Chapter 4 third chapter

Exhibit No. 2 is a pocket diary, black imitation leather cover, stamped with gold lettering, 1947, in the corner above the left hand side of the stairs.As soon as I mention this wonderful product from the Blank Blank Company of Blankton, Massachusetts, it's as if it's right in front of me.In fact, it was destroyed five years ago, and all we are studying now (with all the privileges of photographic memory) is its sketchy image, a small unfledged phoenix. I remember this stuff so clearly because I actually write it twice every time.First I jotted everything down in pencil (with many daubs and revisions), on both sides of what is commercially known as "typewriter board"; Copy it in the black book just mentioned.

May 30th is a Proclamation Day of Fast in New Hampshire, but not in the Carolinas.That day, an "enteritis" epidemic forced Ramsdale to close all of its schools, which lasted all summer.The reader might be able to look up the 1947 Ramsdale Journal.Just a few days before this event, I moved into Mrs. Haze's, and this little diary which I am now about to disclose (much like a spy conveying by heart the contents of a note he has just swallowed) recorded Most days in June. Thursday, very warm.From the highest point (bathroom window) see Dolores fetching something from the clothesline behind the house, apple green flash.Strolled out.She wore a plaid jacket, green trousers, and espadrilles.

Every step she moves in the dappled sunlight seems to be plucking on the most secret and sensitive strings in my vile body.Afterwards, she and I sat down on the bottom step of the back porch, and she picked up the pebbles between her feet to play with -- pebbles, God, and then crooked milk-bottle glass like a wrinkled lip Throw them into a tin.boom.You can't do it all over again--you miss the shot--this is heart-wrenching--again.boom.What beautiful skin - oh, beautiful: soft, tanned, flawless.The sundae caused acne.The oily substance called fat nourishes the skin follicles, but in excess, in excess, can cause inflammation and open the way for infection.But nymphets are non-comedogenic, despite being stuffed with delicious food.God, how annoying it was, that silvery shimmer above her temples was fading into her brown hair.The tiny ankle bones twitched under the dust. "Is that the McCoo kid? Ginny McCoo? Oh, she's horrible. Crude. Lame. Nearly died of polio." Bang.Shiny flower panes projected onto her forearms.When she stood up and walked into the river, I had the opportunity to admire the indistinct buttocks of her rolled-up skirt from a distance.Outside the lawn, the gentle Mrs. Haze had just finished taking pictures, and she straightened up like a big tree pretending to be a dervish. After a while, this sunflower was busy--with melancholy eyes turned up and joyful eyes turned down, -Seeing me sitting on the stairs, I have the cheek to take a picture of me, the finished Humbert.

Friday.Saw her out with a black kid named Rosie.Why the way she walks--a child, mind you, just a child! ---What makes me so excited?Analyze analysis.A limp suggestion turned toe-in.A sort of wriggling slackening under the knees extended to the end of each foot movement.A nuisance.Very childish, like a whore.Humbert Humbert, too, was affected by the little man's vulgar language and harsh noises.Then she was heard throwing some blunt nonsense at Rosie and stepping over the fence.To my ears, those words were nasal and raised in pitch.stop. "I gotta go, little one." Saturday. (It may have been edited at first.) I know it's crazy to keep writing this diary, but doing so gives me a strange thrill; and only a wife in love can decipher my petty print.Let me still say with regret that today my L. was sunbathing on the so-called "veranda", but her mother and several other wives were always around.Of course, I might as well sit on a rock over there and pretend to read, but just to be on the safe side, I left, fearful that the tremors that had knocked me out of my senses and made me laughable and pathetic would prevent me from pretending to be careless.

Sunday.The heat wave is still with us; a most auspicious week yet.This time, I brought a large newspaper and a new pipe, and took a strategic position on the verandah steps before Lo arrived.But to my great disappointment, she came with her mother, both in black two-piece bathing suits, as new as my pipe.My dear, my sweetheart stood beside me for a moment--asked for the supplement with the funny pictures--she smelled almost the same as that Riviera child, but more sinister, and her high-pitched voice was hoarse- - that familiar aroma immediately stirred my male courage - but she was dragging me out of greed, same age, back on her straw bedding, next to her seal-like mother.

