Chapter 8 The fifth series of the photographer's fiddling

The fifth series of the photographer's fiddling "I want to take a picture." I said.The photographer looked at me enthusiastically.He was dressed in gray clothes, with a stooped back and misty eyes like a natural scientist.But there is no need to spend too much ink on him.Everyone knows what a photographer looks like. "Sit there," he said, "and wait." I waited an hour.During this period, I read "Lady's Friend" in 1912, "Girl's Magazine" in 1902 and "Baby Magazine" in 1888.I began to realize how ignorant I was: the man was doing his scientific research behind closed doors, and I didn't deserve to disturb him with my dignity.

An hour later the photographer opened the inner door. "Come in!" he said sharply. So I went into the photo studio. "Sit down," said the photographer. A piece of industrial cotton cloth was hung in front of the window, and the hazy skylight shone in through the cotton cloth, and I sat down in this dim light. The photographer turned a machine to the center of the room and got in behind it. He was only in there for a second - just long enough for him to look at me from inside - and then he came out again, using a hooked stick to push back both the cotton cloth and the glass window, apparently desperately trying to gain daylight and air.

Then he slowly got into the machine again and pulled a black cloth over his body.This time he stayed quietly inside.I knew he was praying silently, so I didn't move. The photographer finally came out again, and he shook his head gravely. "It's a very wrong face," he said. "I know," I said quietly, "I've always understood that." He sighed. "I think," he said, "it would be different if you had a round face." "I'm sure of that, too," I said enthusiastically, delighted to find that the guy had a touch of humanity. "The same is true of yours. In fact," I went on, "there are many, many people whose faces are stiff and narrow, with no room for expansion and contraction, but if you make them into a circle, then Then they get so wide and big that there's no limit to it—"

But the photographer didn't want to hear any more.He came over, held my head in his hands and turned it back and forth.I fully thought he was going to kiss me, and I closed my eyes. But I was wrong. He twisted my face as far as it could go, then stood there scrutinizing it. He sighed. "I don't like the head," he said. Then he walked back behind the camera and took another look. "Open your mouth a little bit," he said. I started to follow suit. "Shut up." He added immediately afterward. Then he looked again. "There's something wrong with your ears," he said, "a little lower. Thanks. And the eyes. The eyeballs roll under the eyelids. Please put your hands on your knees and lift your head up. Yes, it's much better." Now the chest is puffed up! Arch the neck a little more—yes—retract the waist—ha!—push the buttocks toward the elbows—success! But I still don’t like this face, it’s still too A little rounder, but—”

I spun around on the stool. "Stop," I said, very excitedly (with dignity I suppose), "it's my face. It's not yours. It's mine. I've lived with it for forty years and I know its face. Flaw. I know it's uneven. I know it wasn't made the way I like it, but it's my face, and all I have—" I realize my voice is a little hoarse, but I continue Go on—"Even if it's flawed, I've already got it. And this mouth, it's mine, not yours. These ears are mine too, if your camera is too narrow for it— —” At this point I started to stand up from the stool.

Click! The photographer pulled the shutter.The photo is ready.I saw that the camera was still shaking due to the shock. "I think I caught a moment of your live expression," said the photographer, smiling with a triumphant pout. "Really?" I said sharply. "Face expressions, right? You think I'm not alive normally, so I don't have expressions, do you? Let me see the pictures." "Oh, no pictures yet," he said. "I've got to develop the negatives first. Come back on Saturday and I'll show you the samples." I went again on Saturday.

The photographer beckoned me in.I think he is much quieter and more solemn than last time.I also think there is a certain smugness in his expression. He opened a large swatch and we both looked at it in silence. "Is this me?" I asked. "Yes," he said quietly, "it's you." We both continued to watch. "Those eyes," I said hesitantly, "don't quite look like mine." "Oh, yes," he said, "not yours, I repainted them. They look better now, don't they?" "That's true," I said, "but my eyebrows sure don't look like that, do they?"

"That's right," said the photographer, with a quick glance at my face, "the original eyebrows have been replaced. We now have a special procedure called Delphide. You'll notice that we use medication The water dislodged the eyebrows from where they were. I don't like the fact that the eyebrows are so low on the forehead." "Oh, you don't like it, do you?" I said. "No," he went on, "I don't like it. I'd rather have the old brows removed and new ones painted on the clean brow." "Where's the mouth?" I said with a bitterness the photographer couldn't understand. "Is that mine?"

