Her blonde hair carefully arranged, her nose powdered and her lipsfreshly painted, Victoria sat upon the balcony of the Tio, once more in therole of a modern Juliet, waiting for Romeo.
And in due course Romeo came. He appeared on the grass sward, look-ing this way and that.
“Edward,” said Victoria.
Edward looked up.
“Oh, there you are, Victoria!”
“Come up here.”
“Right.”
A moment later he came out upon the balcony which was deserted3.
“It’s more peaceful up here,” said Victoria. “We’ll go down and let Mar-cus give us drinks presently.”
Edward was staring at her in perplexity.
“I say, Victoria, haven’t you done something to your hair?”
Victoria gave an exasperated4 sigh.
“If anybody mentions hair to me, I really think I shall bat them over thehead.”
“I think I liked it better as it was,” said Edward.
“Tell Catherine so!”
“Catherine? What has she got to do with it?”
“Everything,” said Victoria. “You told me to chum up with her, and I did,and I don’t suppose you’ve any idea what it let me in for!”
“Where’ve you been all this time, Victoria? I’ve been getting quite wor-ried.”
“Oh you have, have you? Where did you think I’d been?”
“Well, Catherine gave me your message. Said you’d told her to tell methat you’d gone off to Mosul suddenly. It was something very importantand good news, and I’d hear from you in due course.”
“And you believed that?” said Victoria in an almost pitying voice.
“I thought you’d got on the track of something. Naturally, you couldn’tsay much to Catherine—”
“It didn’t occur to you that Catherine was lying, and that I’d beenknocked on the head.”
“What?” Edward stared.
“Drugged, chloroformed—starved….”
Edward cast a sharp glance around.
“Good Lord! I never dreamed—look here, I don’t like talking out here.
All these windows. Can’t we go to your room?”
“All right. Did you bring my luggage?”
“Yes, I dumped it with the porter.”
“Because when one hasn’t had a change of clothes for a fortnight—”
“Victoria, what has been happening? I know—I’ve got the car here. Let’sgo out to Devonshire. You’ve never been there, have you?”
“Devonshire?” Victoria stared in surprise.
“Oh, it’s just a name for a place not far out of Baghdad. It’s rather lovelythis time of year. Come on. I haven’t had you to myself for years.”
“Not since Babylon. But what will Dr. Rathbone and the Olive Branchsay?”
“Blast Dr. Rathbone. I’m fed up with the old ass2 anyway.”
They ran down the stairs and out to where Edward’s car was parked.
Edward drove southwards through Baghdad, along a wide avenue. Thenhe turned off from there; they jolted5 and twisted through palm groves6 andover irrigation bridges. Finally, with a strange unexpectedness they cameto a small wooded copse surrounded and pierced by irrigation streams.
The trees of the copse, mostly almond and apricot, were just coming intoblossom. It was an idyllic7 spot. Beyond the copse, at a little distance, wasthe Tigris.
They got out of the car and walked together through the blossomingtrees.
“This is lovely,” said Victoria, sighing deeply. “It’s like being back in England in spring.”
The air was soft and warm. Presently they sat down on a fallen treetrunk with pink blossom hanging down over their heads.
“Now, darling,” said Edward. “Tell me what’s been happening to you.
I’ve been so dreadfully miserable9.”
“Have you?” she smiled dreamily.
Then she told him. Of the girl hairdresser. Of the smell of chloroformand her struggle. Of waking up drugged and sick. Of how she had escapedand of her fortuitous meeting with Richard Baker10, and of how she hadclaimed to be Victoria Pauncefoot Jones on her way to the Excavations11,and of how she had almost miraculously12 sustained the part of an archae-ological student arriving from En gland8.
At this point Edward shouted with laughter.
“You are marvellous, Victoria! The things you think of—and invent.”
“I know,” said Victoria. “My uncles. Dr. Pauncefoot Jones and before him—the Bishop13.”
And at that she suddenly remembered what it was she had been goingto ask Edward at Basrah when Mrs. Clayton had interrupted by callingthem in for drinks.
“I meant to ask you before,” she said. “How did you know about theBishop?”
She felt the hand that held hers stiffen14 suddenly. He said quickly, tooquickly:
“Why, you told me, didn’t you?”