My beauty lay bent, and showed me, to my thousand eyes wide open and bloodshot, her slightly raised shoulder blades, her buds along the curve of her spine, her taut, narrow hips The swell shown in the black dress, and her schoolgirl thighs.Quietly, the seventh-grade student is admiring a comic strip drawn in green, red and blue.She was the most glamorous nymphet that the green-red-blue painter himself could have imagined.My eyes are fixed, my lips are dry, and I adjust my desire through the triangular light layer, and gently vibrate under the newspaper. If I concentrate on it, I feel that the feeling for her will immediately make my heart sway; but, As many predators prefer running prey to stationary ones, I wanted this despicable harvest to be synchronized with one of the various girlish movements that occur when she looks at the picture, such as trying to scratch back, one arm up, revealing a fluffy armpit - but fat Mrs. Haze ruined it all suddenly, she turned to me, asked me for fire, and then spun out about a popular cultural charlatan A work of fiction.

Monday.Hungry for joy.My wicked hours are spent in rubbish and mourning.We (Mother Haze, Dolores, and I) were going this afternoon to bathe and soak up the sun at "our Mirror Lake"; but the brilliant morning deteriorated to rain at noon.Luo appeared. In New York and Chicago, the median age of puberty for girls is considered to be 13 years and nine months.Personally, this age can range from ten, or earlier, to any year between seventeen, and Virginia was not yet fourteen when Harry Edgar possessed her.He taught her algebra.I can imagine this.They honeymooned in Pittsburgh, Florida. "Monsieur Bobo," a boy in one of Humbert Humbert's classes in Paris called the poet.

According to writers with a sexual interest in children, I had all the qualities that would make a little girl sexually aroused: a clean-shaven chin, big muscular hands, a low, sonorous voice, broad shoulders.In addition, there are rumors that I resemble some pop singers or young actors whom Lo is obsessed with. Tuesday.rain.Rainwater Lake.Mom is out shopping.I know L.somewhere nearby.After plotting secretly, he ran into her in her mother's bedroom.She was pulling open her left eye to get a grain of sand out.Wearing a twill plaid burqa.Although I do love her intoxicating brown scent, I wish she washed her hair more often.Together we walked into the warm green bathroom mirror, which reflected an aspen tree with us in the blue sky.Grabbing her shoulders violently, then gently holding her temples, he turned her around. "Right here," she said, "I can feel it." "Swiss farmers always use the tip of their tongue." Lick it out? "Yeah, want to try?" "Yeah," she said. Gently, I licked the tip of my quivering tongue over her rolling, salty eyeballs. "That's good, that's good," she said, blinking. "Run . "What about the other one? "You're bad," she said, "the other one's got nothing--" That's when she caught the excitement of my leaning lips. Bert Humbert bent over her warm, upturned red face, and pressed his lips to her twitching eyelids. She laughed, and ran out of the house past me. My heart was torn in pieces. Never in my life--not even in France when I caressed my little lover--nor--evening. And never have I experienced such boredom. I want to describe her face, her gestures--but I can't, the closer she is, the more my desires cloud my eyes. I'm not used to nymphets, hell. When I close my eyes, all I can see is a motionless fragment of her, a kind of movie stillness , a sudden, slick and nasty cuteness, as she sits tying her shoes, one leg up under her tartan skirt. "Don't show me your leg, Dolores Haze" (this is her mother who thought she knew French).

The poet of my time, I wrote a short lyric for the knee-black lashes on her gray vacant eyes, the five asymmetrical freckles on her stubbed nose, her brown limbs black fur all over the body; but I tore it up, and cannot recall it to-day.I can only describe Lo's characteristics in the most stark terms (the diary can be rewritten): I should say her hair is auburn, her lips are as red as licked red candied fruit, and the lower lip protrudes beautifully- -Oh, if I were a woman writer, I could make her pose nude in naked lights!And yet, I am Humbert Humbert, a tall, lanky, broad-boned, sheep-chested Humbert, with thick black eyebrows and a peculiar accent, and behind his boyish smile lurks a dirty A fetid devil like a ditch.And she is not a fragile child in a female work.It was the duality of this nymphet--and probably all nymphets--that made me lose my mind; my Lolita blended a soft, dreamlike boyishness with a weird brutishness from those snub-nosed faces in advertisements and caricatures. from the vague left-leaning ideology of grown-up servants in the "old days" who smelled of crushed daisies and sweat; from the very young, yet still Learned it from a whore who pretended to be a child; and then all this mixed with the immaculate tenderness, into musky grass and earth, into dust and death, oh God, oh , God, it is she who is most special, this Lolita, my Lolita, who has mastered the author's ancient desires, so that above and beyond everything there is only - Lolita.

