分享

带天窗的房间·THE SKYLIGHT ROOM(O Henry 欧·亨利)英汉双语

THE SKYLIGHT ROOM

by O. Henry


First Mrs. Parker would show you the double parlours. You would not dare to interrupt her description of their advantages and of the merits of the gentleman who had occupied them for eight years. Then you would manage to stammer forth the confession that you were neither a doctor nor a dentist. Mrs. Parker's manner of receiving the admission was such that you could never afterward entertain the same feeling toward your parents, who had neglected to train you up in one of the professions that fitted Mrs. Parker's parlours.

Next you ascended one flight of stairs and looked at the second–floor–back at $8. Convinced by her second–floor manner that it was worth the $12 that Mr. Toosenberry always paid for it until he left to take charge of his brother's orange plantation in Florida near Palm Beach, where Mrs. McIntyre always spent the winters that had the double front room with private bath, you managed to babble that you wanted something still cheaper.

If you survived Mrs. Parker's scorn, you were taken to look at Mr. Skidder's large hall room on the third floor. Mr. Skidder's room was not vacant. He wrote plays and smoked cigarettes in it all day long. But every room–hunter was made to visit his room to admire the lambrequins. After each visit, Mr. Skidder, from the fright caused by possible eviction, would pay something on his rent.

Then—oh, then—if you still stood on one foot, with your hot hand clutching the three moist dollars in your pocket, and hoarsely proclaimed your hideous and culpable poverty, nevermore would Mrs. Parker be cicerone of yours. She would honk loudly the word "Clara," she would show you her back, and march downstairs. Then Clara, the coloured maid, would escort you up the carpeted ladder that served for the fourth flight, and show you the Skylight Room. It occupied 7×8 feet of floor space at the middle of the hall. On each side of it was a dark lumber closet or storeroom.

In it was an iron cot, a washstand and a chair. A shelf was the dresser. Its four bare walls seemed to close in upon you like the sides of a coffin. Your hand crept to your throat, you gasped, you looked up as from a well—and breathed once more. Through the glass of the little skylight you saw a square of blue infinity.

"Two dollars, suh," Clara would say in her half–contemptuous, half–Tuskegeenial tones.

One day Miss Leeson came hunting for a room. She carried a typewriter made to be lugged around by a much larger lady. She was a very little girl, with eyes and hair that had kept on growing after she had stopped and that always looked as if they were saying: "Goodness me! Why didn't you keep up with us?"

Mrs. Parker showed her the double parlours. "In this closet," she said, "one could keep a skeleton or anaesthetic or coal—"

"But I am neither a doctor nor a dentist," said Miss Leeson, with a shiver.

Mrs. Parker gave her the incredulous, pitying, sneering, icy stare that she kept for those who failed to qualify as doctors or dentists, and led the way to the second floor back.

"Eight dollars?" said Miss Leeson. "Dear me! I'm not Hetty if I do look green. I'm just a poor little working girl. Show me something higher and lower."

Mr. Skidder jumped and strewed the floor with cigarette stubs at the rap on his door.

"Excuse me, Mr. Skidder," said Mrs. Parker, with her demon's smile at his pale looks. "I didn't know you were in. I asked the lady to have a look at your lambrequins."

"They're too lovely for anything," said Miss Leeson, smiling in exactly the way the angels do.

After they had gone Mr. Skidder got very busy erasing the tall, black–haired heroine from his latest (unproduced) play and inserting a small, roguish one with heavy, bright hair and vivacious features.

"Anna Held'll jump at it," said Mr. Skidder to himself, putting his feet up against the lambrequins and disappearing in a cloud of smoke like an aerial cuttlefish.

Presently the tocsin call of "Clara!" sounded to the world the state of Miss Leeson's purse. A dark goblin seized her, mounted a Stygian stairway, thrust her into a vault with a glimmer of light in its top and muttered the menacing and cabalistic words "Two dollars!"

"I'll take it!" sighed Miss Leeson, sinking down upon the squeaky iron bed.

Every day Miss Leeson went out to work. At night she brought home papers with handwriting on them and made copies with her typewriter. Sometimes she had no work at night, and then she would sit on the steps of the high stoop with the other roomers. Miss Leeson was not intended for a sky–light room when the plans were drawn for her creation. She was gay–hearted and full of tender, whimsical fancies. Once she let Mr. Skidder read to her three acts of his great (unpublished) comedy, "It's No Kid; or, The Heir of the Subway."