Victoria looked at him. It was odd, she thought afterwards, that that onesilly childish slip should have accomplished15 what it did.
For he was taken completely by surprise. He had no story ready—hisface was suddenly defenceless and unmasked.
And as she looked at him, everything shifted and settled itself into a pat-tern, exactly as a kaleidoscope does, and she saw the truth. Perhaps it wasnot really sudden. Perhaps in her subconscious16 mind that question: Howdid Edward know about the Bishop? had been teasing and worrying, andshe had been slowly arriving at the one, the inevitable17, answer…Edwardhad not learned about the Bishop of Llangow from her, and the only otherperson he could have learned it from, would have been Mr. or Mrs.
Hamilton Clipp. But they could not possibly have seen Edward since herarrival in Baghdad, for Edward had been in Basrah then, so he must havelearned it from them before he himself left England. He must have knownall along, then, that Victoria was coming out with them—and the wholewonderful coincidence was not, after all, a coincidence. It was plannedand intended.
And as she stared at Edward’s unmasked face, she knew, suddenly, whatCarmichael had meant by Lucifer. She knew what he had seen that day ashe looked along the passage to the Consulate18 garden. He had seen thatyoung beautiful face that she was looking at now—for it was a beautifulface:
Lucifer, Son of the Morning, how art thou fallen?
Not Dr. Rathbone—Edward! Edward, playing a minor19 part, the part ofthe secretary, but controlling and planning and directing, using Rathboneas a figurehead—and Rathbone, warning her to go while she could….
As she looked at that beautiful evil face, all her silly adolescent calf21 lovefaded away, and she knew that what she felt for Edward had never beenlove. It had been the same feeling that she had experienced some hoursearlier for Humphrey Bogart, and later for the Duke of Edinburgh. It hadbeen glamour22. And Edward had never loved her. He had exerted hischarm and his glamour deliberately23. He had picked her up that day, usinghis charm so easily, so naturally, that she had fallen for it without astruggle. She had been a sucker.
It was extraordinary how much could flash through your mind in just afew seconds. You didn’t have to think it out. It just came. Full and instantknowledge. Perhaps because really, underneath24, you had known it allalong….
And at the same time some instinct of self-preservation, quick as all Vic-toria’s mental processes were quick, kept her face in an expression of fool-ish unthinking wonder. For she knew, instinctively25, that she was in greatdanger. There was only one thing that could save her, only one card shecould play. She made haste to play it.
“You knew all along!” she said. “You knew I was coming out here. Youmust have arranged it. Oh Edward, you are wonderful!”
Her face, that plastic impressionable face, showed one emotion—an al-most cloying26 adoration27. And she saw the response—the faintly scornfulsmile, the relief. She could almost feel Edward saying to himself, “The littlefool! She’ll swallow anything! I can do what I like with her.”
“But how did you arrange it?” she said. “You must be very powerful. Youmust be quite different from what you pretend to be. You’re—it’s like yousaid the other day—you’re a King of Babylon.”
She saw the pride that lit up his face. She saw the power and strengthand beauty and cruelty that had been disguised behind a fa?ade of a mod-est likeable young man.
“And I’m only a Christian28 Slave,” thought Victoria. She said quickly andanxiously, as a final artistic29 touch (and what its cost was to her pride noone will ever know), “But you do love me, don’t you?”
His scorn was hardly to be hidden now. This little fool—all these fools ofwomen! So easy to make them think you loved them and that was all theycared about! They had no conception of greatness of construction, of anew world, they just whined30 for love! They were slaves and you usedthem as slaves to further your ends.
“Of course I love you,” he said.
“But what is it all about? Tell me, Edward? Make me understand.”
“It’s a new world, Victoria. A new world that will rise out of the muckand ashes of the old.”
“Tell me.”
He told her and in spite of herself she was almost carried away, carriedinto the dream. The old bad things must destroy each other. The fat oldmen grasping at their profits, impeding31 progress. The bigoted32 stupid Com-munists, trying to establish their Marxian heaven. There must be total war—total destruction. And then—the new Heaven and the new Earth. Thesmall chosen band of higher beings, the scientists, the agricultural experts,the administrators—the young men like Edward—the young Siegfrieds ofthe New World. All young, all believing in their destiny as Supermen.