Wednesday. "Hey, let mom take you and me to our Mirror Lake tomorrow." That's what my twelve-year-old sweetheart, Lust, whispered to me very politely, when we happened to run into each other on the front porch, I went out, she came in.That afternoon the sun shone like a sparkling white gem sending countless iridescent sparks that quivered on the back of a parked car.The elm trees that cover the sky and the sun cast their full shadows on the parapet outside the house, and the two poplars swayed gently.You can make out the clutter on the road in the distance; a child yelling "Nancy, Nancy!"

Inside the house, Lolita had put on her most cherished "Little Carmen" record, which I used to call "The Dwarf Conductor," puffing at my laughing heart with false foolishness. Thursday.We sat on the porch last night, Mrs. Haze, Lolita and me.The warm evening has sunk into the tender night.The old girl finally finished talking about a movie she and L had seen sometime in the winter.Boxer met the kind old priest (he was also a boxer in his youth, and he can still punch prisoners now), and he bent down deeply.We sat on cushions piled on the floor with L between the woman and me (she got in, baby). When it was my turn, I told anecdotes about polar expeditions.The Goddess of Creation handed me a gun, and I killed a white bear, which fell and said: Ah!By now I felt L's closeness, and as I spoke I made invisible gestures in the divine darkness, taking the opportunity to touch her hands, her shoulders, and the curly, thin hair of the doll she was caressing. Yarn, she always tucks them into my lap; and at last, when I have fully entangled my radiant lover in this woven web of lightness and intimacy, I dare to touch her along the gooseberry hairs of her shin bare legs; I laughed at my own joke, trembling, trying to hide my trembling, and once or twice I felt the warmth of her hair with my lips nimbly, and hurriedly caressed her, and then Stepping back comically, picks up her toy.She, too, fidgeted a little bit, until her mother sternly told her to stop, and threw the toys into the night.I smiled and spoke to Haze over Lo's legs, my hand slowly running up my nymphet's thin back, feeling her skin through her boyish blouse. But I knew it was all hopeless, and the anticipation was hard, and I felt the painful tautness of my clothes, so when her mother calmly announced in the dark, "Now we all think it's time for Lo to go to bed," I Almost delighted. "I think you stink," Lo said. "That means there won't be a cookout tomorrow," Haze said. "This is a free country," Lowe said.After the annoyed Lo left with a hiss, a strange inertia kept me there, and Mrs. Haze, smoking her tenth cigarette of the night, complained to Lo again. You know, when she was one year old, she was vicious, throwing toys out of the crib, and her poor mother had to pick them up all the time, what a wicked child! Now, at twelve, she was a complete vermin, Mrs. Haze said.All she asks of life is to be a swaggering, self-satisfied baseball pitcher one day, or a rock n' roll freak.Her studies were poor, but compared to Pisky (Pisky is in the "Midwest", Haze's hometown. Ramsdale Cottage was originally owned by her late mother-in-law. They moved here less than two years ), she is quite adaptable to this new school. "Why isn't she happy over there?" "Oh," said Haze, "poor thing, I should know, I've been through it when I was a kid: boys twisted her arms, hit her with stacks of books, Pull her hair, hurt her breasts, pull her skirts.Of course, mood swings were a common part of growing up, but Lo took it too far.Stubborn and unpredictable.Rough and aggressive.He sat on the seat and poked Viola, one of her Italian classmates, with a pen.Do you know what I'm going to do?If you, sir, are still here in Autumn, I would like to ask you to help her with her homework -- you seem to understand. Geography, Mathematics, French. ""Oh, all about it," replied Mr. "That means," said Haze quickly, "that you'll stay here!" "I'd like to scream that I'm going to live forever, as long as I get a chance to be intimate with my new student. But I have to watch out for Mrs. Haze. So I just grumble, and after a while (just the right word) again Stretched, and then went back to the house. But the woman, obviously wasn't ready to stop working for the day like this. I was already lying on the cold bed with my hands covering my cheeks, unable to shake off the fragrance of Lolita. Qianying, at this moment I heard my unyielding mistress sneaking up to my door and whispering through the door--just want to confirm, she said, whether I have finished reading "Take a look at flowers" that I borrowed that day Lo cried in her room. There she was. The house was like a lending library, God's thunder. Friday.Suppose I quote Ronza's "Crimson Cleft" in my textbook or Remi Bello's "A little mountain covered with beautiful moss; sketched in the center of a little girl" etc. I don't know if I'm following the rules What the publishers will say.If I continue to live, under