There was rejoicing among the gentlemen roomers whenever Miss Leeson had time to sit on the steps for an hour or two. But Miss Longnecker, the tall blonde who taught in a public school and said, "Well, really!" to everything you said, sat on the top step and sniffed. And Miss Dorn, who shot at the moving ducks at Coney every Sunday and worked in a department store, sat on the bottom step and sniffed. Miss Leeson sat on the middle step and the men would quickly group around her.

Especially Mr. Skidder, who had cast her in his mind for the star part in a private, romantic (unspoken) drama in real life. And especially Mr. Hoover, who was forty–five, fat, flush and foolish. And especially very young Mr. Evans, who set up a hollow cough to induce her to ask him to leave off cigarettes. The men voted her "the funniest and jolliest ever," but the sniffs on the top step and the lower step were implacable.


I pray you let the drama halt while Chorus stalks to the footlights and drops an epicedian tear upon the fatness of Mr. Hoover. Tune the pipes to the tragedy of tallow, the bane of bulk, the calamity of corpulence. Tried out, Falstaff might have rendered more romance to the ton than would have Romeo's rickety ribs to the ounce. A lover may sigh, but he must not puff. To the train of Momus are the fat men remanded. In vain beats the faithfullest heart above a 52–inch belt. Avaunt, Hoover! Hoover, forty–five, flush and foolish, might carry off Helen herself; Hoover, forty–five, flush, foolish and fat is meat for perdition. There was never a chance for you, Hoover.

As Mrs. Parker's roomers sat thus one summer's evening, Miss Leeson looked up into the firmament and cried with her little gay laugh:

"Why, there's Billy Jackson! I can see him from down here, too."

All looked up—some at the windows of skyscrapers, some casting about for an airship, Jackson–guided.

"It's that star," explained Miss Leeson, pointing with a tiny finger. "Not the big one that twinkles—the steady blue one near it. I can see it every night through my skylight. I named it Billy Jackson."

"Well, really!" said Miss Longnecker. "I didn't know you were an astronomer, Miss Leeson."

"Oh, yes," said the small star gazer, "I know as much as any of them about the style of sleeves they're going to wear next fall in Mars."

"Well, really!" said Miss Longnecker. "The star you refer to is Gamma, of the constellation Cassiopeia. It is nearly of the second magnitude, and its meridian passage is—"

"Oh," said the very young Mr. Evans, "I think Billy Jackson is a much better name for it."

"Same here," said Mr. Hoover, loudly breathing defiance to Miss Longnecker. "I think Miss Leeson has just as much right to name stars as any of those old astrologers had."

"Well, really!" said Miss Longnecker.

"I wonder whether it's a shooting star," remarked Miss Dorn. "I hit nine ducks and a rabbit out of ten in the gallery at Coney Sunday."

"He doesn't show up very well from down here," said Miss Leeson. "You ought to see him from my room. You know you can see stars even in the daytime from the bottom of a well. At night my room is like the shaft of a coal mine, and it makes Billy Jackson look like the big diamond pin that Night fastens her kimono with."

There came a time after that when Miss Leeson brought no formidable papers home to copy. And when she went out in the morning, instead of working, she went from office to office and let her heart melt away in the drip of cold refusals transmitted through insolent office boys. This went on.

There came an evening when she wearily climbed Mrs. Parker's stoop at the hour when she always returned from her dinner at the restaurant. But she had had no dinner.

As she stepped into the hall Mr. Hoover met her and seized his chance. He asked her to marry him, and his fatness hovered above her like an avalanche. She dodged, and caught the balustrade. He tried for her hand, and she raised it and smote him weakly in the face. Step by step she went up, dragging herself by the railing. She passed Mr. Skidder's door as he was red–inking a stage direction for Myrtle Delorme (Miss Leeson) in his (unaccepted) comedy, to "pirouette across stage from L to the side of the Count." Up the carpeted ladder she crawled at last and opened the door of the skylight room.

She was too weak to light the lamp or to undress. She fell upon the iron cot, her fragile body scarcely hollowing the worn springs. And in that Erebus of the skylight room, she slowly raised her heavy eyelids, and smiled.