When destruction had run its course, they would step in and take over.
It was madness—but it was constructive33 madness. It was the sort ofthing that in a world, shattered and disintegrating34, could happen.
“But think,” said Victoria, “of all the people who will be killed first.”
“You don’t understand,” said Edward. “That doesn’t matter.”
It doesn’t matter — that was Edward’s creed35. And suddenly for noreason, a remembrance of that three thousand years old coarse potterybowl mended with bitumen36 flashed across Victoria’s mind. Surely thosewere the things that mattered—the little everyday things, the family to becooked for, the four walls that enclosed the home, the one or two cher-ished possessions. All the thousands of ordinary people on the earth,minding their own business, and tilling the earth, and making pots andbringing up families and laughing and crying, and getting up in the morn-ing and going to bed at night. They were the people who mattered, notthese Angels with wicked faces who wanted to make a new world andwho didn’t care whom they hurt to do it.
And carefully, feeling her way, for here in Devonshire she knew thatdeath might be very near, she said:
“You are wonderful, Edward. But what about me? What can I do?”
“You want to—help? You believe in it?”
But she was prudent37. Not sudden conversion38. That would be too much.
“I think I just believe in you!” she said. “Anything you tell me to do, Ed-ward, I’ll do.”
“Good girl,” he said.
“Why did you arrange for me to come out here to begin with? Theremust have been some reason?”
“Of course there was. Do you remember I took a snap of you that day?”
“I remember,” said Victoria.
(You fool, how flattered you were, how you simpered! she thought toherself.)
“I’d been struck by your profile—by your resemblance to someone. Itook that snap to make sure.”
“Whom do I resemble?”
“A woman who’s been causing us a good deal of trouble — AnnaScheele.”
“Anna Scheele.” Victoria stared at him in blank surprise. Whatever shehad expected, it was not this. “You mean—she looks like me?”
“Quite remarkably39 so side view. The features in profile are almost ex-actly the same. And there’s one most extraordinary thing, you’ve got a tinymark of a scar on your upper lip, left side—”
“I know. It’s where I fell on a tin horse when I was a child. It had a sharpear sticking up and it cut quite deep in. It doesn’t show much—not withpowder on.”
“Anna Scheele has a mark in just the same place. That was a most valu-able point. You’re alike in height and build—she’s about four or five yearsolder than you. The real difference is the hair, you’re a brunette and she’sa blonde. And your style of hairdressing is quite different. Your eyes are adarker blue, but that wouldn’t matter with tinted40 glasses.”
“And that’s why you wanted me to come to Baghdad? Because I lookedlike her.”
“Yes, I thought the resemblance might—come in useful.”
“So you arranged the whole thing…The Clipps—who are the Clipps?”
“They’re not important—they just do as they’re told.”
Something in Edward’s tone sent a faint shiver down Victoria’s spine41. Itwas as though he had said with inhuman42 detachment, “They are underObedience.”
There was a religious flavour about this mad project. “Edward,” shethought, “is his own God. That’s what’s so frightening.”
Aloud she said:
“You told me that Anna Scheele was the boss, the Queen Bee, in yourshow?”
“I had to tell you something to put you off the scent20. You had alreadylearnt too much.”
“And if I hadn’t happened to look like Anna Scheele that would havebeen the end of me,” thought Victoria.
She said:
“Who is she really?”
“She’s confidential43 secretary to Otto Morganthal, the American and in-ternational banker. But that isn’t all she is. She has the most remarkablefinancial brain. We’ve reason to believe she’s traced out a lot of our finan-cial operations. Three people have been dangerous to us—Rupert CroftonLee, Carmichael — well they’re both wiped out. There remains44 AnnaScheele. She’s due in Baghdad in three days’ time. In the meantime, she’sdisappeared.”
“Disappeared? Where?”
“In London. Vanished, apparently45, off the face of the earth.”
“And does no one know where she is?”
“Dakin may know.”
But Dakin didn’t know. Victoria knew that, though Edward didn’t—sowhere was Anna Scheele?
She asked:
“You really haven’t the least idea?”
“We’ve an idea,” said Edward slowly.
