Her ire slid between us like the spanner from Father's workshop, straining our hinge.
她的怒气像父亲作坊里的扳手一样夹在我们中间,绷紧了我们的铰链。
The skin of our backs descends into a v, like a bird's wing does to its body-a bone hinge covered in smooth skin, our spines locked together at the base.
我们背上的皮肤向下延伸成一个“V”,就像鸟儿身体上的翅膀——一段覆盖在光滑皮肤下,绞缠在一起的骨头。我们的脊椎在底部锁在一起。
She no longer seemed to look like me, if ever she did, and our hinge, which my hand still rested on, was nothing more than a body part, a chip of bone.
如果她以前看上去像我的话,现在也不再像了,我的手还放在我们相连的骨上,现在那也不过就是身体的一部分罢了,一块骨头罢了。
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