For Billy Jackson was shining down on her, calm and bright and constant through the skylight. There was no world about her. She was sunk in a pit of blackness, with but that small square of pallid light framing the star that she had so whimsically and oh, so ineffectually named. Miss Longnecker must be right; it was Gamma, of the constellation Cassiopeia, and not Billy Jackson. And yet she could not let it be Gamma.

As she lay on her back she tried twice to raise her arm. The third time she got two thin fingers to her lips and blew a kiss out of the black pit to Billy Jackson. Her arm fell back limply.

"Good–bye, Billy," she murmured faintly. "You're millions of miles away and you won't even twinkle once. But you kept where I could see you most of the time up there when there wasn't anything else but darkness to look at, didn't you? . . . Millions of miles . . . Good–bye, Billy Jackson."

Clara, the coloured maid, found the door locked at 10 the next day, and they forced it open. Vinegar, and the slapping of wrists and burnt feathers proving of no avail, some one ran to 'phone for an ambulance.

In due time it backed up to the door with much gong–clanging, and the capable young medico, in his white linen coat, ready, active, confident, with his smooth face half debonair, half grim, danced up the steps.

"Ambulance call to 49," he said briefly. "What's the trouble?"

"Oh, yes, doctor," sniffed Mrs. Parker, as though her trouble that there should be trouble in the house was the greater. "I can't think what can be the matter with her. Nothing we could do would bring her to. It's a young woman, a Miss Elsie—yes, a Miss Elsie Leeson. Never before in my house—"

"What room?" cried the doctor in a terrible voice, to which Mrs. Parker was a stranger.

"The skylight room. It—"

Evidently the ambulance doctor was familiar with the location of skylight rooms. He was gone up the stairs, four at a time. Mrs. Parker followed slowly, as her dignity demanded.

On the first landing she met him coming back bearing the astronomer in his arms. He stopped and let loose the practised scalpel of his tongue, not loudly. Gradually Mrs. Parker crumpled as a stiff garment that slips down from a nail. Ever afterward there remained crumples in her mind and body. Sometimes her curious roomers would ask her what the doctor said to her.

"Let that be," she would answer. "If I can get forgiveness for having heard it I will be satisfied."

The ambulance physician strode with his burden through the pack of hounds that follow the curiosity chase, and even they fell back along the sidewalk abashed, for his face was that of one who bears his own dead.

They noticed that he did not lay down upon the bed prepared for it in the ambulance the form that he carried, and all that he said was: "Drive like h––––l, Wilson," to the driver.

That is all. Is it a story? In the next morning's paper I saw a little news item, and the last sentence of it may help you (as it helped me) to weld the incidents together.

It recounted the reception into Bellevue Hospital of a young woman who had been removed from No. 49 East –––– street, suffering from debility induced by starvation. It concluded with these words:

"Dr. William Jackson, the ambulance physician who attended the case, says the patient will recover."

 

中文译文


首先帕克太太会带你去看那双开间的客厅。当她向你描绘屋子的优点和那位曾经住了八年的先生的美德时,你压根儿不敢去打断她的话。接下来,你好不容易才能结结巴巴地坦白,你既不是医生,也不是牙医。帕克太太听到这番话时的神态准会叫你对你的父母心生埋怨,只怪他们没能把你培养成配得上帕克太太的客厅的专业人才。

然后你爬上一层楼梯,去看每周要付八美元租金的二楼后间。帕克太太摆出到了二楼该有的神情,说你不能不信这儿完全值十二美元的租金。还说图森贝里先生一直住在这里,直到他去接管了他的兄弟在佛罗里达州棕榈滩附近的柑橘种植园;麦金泰尔太太也总会到这儿来过冬,这儿还有带独立浴室的双开间起居室。你费了好大劲儿才含含糊糊地说你想要间便宜点儿的。

如果你能经得住帕克太太的嘲笑,你就会被带到三楼去欣赏斯基德先生的大房间。斯基德先生的房间并没空着,他整天都呆在里面写剧本,抽香烟。可每一个来看房间的人总会给带到这儿来欣赏门窗上的垂饰。每次参观过后,斯基德先生准会付上一部分租金,生怕会有可能被赶出去。

接着——哦,接下来——要是你还是不安地站着,发烫的手在口袋里紧攥着三张汗湿了的钞票,哑着嗓子表明自己是多么贫困,简直羞愧极了,帕克太太可就再也不会给你当什么向导了。她会扯着嗓子大叫一声“克拉拉”,然后一转身,迈开大步下楼去了。于是,黑人女仆克拉拉会陪你爬上当作第四层楼梯用的铺了毡毯的梯子,带你去看带天窗的房间。它在房子的中间,七英尺宽,八英尺长,两边都是黑洞洞的杂物间。

