, where they only wore surplices and no cassocks. . . . Timidly he asked Serge if it was true that he was an artist, and Serge laughed and said he was a sort of middle-aged36 embryo37.
“That must be splendid,” said Bennett, wistfully. “I draw, but not real things, only dreams and horrible grotesques38. We started a family paper once but the [Pg 99]others wouldn’t do anything, and I had to write it all myself and draw all the pictures, and they laughed at everything I did, and I drew a picture of my mother being carried off by the devil and they burnt it. I write verses about the people in the office, but they don’t like them unless they’re—you know—rather nasty. We can’t smoke in our office and everybody takes snuff. I think I’d like to have been a clergyman.”
He suddenly became conscious that Gertrude’s eyes were upon him and that she was devouring39 every word he said. He had recognised her as the young woman who came so often to St. Saviour’s, and he had thought about her a great deal. He had tortured himself with the notion that she might have come to see him, had even dreamed lofty romances in which she figured as a mysterious lady of high degree who swept him off in a great carriage with two tremendous horses, and then had been ashamed. It comforted him a little to know that she was the daughter of the Rev40. Francis Folyat, and that her attendance at St. Saviour’s could therefore only have been prompted by the highest spiritual motives41. . . . All the same she was looking at him exactly as she did when he came down to the steps of the nave42 and stood with the great brass43 offertory-plate. He was wretchedly nervous, but he imagined the Folyats to be a happy united family, and he basked44 in the warmth which seemed to pervade45 their house. He listened to their bantering46 conversation and was very much afraid of them all except Serge. Frederic seemed to drink a vast quantity of beer, and he remembered stories that he had heard of him in the office. Like everybody else who was interested in church matters, he was familiar with the flying gossip concerning the Folyats, and the ill-natured remarks that were current about the unmarried daughters. He thought Minna more and more beautiful, and Mary devoted47, and Gertrude—he could not disentangle Gertrude from all the absurd things he had thought of her before he knew who she was.
Mrs. Folyat began, as she always did in the presence of a newcomer, to talk of the ancestors on the wall, and to tell the lurid48 stories of the Red Lady, who had known [Pg 100]more than was ever written of the Monmouth rebellion, and the Grey Lady who had such a violent temper, that, losing it one day out driving with her husband in a high chariot, she boxed his ears so that he lost his balance and fell out and broke his neck. She rambled49 on by way of Baron50 Folyat to Willie, now safely established as Earl of Leedham, and she declared, being thoroughly51 warmed to her subject, that failing heirs male, and in the event of the extirpation52 of two other branches of the family—and less likely things had happened—Serge would become heir, or his sons, if he ever had any.
Bennett was much impressed, as it was meant that he should be, and began to talk of his own ancestry53. There were Lawries in Elgin as far back as Robert the Bruce, and for hundreds of years there had been Lawries who were lairds or in the ministry54. Mrs. Folyat asked him who his mother was, and Bennett replied:
“She was a Miss Smith. She married my father when she was seventeen. People don’t seem able to marry so young nowadays.”
“It is difficult, isn’t it, Gertrude?” asked Minna.
The meal came to an end, and Francis asked Frederic to accompany him to the study to discuss a theatrical56 entertainment that was in process of organisation57 in aid of the restoration of the organ. Mary and Minna cleared away and Gertrude helped her mother upstairs, carrying her spectacles, book and knitting-bag. Serge, Bennett, and Father Soledano were left in the dining-room. Serge and Bennett smoked and Father Soledano began to talk. Bennett was unused to drinking beer. Serge had plied55 him with it rather too generously in the frequent lapses58 in their conversation, and the fumes59 of it had gone to his head so that it felt very hot and large, while inside it his brain worked with unwonted swiftness and a hectic60 clarity. His cheeks were flushed and they burned, but on the whole he found his new sensations very pleasant, and there was a sort of splendour in being treated by these grown men, an artist and a priest, as one of themselves. To Bennett all artists were great artists—he was not his father’s son for nothing—and the priesthood [Pg 101]was the noblest and most exalted61 calling possible for man. He lived from Sunday to Sunday. On Monday morning he died and was buried in his office. On Saturday evening came a glorious resurrection, and he rose to exalted heights each Sunday morning when he took the sacrament. He was an emotional creature and had no other outlet62.