“Well?”
“It’s vital that Anna Scheele should be here in Baghdad for the Confer-ence. That, as you know, is in five days’ time.”
“As soon as that? I’d no idea.”
“We’ve got every entry into this country taped. She’s certainly not com-ing here under her own name. And she’s not coming in on a Governmentservice plane. We’ve our means of checking that. So we’ve investigated allthe private bookings. There’s a passage booked by BOAC in the name ofGrete Harden. We’ve traced Grete Harden back and there’s no such per-son. It’s an assumed name. The address given is a phony one. It’s our ideathat Grete Harden is Anna Scheele.”
He added:
“Her plane will touch down at Damascus the day after tomorrow.”
“And then?”
Edward’s eyes looked suddenly into hers.
“That’s up to you, Victoria.”
“To me?”
“You’ll take her place.”
Victoria said slowly:
“Like Rupert Crofton Lee?”
It was almost a whisper. In the course of that substitution RupertCrofton Lee had died. And when Victoria took her place, presumably AnnaScheele, or Grete Harden, would die.
And Edward was waiting—and if for one moment Edward doubted herloyalty, then she, Victoria, would die—and die without the possibility ofwarning anyone.
No, she must agree and seize a chance to report to Mr. Dakin.
She drew a deep breath and said:
“I—I—oh, but Edward, I couldn’t do it. I’d be found out. I can’t do anAmerican voice.”
“Anna Scheele has practically no accent. In any case you will be suffer-ing from laryngitis. One of the best doctors in this part of the world willsay so.”
“They’ve got people everywhere,” thought Victoria.
“What would I have to do?” she asked.
“Fly from Damascus to Baghdad as Grete Harden. Take to your bed im-mediately. Be allowed up by our reputable doctor just in time to go to theConference. There you will lay before them the documents which youhave brought with you.”
Victoria asked: “The real documents?”
“Of course not. We shall substitute our version.”
“What will the documents show?”
Edward smiled.
“Convincing details of the most stupendous Communist plot in Amer-ica.”
Victoria thought: “How well they’ve got it planned.”
Aloud she said:
“Do you really think I can get away with it, Edward?”
Now that she was playing a part, it was quite easy for Victoria to ask itwith every appearance of anxious sincerity46.
“I’m sure you can. I’ve noticed that your playing of a part affords yousuch enjoyment47 that it’s practically impossible to disbelieve you.”
Victoria said meditatively48:
“I still feel an awful fool when I think of the Hamilton Clipps.”
He laughed in a superior way.
Victoria, her face still a mask of adoration, thought to herself viciously.
“But you were an awful fool, too, to let slip that about the Bishop at Basrah.
If you hadn’t I’d never have seen through you.”
She said suddenly: “What about Dr. Rathbone?”
“What do you mean ‘What about him?’”
“Is he just a figurehead?”
Edward’s lips curved in cruel amusement.
“Rathbone has got to toe the line. Do you know what he’s been doing allthese years? Cleverly appropriating about three-quarters of the subscrip-tions which pour in from all over the world to his own use. It’s thecleverest swindle since the time of Horatio Bottomley. Oh yes, Rathbone’scompletely in our hands—we can expose him at anytime and he knows it.”
Victoria felt a sudden gratitude49 to the old man with the noble domedhead, and the mean acquisitive soul. He might be a swindler—but he hadknown pity—he had tried to get her to escape in time.
“All things work towards our New Order,” said Edward.
She thought to herself, “Edward, who looks so sane50, is really mad! Youget mad, perhaps, if you try and act the part of God. They always say hu-mility is a Christian virtue—now I see why. Humility51 is what keeps yousane and a human being….”
Edward got up.
“Time to be moving,” he said. “We’ve got to get you to Damascus and ourplans there worked out by the day after tomorrow.”
Victoria rose with alacrity52. Once she was away from Devonshire, back inBaghdad with its crowds, in the Tio Hotel with Marcus shouting and beam-ing and offering her a drink, the near persistent53 menace of Edward wouldbe removed. Her part was to play a double game—continue to fool Ed-ward by a sickly dog-like devotion, and counter his plans secretly.
She said: “You think that Mr. Dakin knows where Anna Scheele is? Per-haps I could find that out. He might drop some hint.”