the pressure of this unbearable temptation, living beside my lover-my baby-my life, my bride, maybe I will break down again physically and mentally.Had she been sexually introduced into that "mysterious menarche"?A sense of arrogance.Irish spell.Descended from the sky.Grandma is visiting. "Mr Utrus (I'm quoting from a girl's magazine) started building a floppy wall in the hope that a baby would actually sleep there." The little madman is in his padded sickroom. Let me say this by the way: If I ever committed any serious homicide... Note the word "if".That urge should be much stronger than what I have against Valeria.Especially notice that I was very stupid then.If or when you wish to kill me, remember that only a mad drive can give me bestial powers (all of which may be modified).Sometimes, I want to kill in my dreams, but you know what happened?For example, I took a gun.For example, I took aim at an enemy who didn't care, but who I was secretly interested in.Oh, I pulled the trigger immediately, but the bullets fell limply one by one from the sheep-like muzzle to the ground.In dreams of this kind I just want to hide my ridiculous failure from an increasingly exasperated opponent. At dinner today, the old cat said to me with a maternal mockery, sideways glance at Lo who was passing by (I was just talking briskly about the happy toothbrush beard that I have not yet decided to keep or not) : "It's better not, if someone doesn't want to go completely crazy." Immediately, Luo pushed away her plate of steamed fish, spilled her milk, and jumped out of the dining room angrily. "If Lo apologized for her attitude," asked Haze, "would it bother you to go swimming with us in our Mirror Lake tomorrow?" Afterwards I heard a series of violent bangings on the door, and various noises that seemed to come from the epicentre, where the two adversaries began to speak ill. She didn't apologize.The lake fell through.This could be a real joke. Saturday.I have been sitting in my room with the door wide open writing for days; the trap has only worked today.She looked uncertain, dodged, and rubbed—to hide her embarrassment—came in, wandered around the room for a while, and became interested in my scribbles on a piece of paper. .Oh no: they are not belles-letter-inspired pauses of inspiration between two paragraphs; they are hieroglyphs (which she cannot understand) of my ugly thoughts.As she let her curls of brown hair fall over the table where I sat, Humbert the Husky put his arms around her in a painful imitation of her blood relatives, still studying the The paper, my innocent little guest, gradually half-sat on my lap.Her alluring silhouette, her slightly parted lips, her warm hair just three inches from my bare canines; I feel the heat of her limbs through her rough boyish clothing.Immediately I thought I could kiss her throat, kiss her mouth, and get away with it.I know she won't say no, even close her eyes like Hollywood teaches.Double Essence Warming Cream - probably doesn't get any more extraordinary than that.I cannot tell my learned reader how I came to this idea, I guess, his eyes are probably widened by now; perhaps because my ape ears have unconsciously detected some change in the rhythm of her breathing--she Not staring intently at my cursive now, but waiting with curiosity and composure—oh, my bright nymphet! --waiting for the charismatic lodger to do what he longs to do.I guess, if faced with a handsome man full of life, a modern girl, a voracious reader of movie magazines and a master of sexy shots, it is probably not surprising-it is too late.The room was suddenly shaken by Louise's loud shout. She reported that Mrs. Haze and Leslie Thomson had found a dead thing in the basement just after she came home. Of course little Lolita couldn't miss it. Such an anecdote. Sunday.Her capricious, ill-tempered delights bewildering, her biting girlish grace, terribly sickly full of desire, from head to toe (all New England longs for a woman writer's pen!), from that custom-made The black bow hairpin was lovely down to the little scar (kicked by a roller skater at Piski) two inches or so below her clean calf and above her rough white sock.Went to the Hamiltons with her mom -- for a birthday party or something.Wearing a plaid dress.Her little pigeons seem to be doing well. Precocious love! Monday.It rained in the morning. "If this gloomy morning quake can be mild..." My white pajamas have a lily printed on the back.I'm like one of those puffy spiders you used to see in an old-fashioned garden.Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the crystal-clear spider web, he strikes from left to right and moves freely in all directions.My cobwebs are all over the house, and I sit in a chair like a cunning wizard and listen.Is Lo in her room?I gently tugged on the silk garment.She is not there.There was only a sudden stop sound of the toilet paper roll turning; I spread my spider web and chased from the bathroom to her bedroom, there was no sign of her, is she still brushing her teeth? (This is the only hygiene move Lo is really passionate about) No.The bathroom door had just been slammed shut, so I had to look elsewhere for this beautiful and bright prey.Let's put a strand of spider silk downstairs.I am very happy with this method.She wasn't in the kitchen either--not rattling the fridge or screaming back at her abhorrent mother (who I'm guessing was beaming and whispering over the third phone call this morning in the talks).Well, let's fumble and hope.Like a rainbow, I turned to the living room and found the radio was silent (Mum was still talking to Mrs. Chatfield or Mrs. Hamilton, all flushed and smiling, very softly holding the phone in her free hand , veiled to deny the amusing gossip, gossip, or tenants, whispering in whispers, as if she, a chiseled woman, never did so in face-to-face conversation).So it looks like my nymphet isn't home at all!go!I'm thinking of a glorious weave turned into an old and gray trap, the house empty and dead.As soon as I thought of this, Lolita's gentle and sweet laughter came from outside my half-open door, "Don't tell mother, I ate all your steamed meat." When I ran out of the house; she was gone trace.Lolita, where are you?Only the breakfast tray that my hostess had carefully prepared for me and was ready to serve me was flimsing feebly at me.Laura, Lolita! Tuesday.Clouds once again hampered a picnic on that inaccessible lake.Is this the arrangement of "fate"?Yesterday I tried on a new swimsuit in front of the mirror. Wednesday.In the afternoon, Mrs. Haze (in plain shoes and a dress made by a tailor) said she was going to drive into town to buy a gift for a friend of a friend and asked me if I would go with me because trust my taste in woolen textures and perfumes so high. "Pick your favorite lure," she whispered.Humbert, what else can this man who has been in the perfume business do?She had cornered me between the front porch and the car.When I struggled to curl up my tall body and climb in, still desperately devising a way to escape), she urged: "Quick." Then she started the engine, and politely cursed a few times at a large truck that was turning back and forth in front of me. In other words, the car was loaded with a new brand of wheelchair for the disabled old Opposite. At this moment, my Lolita screamed from the living room window: "You! Where are you going? Me too! Wait! "Don't pay attention to her," cried Mrs. Haze (squeezing the motor); my fair driver yelled; Lo was already tugging on my side of the door. "This is simply intolerable. ’” said Mrs. Haze; but Lo had squeezed in, shaking with joy. “Move your ass,” said Lo. “Lo! yelled Haze (looking sideways at me, wishing I could give her some color). "Watch out," the car moved forward, she slammed back, and I slammed back (not the first time ). "That's intolerable," said Haze, shifting into second roughly. "Kids are so uneducated. Twist like this again.She knew she wasn't welcome at the moment and she needed to take a shower. My knees pressed against the kid's blue jeans.She's barefoot; there's still pink coudan on her toenails, and a little piece of tape on her big toe; God, what can I not give for a kiss then?That is a pair of fine bones, slender toes, ape-like feet!Suddenly her hand slipped into mine, our matron didn't see it, and I squeezed her small fiery palm and rubbed it all the way to the store.The driver's Marlin-style nose is shining, and has radiated or burned every ounce of oil in them. She has been carrying out a monologue about local traffic conditions in a melancholy manner. I can only watch her smile from the side, Blinking eyelashes, praying inwardly that we never make it to that store, but we do. I don't remember much else, except, number one: Big Haze put Little Haze behind us on the way home; special choice". Thursday.We paid for the hail and the storm for a warm start to the month. In a volume of "Youth Encyclopedia", I saw a piece of thin paper with a map of the United States drawn by a child with a pencil. On the other side of the paper, facing Florida and the Gulf of Mexico, there was a line of mimeographed names. , apparently, was her class at Ramsdale School.It was a poem, and I had it in my heart. A poem, a poem, absolutely true!How wonderful and sweet it is to find this "Dolores Haze" (she!) in the uniquely named shade; two roses pushing back and forth--like a fair princess among two loyal ladies-in-waiting between.I tried to analyze why this name, among so many others, excited me so much.What brings me almost to tears (hot milky thick drops of poets and lovers)?what is itThe name, soft and veiled, with its solemn veil ("Dolores") and its transposition of first and surname forms, like ten new gloves or a mask? Is "mask" the answer?Is it because there is always a flowing joy in the translucent mystery; through which your flesh and eyes are chosen by yourself to understand the smile you make for yourself?Or was it because I could adequately imagine the others in the colorful collective around