房间里有一张小铁床,一个洗脸架和一把椅子。一个木头架子就算是梳妆台。四面光溜溜的墙简直就像棺材的四壁,朝着你直逼过来。你不由自主地把手摸到了喉咙上,喘着气,抬起头,像是在井里一样朝上面望去——总算又能呼吸正常了。透过小天窗的玻璃你看到了一块蓝色的天空。

“两美元,先生。”克拉拉会半带着瞧不起,半带着塔斯基吉塔斯基吉:位于美国阿拉巴马州的城市,居民中黑人较多。人亲切的口气对你说。

一天,莉森小姐来看房子。她带着一台看上去只有大个头的女人才能应付得了的打字机。她可是个非常娇小的姑娘,身子不再长高之后,眼睛和头发却是一个劲儿地长,它们看上去仿佛总是在问:“天哪!你为什么不跟着我们一块儿长呢?”

帕克太太带她看了双开间的客厅。“这个壁橱里,”她说,“可以放一副骨架,或者是麻醉药,或者是煤——”

“可我不是医生,也不是牙医。”莉森小姐说着忍不住打了个寒战。

帕克太太使出了对付那些够不上医生或是牙医资格的人惯用的一套,用怀疑、怜悯、嘲笑和冷冰冰的眼光盯着她,然后带她去看二楼后间。

“要八美元吗?”莉森小姐说,“哎呀!就算我看上去年轻,我可不是像海蒂海蒂:指亨里埃塔·格林,据说是当时美国最富有的女人。那样的富家小姐。我只不过是个靠做工谋生的穷姑娘。带我去看看楼层高些,租金少些的房间吧。”

听到敲门声,斯基德先生一下子跳了起来,烟蒂撒了一地。

“对不起,斯基德先生,”望着他惊慌的样子,帕克太太不怀好意地笑着说,“我不知道你在里面。我是请这位小姐来看看你的门窗垂饰的。”

“它们真太可爱了。”莉森小姐说,脸上的笑容简直就跟天使一样。

她们离开后,斯基德先生忙乎了起来,他赶快去掉了他最近还没上演的剧本当中那个高个儿的黑发女主角,换上了一个头发浓密闪亮,身材娇小,活泼可爱的姑娘。

“安娜·海尔德安娜·海尔德:美国当时著名的女演员。也会争着演这个角色的。”斯基德先生自言自语地说。他把脚搁在窗子的垂饰上,像墨鱼一样消失在一片烟雾中。

没过多久就响起了拉警钟似的叫声“克拉拉!”,于是全世界都知道了莉森小姐钱包里的状况。一个黑皮肤的小鬼抓住了她,带她爬上黑幽幽的梯子,把她推进一个只有顶上才能透出一丝光亮的拱顶屋子,嘟哝出了几个神秘而又险恶的字眼“两美元!”

“我租了!”莉森小姐叹了口气,在吱吱响的铁床上沉沉地坐了下来。

莉森小姐每天都要出去工作。晚上她会带回来一些手写的稿子,在打字机上打印出来。碰到晚上不需要工作的时候,她就会跟别的房客一道坐在门口的高台阶上。上帝创造莉森小姐的时候,并没有打算把她安排到带天窗的房间里。她生性开朗,满脑子都是些温柔善感、稀奇古怪的想法。有一次,她还同意让斯基德先生给她念了他那伟大的(还没出版的)喜剧《并非玩笑——地铁的继承人》中的三幕。

当莉森小姐有空在台阶上坐上一两个钟头的时候,男房客们总会乐开了花。可是那位在公立学校教书的高个儿金发的朗奈克小姐却总是坐在最高一级台阶上,摆出一副瞧不起人的样子,不管你说什么她只丢给你一句“可不是嘛!”还有那位在百货公司工作,每个星期日上科尼岛用枪打活动木鸭的多恩小姐也总会坐在最下面的一级台阶上,摆出一副瞧不起人的样子。莉森小姐只要坐在台阶的中间,男人们马上就会把她给围了起来。