"Corrected a little too," he said, "your mouth is a little too low. I found I couldn't use it." "These ears do look like mine, though," I said. "They're exactly like mine." "That's right," said the photographer thoughtfully, "that's yours, but I can correct them when I'm taking pictures. We now have a method called Shalfed - which takes the whole ear Remove. I'll-" "Listen!" I interrupted him, straightening up, glaring, and said in a contemptuous tone that would have killed the man on the spot: "Listen! I'm here to take a picture , take a picture--it's absurd to say, I just want it to be like me. I just want it to show the face that God gave me, even if it's flawed. I just hope my friends can rely on it after I die Come to mourn, rely on it to soothe the bereavement. Seems I was wrong. You didn't heed my request. Well, go on with your work. Take your negative (call it what you will) Dip it in Sulfid, Bromid, Oxide, Kaurhidry - whatever you dip it in - you can paint out the eyes, correct the mouth, adjust the whole face , and put the lips on, and a new waistcoat, and make the tie nicer, and put an inch of glaze on it, and gilt it, and carve it, till you're satisfied Stop it. After all this, keep it to yourself, and share it with your friends. They'll treasure it. But to me, it's worth nothing, no matter how beautiful it is."

Tears welled up in my eyes and I left there. How to Live to 200, Series 5 Twenty years ago I knew a man named Jiggins, who had a habit of exercising. At that time, he had to take a cold shower every morning, which he said would open the pores; then he would always take a hot shower, which he said would close the pores.He does this so that he can open and close his pores at will. Before getting dressed and getting up every day, he would stand in front of an open window and practice breathing for half an hour.He said it expands lung capacity.Of course, he can also go to the shoe store and use shoe stretchers to achieve this goal, but after all, this kind of practice in front of the window costs nothing, so what's the point of spending half an hour?