“Unlikely—and in any case, you won’t be seeing Dakin.”
“He told me to come to see him this evening,” said Victoria menda-ciously, a slightly chilly54 feeling attacking her spine. “He’ll think it odd if Idon’t turn up.”
“It doesn’t matter at this stage what he thinks,” said Edward. “Our plansare made.” He added, “You won’t be seen in Baghdad again.”
“But Edward, all my things are at the Tio! I’ve booked a room.”
The scarf. The precious scarf.
“You won’t need your things for some time to come. I’ve got a rig outwaiting for you. Come on.”
They got in the car again. Victoria thought, “I ought to have known thatEdward would never be such a fool as to let me get in touch with Mr.
Dakin after I’d found him out. He believes I’m besotted about him—yes, Ithink he’s sure of that — but all the same he isn’t going to take anychances.”
She said: “Won’t there be a search for me if I—don’t turn up?”
“We’ll attend to that. Officially you’ll say good-bye to me at the bridgeand go off to see some friends on the West Bank.”
“And actually?”
“Wait and see.”
Victoria sat silent as they bumped over the rough track and twistedround palm gardens and over the little irrigation bridges.
“Lefarge,” murmured Edward. “I wish we knew what Carmichael meantby that.”
Victoria’s heart gave a leap of anxiety.
“Oh,” she said. “I forgot to tell you. I don’t know if it means anything. AM. Lefarge came to the Excavations one day at Tell Aswad.”
“What?” Edward almost stalled the car in his excitement. “When wasthis?”
“Oh! About a week ago. He said he came from some Dig in Syria. M. Par-rot’s, would it be?”
“Did two men called André and Juvet come while you were there?”
“Oh yes,” said Victoria. “One of them had a sick stomach. He went to thehouse and lay down.”
“They were two of our people,” said Edward.
“Why did they come here? To look for me?”
“No—I’d no idea where you were. But Richard Baker was in Basrah atthe same time as Carmichael. We had an idea Carmichael might havepassed something on to Baker.”
“He said his things had been searched. Did they find anything?”
“No—now think carefully, Victoria. Did this man Lefarge come beforethe other two or afterwards?”
Victoria reflected in a convincing manner, as she decided55 what move-ments to impute56 to the mythical57 M. Lefarge.
“It was—yes, the day before the other two came,” she said.
“What did he do?”
“Well,” said Victoria, “he went over the Dig—with Dr. Pauncefoot Jones.
And then Richard Baker took him down to the house to see some of thethings in the Antika Room there.”
“He went to the house with Richard Baker. They talked together?”
“I suppose so,” said Victoria. “I mean, you wouldn’t look at things in ab-solute silence, would you?”
“Lefarge,” murmured Edward. “Who is Lefarge? Why have we got noline on him?”
Victoria longed to say, “He’s brother to Mrs. Harris,” but refrained. Shewas pleased with her invention of M. Lefarge. She could see him quiteclearly now in her mind’s eye—a thin rather consumptive-looking youngman with dark hair and a little moustache. Presently, when Edward askedher, she described him carefully and accurately58.
They were driving now through the suburbs of Baghdad. Edward turnedoff down a side street of modern villas59 built in a pseudo-European style,with balconies and gardens round them. In front of one house a big tour-ing car was standing60. Edward drew up behind it and he and Victoria gotout, and went up the steps to the front door.
A thin dark woman came out to meet them and Edward spoke61 to herrapidly in French. Victoria’s French was not sufficiently62 good to under-stand fully1 what was said, but it seemed to be to the effect that this was theyoung lady and that the change must be effected at once.
The woman turned to her and said politely in French:
“Come with me, please.”
She led Victoria into a bedroom where, spread out on a bed, was thehabit of a nun63. The woman motioned to her, and Victoria undressed andput on the stiff wool undergarment and the voluminous medieval folds ofdark stuff. The Frenchwoman adjusted the headdress. Victoria caught aglimpse of herself in the glass. Her small pale face under the gigantic (wasit a wimple?) with the white folds under her chin, looked strangely pureand unearthly. The Frenchwoman threw a Rosary of wooden beads64 overher head. Then, shuffling65 in the over-large coarse shoes Victoria was ledout to rejoin Edward.
