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He had, he thought, said nothing of worth to them. But they let him go, so perhaps he was wrong. Then he had walked along the Via di Santo Spirito to the one geographical1 location he had hidden away in his brain. Walked past Brunelleschi’s church towards the library of the German Institute, where he knew a certain person would look after him.
Suddenly he realized this was why they had let him go. Letting him walk freely would fool him into revealing this contact. He arced into a side street, not looking back, never looking back. He wanted a street fire so he could stanch2 his wounds, hang them
over the smoke from a tar3 cauldron so black smoke would envelop4 his hands. He was on the Santa Trinita Bridge. There was nothing around, no traffic, which surprised him. He sat on the smooth balustrade of the bridge, then lay back. No sounds.
Earlier, when he had walked, his hands in his wet pockets, there had been the manic movement of tanks and jeeps. As he lay there the mined bridge exploded and he was flung upwards5 and then down as part of the end of the world. He opened his eyes and there was a giant head beside him. He breathed in and his chest filled with water. He was underwater.
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1 geographical | |
adj.地理的;地区(性)的 | |
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2 stanch | |
v.止住(血等);adj.坚固的;坚定的 | |
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3 tar | |
n.柏油,焦油;vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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4 envelop | |
vt.包,封,遮盖;包围 | |
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5 upwards | |
adv.向上,在更高处...以上 | |
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