After putting on his underwear, Jiggins would then leash himself like a dog for gym exercises.He was either leaning forward or leaning back, with his buttocks sticking out high and high, and he was very excited. He could find doggy things to do anywhere.He spends all his time on it.When he was in the office, when he was free, he would get on the floor to see if he could prop himself up with his fingers.If this move is successful, he will try other tricks next, and he will not stop until he finds that a certain action is really impossible.Even the little break after lunch he spends working on his abs, and he finds it a lot of fun. When he returned to his room in the evening, he would either lift a steel rod, carry cannonballs, play with dumbbells, or do pull-ups with his teeth on something hanging from the ceiling.You can hear the thump, thud, thud, half a mile away. He likes it. Half of the night he dangled from the room.He said it clears his mind.After clearing his mind completely, he went to bed.Upon waking up the next day, he began to clear his head again. Jiggins is now dead.He was certainly a pioneer, but his untimely death over his love for dumbbells didn't stop a whole generation of young people from following in his footsteps. They've all become slaves to fitness fetishes. They've all made themselves nuisances. They get up at times they shouldn't be up.They foolishly run a marathon before breakfast with little clothes on.They chased each other with their bare feet, and they couldn't bear the fact that their feet were not covered with dew.They hunt for fresh air.They've had a lot of trouble with pepsin.They don't want to eat meat because it contains too much nitrogen.They don't want to eat fruit because it doesn't contain nitrogen at all.They prefer protein, starch and nitrogen to orange pie and pasta.They don't want to drink from the tap.They don't want to eat canned sardines.They don't eat oysters in barrels.They will not drink milk from a cup.They are afraid of alcohol of all kinds.Yes, sir, just fear.What a "fear of death"! They were afraid of this and that, but they were suffering from some simple old-fashioned disease, and after a long time they were as sad as everyone else. Now this kind of people have no chance of longevity.They are counterproductive. Gentlemen, listen to me.Do you really want to live a long, long life, to enjoy a prosperous, happy, old age to boast about, while annoying your neighbors left and right with your nagging about the past? Then don't listen to the nonsense about getting up early and living longer.Don't listen.It is best to get up at the right time in the morning.If you have to get up before it's time, don't get up, there's no need to get up early.If you go to work at eleven, get up at ten thirty.Breathe in the fresh air.But this thing is now extinct.If you still have any, buy a thermos full for five cents and put it on the cupboard shelf.If you go to work at seven in the morning, you can get up ten minutes earlier, but don't kid yourself that you like it.It's not going to be fun, you know it. Also, don't believe in cold showers, you never did that when you were a kid, and you don't have to be such a fool now.If you must take a shower (and you really don't), do it with lukewarm water.Getting up from the cold bed and running to take a hot bath can be described as a great pleasure, which is many times better than a cold bath.Either way, don't brag about your bath or "shower" as if you're the only one in the world who ever took a shower. So much for that. Next we talk about bacteria and bacilli.Don't be afraid of them.This is enough.It's as simple as that, and once you do that, you don't have to worry about them anymore. If you come across a bacillus, just walk up and look into its eyes.If a bacillus flies into your room, give it a good beating with your hat or towel.Light it between the neck and throat, and pump as much as you can.It won't be long before it can't stand it. Honestly, though, bacillus is a pretty quiet and harmless thing if you're not afraid of it.Talk to it.Say to it, "Lie down." It will understand.I once had a bacillus called Fedo that would come and lie at my feet while I was working.I have never had a friend who is more affectionate than him.After it was run over by a car, I buried it in the garden, heartbroken. (I admit that's a bit of an exaggeration. I don't really remember its name, it might have been "Robert".) You must understand that the so-called cholera, typhoid fever, and diphtheria are caused by bacteria and bacilli. This is nothing but the imagination of modern medicine, and it is pure nonsense.Cholera was caused by severe abdominal pain, and diphtheria was the result of a sore throat. Now let's talk about food. Eat whatever you want.Let go of your stomach and eat.Yes, eat without hesitation.Eat until you have to stagger to get across the house, eat until you have to prop yourself up on the sofa cushions.Eat whatever you like until you can't hold it anymore.The only test is whether you can afford it.If you can't afford it, don't eat it.Listen - don't worry about whether your food contains starch, protein, wheat or nitrogen.If you are so stupid that you must eat these things, then go ahead and buy as much as you want.You can go to the laundry shop and buy a big bag of starch, and you can eat as much as you want.Eat it well, and after you eat it, drink a big meal of glue, and add a small spoonful of Portland cement.This will glue you down. If you like nitrogen, go to the soda counter at the drugstore and buy a big can and enjoy it through a straw.Just don't think these things can be mixed with your other foods.Ordinary food may not contain nitrogen, phosphorus or protein.In any decent home, all of this would be rinsed down the kitchen sink long before it was served. A final word on fresh air and exercise.Don't bother with any of them.Fill your room with fresh air, then close the windows and store it away.It can last for