特别是斯基德先生,虽然嘴里不说,心里早就把她当作他现实生活中的私人浪漫剧的主角了。还有胡佛先生,四十五岁,是个气色红润、傻里傻气的胖家伙。还有那位年轻得很的埃文斯先生,老是装模作样地干咳,为的是吸引莉森小姐来劝他把烟戒掉。男人们一致推选她为“最有趣、最叫人快活的人儿”,可是台阶最上面的和最下面的那副瞧不起人的样子,叫你简直拿她们没法子。

我请大家让这场戏暂停一会儿,好让合唱队迈着大步走到台前,为胡佛先生的肥胖洒一滴哀悼的泪水。调好你的乐器,来哀悼脂肪的悲惨,臃肿的祸害和肥胖的灾难吧。试验一下,要说风流韵事,福斯塔夫福斯塔夫:是莎士比亚戏剧中一个肥胖、好色、滑稽、爱吹牛的喜剧人物。的本事原本应该比瘦条条的罗密欧要大得多了。情人叹叹气没关系,但可千万不能喘气。胖家伙可是要交给莫摩斯莫摩斯:是希腊神话中非难指责与嘲弄之神,后来多用来指爱挑剔的人。去处置的。腰围上了五十二英寸,就算你的心脏跳得再怎么忠诚,到头来也是白费力气。走开吧,胡佛!四十五岁,气色红润,傻里傻气,也许能把海伦海伦:希腊神话中的美女海伦,为斯巴达王Menelaus的王后,因她被特洛伊王子拐去而引起特洛伊战争。给拐跑了;然而四十五岁,气色红润,傻里傻气的胖家伙胡佛只不过是等着毁灭的肉团罢了。你是不会有机会的,胡佛。

夏天的一个晚上,帕克太太的房客们又这样坐在一起,莉森小姐抬头望着天空,快活地笑着嚷了起来:

“哎呀,那不是比利·杰克逊吗!在这下面我也能看到他。”

大伙儿都抬起头——有的看着摩天大楼的窗子,有的到处找着由杰克逊领航的飞船。

“是那颗星星。”莉森小姐用纤细的指头指着星星,解释说,“不是那颗闪闪发光的大星星——是它旁边的那颗从来不动的蓝色星星。每天晚上我都能从天窗里看到它,我管它叫比利·杰克逊。”

“可不是嘛!”朗奈克小姐说,“我不知道原来你还是个天文学家呢,莉森小姐。”

“哦,是的,”看星星的小人儿说,“我知道的决不比任何一个天文学家要少,就连明年秋天火星人穿的衣服袖子是什么式样我都知道。”

“可不是嘛!”朗奈克小姐说,“你说的那颗是仙后星座上的伽马星。它差不多算得上是二等星,它的中天中天:这是天文学里的一个术语。是——”

“哦,”十分年轻的埃文斯先生说,“我认为比利·杰克逊这个名字要好得多。”

“我也这么认为,”胡佛先生大口大口地喘着气,向朗奈克小姐发起挑战,“我认为莉森小姐绝对有权利给星星起名字,就跟那些老占星家们一样。”

“可不是嘛!”朗奈克小姐说。

“我怀疑它是不是颗流星。”多恩小姐也开口了,“星期日我在科尼岛的打靶场上,十发子弹就打中了九只木鸭,一只木兔。”

“从这下面看还是不够清楚,”莉森小姐说,“你们应该到我房里去看。你们知道,要是在井底,就算是白天也能看到星星的。到了晚上,我的房间就像是煤矿的竖井,从那儿看,比利·杰克逊就像是夜女神别在她睡衣上的一颗大钻石别针哩。”

这之后有一段时间,莉森小姐没有再带一大堆的稿子回来打印了。她早上出门也不再是去工作,而是挨个挨个事务所地找,然后从傲慢无礼的勤杂工那儿等到冷冰冰的回绝,她的心也一天天沉了下去。这种情形持续了好一阵子。

一天晚上,她疲 惫不堪地爬上了帕克太太的台阶,平常这个时候,她准是刚在餐馆里吃了晚饭回来,可是这天她却没有吃晚饭。

她走进大厅的时候,胡佛先生碰上了她,赶忙抓住了这个机会。他求她嫁给他,一身肥肉在她面前晃来晃去,就像随时会崩塌的雪山。她躲开了,抓住了楼梯的扶手。他又去抓她的手,她举起手,虚弱地扇了他一个耳光。她拽着扶手,一步一步地往上挪。经过斯基德先生房门口的时候,他正用红墨水为他那(没被接受的)喜剧中的主角梅特尔·德洛姆(其实就是莉森小姐)修改舞台说明,要她“从舞台左侧旋转着脚尖跳到伯爵身边去”。最后,莉森小姐爬上铺着毡毯的梯子,打开了带天窗的房间的门。