He sat looking from Serge to Father Soledano and from Father Soledano to Serge as they talked, but took little account of what they said. They were exchanging impressions of the town and speaking of it in a curious critical way that Bennett found difficulty in following. He knew nothing of the machinery63 of the world. He was poor, and he had accepted it as axiomatic64 that poor people had to do work that was distasteful to them. He had no notion of what that work resulted in, or who profited by it. You went on working until you had enough to marry, and then you married and went on working until you died. His brothers were both bank-clerks, and he gathered that their work was even duller than his own, which consisted in addressing envelopes and taking messages down into the warehouse65 where there were rough men who were even poorer than himself. They packed and unpacked66 bales of cotton-goods which were placed on lorries and carried off to trains, which took them away to the sea and across the sea to Bombay and Calcutta and Shanghai and Yokohama. There were many other processes going on in the office and warehouses67, but that seemed to be the general principle—cotton came from America, was bought on the Exchange, spun68 and woven in the mills near Oldham, brought to the warehouse and dispatched—fully insured—through the complicated machinery of the office. There were five partners in the firm and they were all very rich. One of the employees, the head-clerk, had six hundred a year, but he himself, Bennett, received every week only thirty shillings. Many young men of his age were earning only half that sum, and he was quite ready to admit, without thought or examination, that he was worth no more to his employers. He did not understand the machinery in which he played [Pg 102]a part, did not want to understand it, and did not find it sufficiently69 interesting. Being poor, he had to work, and the nature of the work was not his affair. It absorbed the greater part of his life, but it was outside his work that he was as really alive as he could be.
This visit to Fern Square was perhaps the greatest adventure of his life. He had heard Father Soledano’s voice droning on for some time, and now he heard words that interested him.
“The middle classes are beginning to invest their savings70 in industrial securities. That is going to make things worse than ever for the poor, since it means organised exploitation, dividends71 to be paid as well as the profits of private enterprise. It seems to me that men are inventing machinery for making money and letting them get out of hand. A machine that no man can control or use for the purposes of good is the most perilous72 engine of destruction.”
“A machine,” thought Bennett, and at once there came to his mind the streets surrounding his office where all day long there was the thud of machinery and thousands of men and women being swallowed up in the morning by great black ugly buildings, and spewed out again in the evening, all, he supposed, as weary and listless as he felt himself on every evening except Saturday.
“Isn’t that,” said Serge, “isn’t that what has happened with the Church? . . . You don’t mind my discussing it in that way? . . . Hasn’t it become a machine which takes everything from men and gives them nothing? I fancy my father’s Church doesn’t meddle73 much, or, at any rate, effectually, with politics, but yours is always struggling after the temporal power which it has lost.”
“That is because we believe that the Church and State should be one.”
“I agree. And so they would be if the Church were really a Church, and the State were really a State. I have never been to your church, but I know that my father’s is only an imitation, a fairly good imitation and quite attractive, but it has nothing at all to do with religion as I understand it.”
[Pg 103]
“It depends what you mean by religion.”
“I take it to mean the profoundest instinct in a human being, that instinct of life which embraces and should direct all the rest.”
“I agree, but it is impossible.”
“Why is it impossible?”
Bennett did not hear Father Soledano’s reply. The dialogue had been to him like the murmuring of mysterious voices in a dream, bearing no relation to his own actual experience. His own religion was so axiomatic that the possibility of criticism, outside crude condemnation74, to which he was hardened and accustomed, had never occurred to him, and yet, now that it had happened, it was as something remote, impious, but menacing and disturbing. That Father Soledano should lend himself to such talk perturbed75 him not at all, for he had been brought up to believe that anything was possible for the Roman Catholic priesthood. He was conscious of resentment76, and told himself that it was because these things were being said in Mr. Folyat’s house. He was hurt, and childishly he wished to hand on the pain to some one. He waited until Father Soledano’s voice had died down, and then he said, taking no account of his words:
“It isn’t for us to inquire into these things. If we believe at all in the authority and the Divine origin of the Church we are bound by its tradition and its—its dogma.”
“I beg your pardon,” replied Serge. “I forgot that you were there. I don’t believe in the authority or the Divine origin of the Church, and I refuse to be bound by its tradition, which has always been, to say the least of it, unhappy in its results, or its dogma, which seems to me unsound and more or less contradictory77 of the spirit of the New Testament78.”
“But—but . . .” Bennett pounced79 on Serge with an air of triumph, brandishing80 his point before proving it. “But what about morals?”
“That,” said Serge, “is exactly where you and I part company. You Christians81 have only evolved a morality which you apply to the affairs of others and not to your [Pg 104]own. You have no standard of goodness—only the wickedness of other people, a Pharisaic standard which would have been repulsive82 to the Man whom you choose to regard as your Founder83. My father’s sermons, for instance—and they are like every parson’s sermons—begin by drawing such a frightful84 picture of human wickedness that when it is over his hearers feel that they are angels of goodness in comparison. It’s an old dodge85, and I daresay Father Soledano makes use of it too.”