many years.Either way, don't use your lungs all the time.Let them rest and rest.As for exercise, if you must exercise, exercise and live with it.But if you have the money to hire someone to play baseball or run or do some other exercise for you while you sit in the shade smoking a cigarette and watching them - goodness, what more could you ask for? Fifth Series No. 56 The story I am going to tell was told to me by my friend Silver one winter evening in his little room behind his laundry.Ah Yin is a short man from the Celestial Dynasty. He has a serious and worried expression, and his melancholy temperament is the same as that of many of his compatriots.My friendship with Ah Yin has been going on for several years.We passed many long evenings together in the little dimly lit room at the back of his shop, smoking our pipes in the mist, or lost in silent meditation together.I was attracted to my friend chiefly by an imaginative quality of mind--a feature of the Oriental character, I believe, which enabled him to immerse himself in imaginary worlds of his own creation, Forget all the disturbing troubles of his business.I was ignorant of the analytical keenness of his mind until the evening of which I begin this essay. The room in which we were occupied was small and dark, with little furniture in it, except our chairs, and a little table on which to handle our pipes, and on which a single tallow candle was burning.There were pictures on the walls, mostly poorly printed pictures cut out of newspapers, to cover up the bleakness of the walls.There is only one picture, and anyone who reads it will be attracted.It was a well-drawn pen portrait.It was a young man with a handsome face but a very melancholy expression.Although I can't say why, I have already felt that Ah Yin has experienced very sad things, and it seems to have some connection with that portrait.However, I always couldn't bear to ask him, and I didn't understand the ins and outs of it until that night. We both smoked for a while without saying a word, and then Ah Yin spoke.My friend was a well-read and educated man.His English, therefore, is impeccable in his choice of words and sentences, although of course he speaks with that drawl and soft accent of his native land, which I am not going to copy. "I know," he said, "that you have been eyeing that portrait of my unfortunate friend number fifty-six. I have never spoken to you of my grief, but tonight marks the anniversary of his death, and I I'd love to talk to you about him." Silver paused, and I relighted my pipe, nodding to him to show that I was listening. "I don't know exactly when the 56th came into my life," he went on, "I can check the business record book to know exactly when, but I never bothered. Naturally, in the opening At the time, I wasn't more interested in him than in the other customers--perhaps not so much, because in our intercourse he never delivered the clothes himself, but always had a little boy do it for him. After a while , I noticed that he had become my regular customer, so I gave him a number: No. 56, and began to wonder who he was and what he did. Later, I had to deal with this customer I had never met. Draw several conclusions. The quality of his linen clothes shows me that, if he is not very rich, his family is pretty good. I can see that he is a young man leading a regular Christian life. , attended the relevant social functions regularly. I deduce this because he sent a fixed number of clothes, always on a Saturday night, and he changed the shirt to match the dress almost every week. He was an unassuming and good-natured lad, for his collar was only two inches high. I looked at Ah Yin helplessly, and couldn't help being a little surprised.Although a recent book by one of my favorite authors had already familiarized me with this type of analysis and reasoning, it never occurred to me that my Oriental friend was so adept at it. "When I first paid attention to him, he was still studying in college," Ah Yin continued. "Of course, there was a period of time when I didn't understand this. However, as time went by, I deduced this point, based on the summer During the four months he was away from town, the shirt cuffs he sent during college exams were covered with dates, formulas, and geometric theorems. I followed his whole college life with great interest. During his college years For four years I did his laundry every week, and this regular association with him, together with the insight into his lovable character which my observations gave me, gradually lifted my affection for him from the first reverence. It turned into a heartfelt love, and I was desperate for his success. Before each exam, I helped him as much as I could, starching his shirt sleeves to the elbow so that he could Write notes in as many places as possible. During the tense stage of his graduation exam, I was really anxious, and I don’t want to say more about this. At that time, No. 56 was experiencing the most severe test in his college life. This may be surmised from the condition of some of his handkerchiefs—in the last exam he used it as a pen wipe, apparently without knowing it. His conduct was improving day by day: when he took the exam earlier, he had many and long notes on his cuff, but now there are only a few hints, and they are limited to those complicated problems that ordinary people's memory cannot handle. One Saturday in early June, I was so excited to find that his dress shirt was wrinkled and had some wine splashed from a glass on his chest among the clothes he sent. So, I Realized that Number Fifty Six had a BA and attended the graduation banquet. "The practice of rubbing pens with a handkerchief which I noticed in his final examinations became a habit the following winter, and I knew he was already studying law. He worked very hard that year, Few dress shirts were seen among his weekly deliveries. It was the following winter, in his second year of law, that the tragedy