她太虚弱了,实在没有力气去点上灯或是脱掉衣服。她倒在那张小铁床上,柔弱的身子几乎都没把破旧的弹簧垫压凹一点儿。在那间黑暗界黑暗界:希腊神话中阳间与阴间当中的黑暗界,是人死后到达冥王处之前必须穿过的阴间的一个黑暗区域。一样阴暗的屋子里,她慢慢地抬起沉重的眼睑,微笑了起来。

因为比利·杰克逊正透过天窗安静地、明亮地、永久地照耀着她。她周围的世界消失了,她似乎沉入了一个黑暗的深渊,只剩下那一小块微弱的光亮,里面嵌着那颗星星,她还给它取了个那么古怪的,哦,那么不合适的名字。朗奈克小姐说的是对的:它是仙后星座上的伽马星,不是什么比利·杰克逊。然而她还是不想管它叫伽马。

她仰面躺着,试了两次想举起胳膊,第三次她才勉强把两根纤细的指头送到唇边,在黑暗的深渊里朝比利·杰克逊送了一个飞吻。然后她的胳膊无力地垂了下来。

“再见了,比利,”她微弱地低语着,“你隔得是那么遥远,连眼睛也不眨一下。但是你总是呆在那上面,让我在一片黑暗当中总能看到你,是吗?……那么遥远……再见了,比利·杰克逊。”

第二天上午十点钟,黑人女仆克拉拉发现莉森小姐的房门还锁着,于是他们撞开了门。醋、拍手腕和烧焦的羽毛都不起作用,有人跑去打电话叫了救护车。

很快地,救护车哐当哐当地倒着车在门口停了下来,一个穿着白色亚麻外衣的干练的年轻医生跳上了台阶,他沉着、灵活而自信,光洁的脸上露出又和蔼,又严肃的神情。

“四十九号叫的救护车到了,”他利索地说,“出了什么事?”

“哦,是的,医生,”帕克太太轻蔑地说,好像她的房子里出了事比什么事都麻烦,“真不知道她是怎么回事儿。我们想尽了法子,也没办法让她醒过来。是个年轻女人,叫艾尔希——是的,艾尔希·莉森小姐。我这房子里可从没出过——”

“是哪个房间?”医生厉声叫了起来,帕克太太还从没听过这样可怕的声音。

“带天窗的那间,在——”

显然这位救护车的随车医生很熟悉带天窗的房间的位置。他四级一步冲上楼去。帕克太太慢腾腾地跟在后面,一心想着要维护自己的尊严。

才刚到第一个楼梯口,她就看见医生抱着那个天文学家下来了。他收住脚,像熟练的手术刀一样利索的舌头冲着她数落开了,可声音并不大。渐渐地,帕克太太像是从钉子上滑下来的笔挺的衣服一样皱缩起来。从此之后,她的身心就永远留下了这些皱缩的印迹。有时房客们也忍不住好奇地问她医生到底对她说了些什么。

“别提了,”她准会答道,“要是听了那些话我能得到宽恕,我就满足了。”

救护车的随车医生抱着他的病人,大步地穿过凑上来看热闹的人群,他脸上的神情让人觉得他抱着的像是他死去的亲人,就连人群也羞愧地退到人行道上。

他们注意到他并没有把他抱着的人放到救护车里专门准备的担架床上,只是对司机说了声:“快点开,威尔逊。”

故事讲完了。这能算是个故事吗?第二天一早,我在报纸上看到了一小则新闻,新闻的最后一句话或许能帮助你们(就像它帮助了我一样)把这些零零碎碎的事情串起来。

它说,贝尔维尤医院收治了一个住在东区某大街四十九号的年轻女病人,她是由于饥饿而身体虚脱。结尾处说道:

“负责治疗这一病患的随车医生威廉·杰克逊英文中“比利”(Billy)是“威廉”(William)的昵称。医生说,患者一定会康复的。”

(9)

本文由来源 Lit2Go,由 ChengYe 整理编辑!

关键词:, ,

热评文章

发表评论