“You look all right,” he said approvingly. “Keep your eyes down, particu-larly when there are men about.”
The Frenchwoman rejoined them a moment or two later similarly ap-parelled. The two nuns66 went out of the house and got into the touring carwhich now had a tall dark man in European dress in the driver’s seat.
“It’s up to you now, Victoria,” said Edward. “Do exactly as you are told.”
There was a slight steely menace behind the words.
“Aren’t you coming, Edward?” Victoria sounded plaintive67.
He smiled at her.
“You’ll see me in three days’ time,” he said. And then, with a resumptionof his persuasive68 manner, he murmured, “Don’t fail me, darling. Only youcould do this—I love you, Victoria. I daren’t be seen kissing a nun—but I’dlike to.”
Victoria dropped her eyes in approved nun-like fashion, but actually toconceal the fury that showed for a moment.
“Horrible Judas,” she thought.
Instead she said with an assumption of her usual manner:
“Well, I seem to be a Christian Slave all right.”
“That’s the girl!” said Edward. He added, “Don’t worry. Your papers arein perfect order — you’ll have no difficulty at the Syrian frontier. Yourname in religion, by the way, is Sister Marie des Anges. Sister Thérèse whoaccompanies you has all the documents and is in full charge, and for God’ssake obey orders—or I warn you frankly69, you’re for it.”
He stepped back, waved his hand cheerfully, and the touring car startedoff.
Victoria leaned back against the upholstery and gave herself up to con-templation of possible alternatives. She could, as they were passingthrough Baghdad, or when they got to the frontier control, make an agita-tion, scream for help, explain that she was being carried off against herwill—in fact, adopt one or other variants70 of immediate71 protest.
What would that accomplish? In all probability it would mean the endof Victoria Jones. She had noticed that Sister Thérèse had slipped into hersleeve a small and businesslike automatic pistol. She could be given nochance of talking.
Or she could wait until she got to Damascus? Make her protest there?
Possibly the same fate would be meted72 out, or her statements might beoverborne by the evidence of the driver and her fellow nun. They mightbe able to produce papers saying that she was mentally afflicted73.
The best alternative was to go through with things—to acquiesce74 in theplan. To come to Baghdad as Anna Scheele and to play Anna Scheele’spart. For, after all, if she did so, there would come a moment, at the finalclimax, when Edward could no longer control her tongue or her actions. Ifshe could continue to convince Edward that she would do anything he toldher, then the moment would come when she was standing with her forgeddocuments before the Conference—and Edward would not be there.
And no one could stop her then from saying, “I am not Anna Scheele andthese papers are forged and untrue.”
She wondered that Edward did not fear her doing just that. But she re-flected that vanity was a strangely blinding quality. Vanity was theAchilles heel. And there was also the fact to be considered that Edwardand his crowd had more or less got to have an Anna Scheele if theirscheme was to succeed. To find a girl who sufficiently resembled AnnaScheele—even to the point of having a scar in the right place—was ex-tremely difficult. In The Lyons Mail, Victoria remembered, Dubosc havinga scar above one eyebrow75 and also of having a distortion, one by birth andone by accident, of the little finger of one hand. These coincidences mustbe very rare. No, the Supermen needed Victoria Jones, typist—and to thatextent Victoria Jones had them in her power—not the other way round.
The car sped across the bridge. Victoria watched the Tigris with a nostal-gic longing76. Then they were speeding along a wide dusty highway. Victorialet the beads of her Rosary pass through her fingers. Their click was com-forting.
“After all,” thought Victoria with sudden comfort. “I am a Christian. Andif you’re a Christian, I suppose it’s a hundred times better to be a ChristianMartyr than a King in Babylon—and I must say, there seems to me a greatpossibility that I am going to be a Martyr77. Oh! well, anyway, it won’t belions. I should have hated lions!”
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consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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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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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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cloying
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| adj.甜得发腻的 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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impeding
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| a.(尤指坏事)即将发生的，临近的 | |
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bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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disintegrating
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的现在分词 ) | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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bitumen
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| n.沥青 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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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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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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variants
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| n.变体( variant的名词复数 )；变种；变型；（词等的）变体 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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