of his life began. I noticed that he sent There was a change in the laundry, from one or at most two dress shirts a week to four a week, and silk handkerchiefs began to replace linen. It dawned on me that it seemed fifty Number Six was leaving behind a difficult student life and going out into the world. Soon I felt something more: Number Fifty-Six was in love. This soon became indisputable. Seven shirts were changed; the linen handkerchief disappeared from his clothing; the height of his collar was raised from two inches to two and a quarter inches, and finally to two and a half inches. A laundry list, just a glance at how particular he was about his appearance, I can still remember the times when I was happy for him and depressed for him in those days Still new. My hands shake every Saturday when I open his laundry bag, desperate to see the first signs of his love being reciprocated. I do everything I can to help this friend of mine. His shirt and collar are clumping My heart, though my hands often trembled with excitement when starching. I knew her to be a noble and courageous girl, and her influence improved the whole character of Fifty-six. Before that, Fifty-six No. had some live cuffs and fake collars on shirts, and now he threw them all away--it made him sick to think that it was a fake, so he threw away the fake collars first, and after a while, it still didn't feel right to him, So even the live cuffs were thrown away. Every time I think of his happy and happy courtship days, I can't help but sigh for him. "The happiness of the number fifty-six seems to have entered and taken over my whole life. I just live for every Saturday that comes. The appearance of false collars would drive me into the abyss of despair, and their disappearance would drive me Pushing to the pinnacle of hope. It was not until the winter passed and the warm spring came that No. 56 mustered up the courage to take control of his own destiny. One Saturday he sent a new white suit vest and asked me to wash it and iron it for him Spare, always so plain, he has never worn this kind of clothes before. I did my best for it, because I saw his intentions in this vest. The next Saturday, this vest was again When I was sent back, I noticed with tears in my eyes the mark left by a gentle little hand resting tenderly on my right shoulder, from which I knew that No. 56 had been accepted by his sweetheart." Ah Yin stopped and sat for a while without saying a word.His cigarette had been exhausted, and the pipe lay cold in his hand.He stared blankly at the wall, the dim candlelight was flickering, and the light and shadows were changing there.Finally he spoke again: "I'm not going to talk about the happy days that followed. He was really dainty in those days, wearing a fancy summer tie, a crisp white suit vest, an immaculate shirt that changed every day, and a high collar. And high again. Our happiness seems so complete that I have nothing more to ask from fate. Alas! It is a pity that the good days are doomed not to last! The bright summer passed, and as autumn came, I painfully noticed a chance The quarrel between them—the seven shirts turned into four, the live cuffs and fake pectoral collars that had been discarded reappeared. Then the two of them reconciled—there were tears of regret on the shoulders of the white suit vest, sending The number of shirts washed was seven again. But the quarrels became more and more frequent, sometimes even stormy, as evidenced by the torn buttons on the vest. The shirts were gradually reduced to three, and then to Two, and my depressed friend's collar dropped to an inch and three quarters. I still toiled in vain on size fifty-six. It seemed to my tormented heart that if only he Their shirts and collars are neat and clean, and even a hard heart can be converted. Alas! It seems that my efforts are in vain, and their reconciliation is nowhere in sight. After a terrible month, the fake breast collar and live cuffs are back. I The unfortunate friend seemed to be proud of their abandonment. Finally, one gloomy evening, I opened his laundry bag and found he had bought some synthetic clothes, and my heart told me she had abandoned her forever. He's gone. I can't tell you anything about my poor friend's misery during this time, except that his shirt changed from synthetic to blue flannel and then from blue It turned grey. Finally, I found a red cotton handkerchief in his laundry. This immediately alarmed me. I felt that the love lost had driven him to a point of no return, and I feared the worst. Bad thing. He didn't send any clothes for the next three harrowing weeks, and then I finally got his last bag of clothes—a big, big bag that seemed to contain everything he had. In the pack I found to my horror a shirt with a dark red bloodstain on the chest and a hole that indicated a bullet had crashed into his heart. "Two weeks ago I remembered boys in the street yelling about a horrific suicide which I now know must have been about him. After my initial shock and pain had passed, in memory of him , I drew the portrait that was pasted next to you. I still have a little skill in drawing, and I believe I caught the expression of his face. The portrait is of course drawn from the imagination, because you You know, I've never seen number fifty-six." The doorbell of the shop outside jingled and a customer entered.Ah Yin got up and went out with his usual gentle and gentle expression.He stayed some time in the front shop, and when he returned he seemed no longer interested in talking about his lost friend.I left him after a while, and walked sadly to my own lodgings.Along the way, I thought a lot about my little Oriental friend and his sympathetic imagination.My heart is heavy, as if there is some weight on it——I wanted to tell him something, but I really couldn't bear to open it.From the bottom of my heart I do not want to destroy the castles of his imagination, for I am a solitary, lonely being, and