“I do,” said Father Soledano. “I do.”
Bennett gaped86 at him. He felt that he would burst into tears if this went on any longer, and indeed his eyes were wet and his throat was so dry that he could not speak.
“You like your religion?” asked Serge.
“It is my whole life.” Bennett was surprised at the ferocity with which he said this. He was staggered by Serge’s answer:
“I am sorry for you. You will be badly hurt when life gobbles you up and gives you other engrossing87 interests, which you will be ill-equipped to tackle.”
“Come, come,” said Father Soledano. “It is not fair. It is not fair to come down from the general to the particular like that.”
“I protest,” answered Serge. “My whole indignation arises from the unkindness and dishonesty of stuffing young people, and ignorant people, with generalisations.”
“What else can you give them? They are not conscious of individuality.”
“I don’t believe that, and even if it were so you ought to leave them free to become conscious—if they can.”
“The risk is too great.”
“What risk?”
Bennett’s mind had been moving swiftly and partly by memory, partly by intuition he came to this:
“People can’t do as they like.”
Serge stood up suddenly and paced round the room.
“Young idiot!” he said. “They can, and they do. Isn’t it your experience, Father, that they do? The trouble is that with all these foolish generalisations buzzing [Pg 105]in their heads they are always doing the wrong things, and doing them in the wrong way, shuffling88, and sneaking89 so as to hide away from the bogies you give them.” He turned to Bennett and asked: “Has what you do and think on Sunday the slightest bearing on what you do and think on week-days?”
“It keeps me from temptation,” said Bennett so earnestly that there was not the smallest hint of priggishness in him.
Serge took him by the arm and lifted him clean out of his chair and set him down with a jolt90 on to his feet.
“Keeps you from temptation, does it! How?—By running away from it.”
Bennett was very angry. He raised his voice:
“If you had to live in my house you wouldn’t talk like that. My father’s a drunken beast and my mother doesn’t even try to understand us. You’d believe in God if you lived in our house. . .” He came to an end suddenly. Serge patted him kindly on the shoulder.
“That’s all right. That’s all right. Let’s go upstairs and see what a happy home is like, or perhaps you would prefer to go and talk to my father and Father Soledano in the study.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Bennett.
They went upstairs, and Father Soledano joined Francis in the study. In the drawing-room they found Frederic holding forth91 about the performance in the school-room. The piece chosen was The Rose and the Ring, in a musical version.
Gertrude asked Bennett if he could sing. He replied that he could, and Frederic graciously allowed him the use of one of his songs, “On, on, my bark, dash through the foam92.” Bennett had a light baritone voice with a curious harsh quality in the middle notes, but he loved singing and really let himself go. When he had finished Mrs. Folyat looked up from her Family Herald93 and said:
“Very nice, very nice indeed. Even Frederic does not sing it so well.”
Frederic asked Bennett to take a part in The Rose and the Ring, and he accepted. Gertrude took him aside to [Pg 106]show him his part, and Mary produced her violin and played Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words for half an hour, after which she produced a table and cards and sat playing Bézique with her mother. (Mrs. Folyat declared that she could not sleep without her game. No one else was allowed to play cards on Sunday.)
Serge sat teasing Minna, and time flew.
There came a ring at the bell, and after a little interval5 a gaunt figure in black stalked into the room, stood by the door, and said:
“Bennett, your mother says you’re to come home.”
Bennett rose to his feet at once, muttered good-bye, turned the colour of a red peony and slunk out after the old Scotch94 servant.
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1
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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6
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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7
countenanced
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| v.支持，赞同，批准( countenance的过去式 ) | |
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raffles
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| n.抽彩售物( raffle的名词复数 )v.以抽彩方式售（物）( raffle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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10
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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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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12
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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13
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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17
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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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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22
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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30
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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32
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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33
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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34
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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35
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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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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grotesques
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| n.衣着、打扮、五官等古怪，不协调的样子( grotesque的名词复数 ) | |
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39
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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41
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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42
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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43
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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45
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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49
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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extirpation
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| n.消灭，根除，毁灭；摘除 | |
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ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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axiomatic
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| adj.不需证明的，不言自明的 | |
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warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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dividends
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| 红利( dividend的名词复数 )； 股息； 被除数； （足球彩票的）彩金 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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brandishing
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| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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85
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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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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sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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90
jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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92
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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93
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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94
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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