JULIA CHILD: Under this golden dome lies an uncooked, unrisen, unbaked souffle, waiting patiently for the oven.

在这个金色圆屋顶下，躺着一个没煮、没膨胀、没酥，正耐心地等着炉。

The light of the unrisen moon before him spread out along the dark placard hills like scrimlights in a theatre.

他面前未升起月光沿着黑暗标牌山丘散开， 就像剧院里 scrilights 一样。