have never experienced the love that my imaginative friend has.But I remember very clearly that about a year ago I sent a large bag of clothes to Ah Yin for washing.I was out of town for three weeks and ended up with a lot more dirty laundry than usual.If I recall correctly, there was also a torn piece of clothing in that bag that unfortunately had a red spot from a torn red ink bottle in my trunk, and while I was dressing up the dirty clothes , the shirt just happened to have another hole burned by the ash from my cigar.All of this, I dare not say that I remember absolutely exactly, but I can at least be sure that the number of my laundry plate in Ayin's shop was up until a year ago when I changed to another, more modern laundry company. It has always been number fifty-six. The fifth self-made man They were both what we usually call successful businessmen--both fat-headed, with heavy signet rings on sausage-like fingers, loose and comfortable waistcoats, and a yard and a half at the waist.The two of them sat opposite each other at a table in a good restaurant, and while they waited for the waiter to take their order, they chatted away.Their conversation quickly turned to the old days, each talking about how they started their businesses when they first arrived in New York. "I tell you, Jones," said one of them, "I'll never forget my first few years in this city. Really, it was a tough time! You know, sir, when I first got here , all the property in my name does not exceed fifteen cents, and I have nothing else but the rotten clothes I wear, and the place where I have to spend the night-you will believe it, but it is It's absolutely true—an empty asphalt bucket. No, sir," he went on, leaning back, closing his eyes with emotion, "you wouldn't believe it, a man like you People who are used to being pampered and pampered absolutely don’t understand what it’s like to sleep in a bucket of asphalt, and things like that have nothing to do with you.” "My dear Robinson," the other snapped back, "if you imagine that I've never been through that kind of ordeal, you're making the biggest mistake of your life. Well, when I first arrived in this city Well, I haven't got a cent, sir, not a penny. And as for lodging, the place I've lived month after month has been an old piano box down an alley, behind a factory. Suffering, I can say I've had enough! Take a man who's used to warm pitch barrels, put him in a piano box for a day or two, and you'll soon find out— —” "My dear fellow," Robinson interrupted, a little annoyed, "you just say that you don't know anything about pitch barrels. Hey, you shut your piano case on a winter night. Well, it’s as warm as it needs to be, but I can’t sleep anyway, I have to endure the gust of wind blowing in from behind, and I’m shivering from the cold.” "Crackwind!" sneered the other man, and let out a furious laugh, "Crackwind! Don't talk to me about crackwind. That piano case I was talking about had a whole damn board missing, And that gap is facing north. I used to sit in it at night and meditate, and the snow blown into the box was a foot thick all night. But, sir," he went on, in a calmer tone, " And though I know you won't believe it, I will admit that the happiest time of my life was spent in that broken box. Oh, those were the days! Joyful, innocent times! I can tell you, When I woke up there in the morning, I used to cry out with passion. Of course, I'm afraid you can't bear that kind of life—" "I can't stand it!" cried Robinson angrily. "I can't stand it! By God! That's what I was born for. I still wish I could go back to that life. What's the matter?" Naive! Well, I bet you weren't a tenth as naive as I was, no, not a fifth! Not a third! It was a hell of a time! You could have sworn it was damn A lie, wouldn't believe it to death—but I'll always remember how many nights two or three of my fellows came to visit me in the pitch barrel, and we sat around and played cards with candles till midnight." "Two or three!" laughed Jones. "Well, man, I have five or six guests, and we sit in my piano-box for supper, and afterward play cards. Yes, and charades." , and the penal game, and all the other deadly games. That kind of supper tastes so good! Honestly, Robinson, in this town, people like you who have been spoiled by the good times, It's impossible to understand how a man can sit down and relish a bit of potato skins, or a bit of pie crumbs, or—" "When it comes to bad food," interrupted another, "I dare say I know best. How many times have I had a little cold porridge in the morning that someone was going to throw out the back door, or I went to the cart shop Begging for a bit of the chaff they're going to feed the pigs. I dare say I've had far more pig food--" "Pig food!" Robinson roared, slamming his fists on the table viciously, "I tell you, pig food is definitely more suitable for me—" He broke off suddenly in surprise, grunting like a pig, as the waiter had come to ask what they had ordered: "What would you like to eat, gentlemen?" "What to eat!" said Jones, after a moment's silence, "what to eat! Oh, anything or nothing--I don't care what--give me some cold porridge, if you Either, or a piece of bacon—whatever you like, it's all the same to me." The waiter turned to Robinson indifferently. "You can also bring me some cold porridge," he said, casting a challenging glance at Jones. "What's left over from yesterday, if you have any, some potato skins and a glass of skimmed milk." There was a silence.Jones sat back in his chair and looked at Robinson sternly.For a moment, the two of them stared at each other, full of gunpowder.Then Robinson turned slowly in his seat and greeted the waiter who was muttering the names of their orders as he walked. “喂，服务员”他怒容满面地叫道，“我看菜单得稍微改一下，我要把冷粥改为——呢，对了——要一小块热松鸡。还可以给我上一份或两份半壳牡蛎，还要一点汤（假鲜龟汤或清炖肉汤，什么汤都成），还可以上一点鱼，一点斯蒂顿干酪、一颗葡萄或一颗核桃。” 侍者又转向琼斯。 “我想我也点同样的”他简简单单地说，然后又补充了一句，“另外再给我上一夸脱香槟。” 如今，琼斯和罗宾逊见面的时候，对沥青桶和钢琴箱的回忆早已被他们忘得一干二净了，就像盲人的房屋被山崩埋得无影无踪一样。