my sad, shadowy lover: Grace with her ripe acne; Ginnie with her lame leg, Gordon, a gaunt masturbator; Duncan Nail-biting Agnes; Viola, pimple-faced, bouncy boobs; Tulip-bright Rosalind; dark Mary Rose; lovely Stella, who made strangers Touched; Ralph, bullying and dirty hands; Owen, I feel sorry for him.And then there was her, lost among them, pencil in mouth, hated by the teachers, but all the boys' eyes were on her hair and neck, "my" Lolita. Friday.I look forward to a terrible disaster.earthquake.Spectacular explosion.Poor her mother disappeared suddenly and forever along with others for miles around.Lolita threw herself into my arms sobbing.I enjoy her in the ruins as a free man.Her astonishment, my interpretations, performances, and vain and foolish fantasies!Brave Humbert will play with her in the most disgusting ways (like, yesterday, she came into my room again and showed me her paintings, school art); he may try to bribe her- - and go away.A more down-to-earth lad would probably insist on using commodity substitutes of all kinds in moderation - if you knew what was going on, which I don't.Despite my masculine appearance, I was actually a timid person. My romantic soul shudders completely sickly at the thought of encountering some thorny, immoral and unpleasant encounter.These nasty devils. "Go, go!" Annabelle tiptoed one foot to put on her shorts, and I was giddy with passion and wanted to avoid her. Then, late one day, I turned on the light and tried to jot down a dream.Obviously the dream had an antecedent cause.At supper Mrs. Haze graciously announced that, as the Weather Bureau had guaranteed a fine weekend, we would go out to the lake after church.So I lay in bed thinking a lot about sex before I fell asleep; and as to how I could use the picnic to my advantage, I thought of a way.I had noticed that Haze's mother hated her daughter and was too sweet for me.This time I'll just be courting her; but when the time is right, say I left my watch or sunglasses in that clearing in the woods - and run into the bushes with my nymphet in my arms.At this point, "The Excuse for Glasses" suddenly turns into a quiet little indulgence, with only happy, depraved, complaining Lolita alone, and her actions are against reason.At three o'clock in the morning, I swallowed a sleeping pill, and immediately, a dream, not a follow-up, but rather funny, showed with meaningful clarity the lake I had never been to: A layer of emerald ice is shining, a pockmarked Eskimo is wielding a pickaxe, and mimosa and oleander are blooming on the dark lakeside. Sex Dreamer Dr. Blanche Schwarz, she'll pay me a bag of coins.Unfortunately the remainder was sifted out, and Big Haze and Little Haze rode along the lake, and I straddled my legs, dutifully up and down; Elastic air--this is one of those little omissions due to the dreamer's carelessness. Sunday.My heart is still pounding.I'm still squirming, moaning low at the embarrassment of remembering. back image. Shiny skin between T-shirt and white gym shorts.Leaning over the window sill, tearing off the leaves of the aspens outside the window, he chatted incessantly with the newspaper boy downstairs (Kenyon Knight, I presume) who had just delivered the Ramsdale Daily Accurately thrown onto the front porch.I crawled toward her -- "limped," as the mime said.By the convexity of my limbs - but not by them - I amble by neutral means of transport: "Humbert, wounded spider".I think it will take me hours to get to her. I seemed to be looking at her from the wrong end of the telescope, moving towards her tense back; I was limp and twisted like a man with a scoliosis, but terribly absorbed. At last it came, and I had the unfortunate idea of ​​frightening her—shaking her by the scruff of the neck or something to conceal my real trick, but she trembled and wailed, "Let go!"— -The real murderer, the little whore, Humbert could only grin and retreat in frustration, and she continued to throw wisecracks into the street. But now listen to what happened next.After lunch, I leaned back in a low chair and wanted to read.Suddenly, two dexterous little hands covered my eyes: She sneaked up behind me, as if following a ballet, repeating my morning tactics.Her fingers covering her temples were bright red, and she was giggling. I did not change my reclined posture, but stretched out my hand to grab her sideways and backwards, and she dodged here and there.I ran my hand over her nimble legs, and the sinker sled off my knees, when Mrs. Haze came up to inspect, and said mercifully, "Beat her, if she interrupts your studies. How I love the garden (no exclamation point in her tone). Isn't it divine in the sun (no question mark either)." This disgusting woman let out a feigned sigh of satisfaction, sat down on the grass, leaned back with her hands on the ground, and looked up at the sky; at this moment, an old gray tennis ball jumped over her head.Luo's naughty voice came from the room: "I'm sorry, Mom, I didn't aim at you." Of course not, my hot little baby.