Mrs. Ariadley Oliver was a guest at the house of her friend Judith Butler.One day, Mrs. Drake's family was going to hold a party for the children in the village, and Mrs. Oliver and her friends went to help. Mrs. Drake's house was very lively, and the women were full of energy, moving in and out, moving chairs, small tables, vases, etc., and many old pumpkins, and placed them in an orderly manner on the selected positions. Today is a Hallow's Eve party, and a group of children aged ten to seventeen are invited as guests. Mrs. Oliver, avoiding the crowd, with her back against an empty wall, held up a large pumpkin, looked left and right—"I saw a pumpkin last time," she said, and closed it with her hands. White hair scattered across her forehead. "Still in America. That was last year. There were thousands of them, all over the house. I've never seen so many pumpkins. Seriously," she muses He added, "I've never been able to tell the difference between a pumpkin and a gourd. Is this a pumpkin or a gourd?"

"I'm sorry, dear," said Mrs. Butler, who accidentally stepped on her friend's foot. Mrs. Oliver's body moved closer to the wall. "It's all my fault," she said. "I've been standing here in the way, and it was really spectacular, so many pumpkins, maybe gourds, whatever it is. The shops are full of beautiful things, and there are plenty of them in every house. Some had candles on the inside, and some had night lights on the outside. It was so much fun, but it wasn't Halloween, it was Thanksgiving, and now I always associate pumpkins with Halloween, and it was at the end of October. Thanksgiving was late One o'clock, isn't it? Is it in November, about the third week of November? Well, Hallow's Eve here is October 31st, isn't it? Hallow's Eve first, what's next? Is it All Souls' Day? If you were in Paris, it wouldn't be sad if you had to go to the cemetery to lay flowers on the grave. I mean, the kids would go too and have a good time. You go to the flower market first and buy lots of them Beautiful flowers, nowhere is as beautiful as the ones in the Paris flower market."

Busy women bumped into Mrs. Oliver now and then, but didn't pay attention to what she was saying, they were too busy. Most of them were mothers, and one or two able old girls; some children also helped.Sixteen and seventeen-year-old boys climbed up ladders, and some stood on chairs to decorate the room, putting pumpkins, gourds and colorful balloons at the right height. Girls were aged between eleven and fifteen. Wait, they walked around in groups of three or four, giggling non-stop. "After the visit to the cemetery on All Souls' Day," continued Mrs. Oliver, leaning her fat body against the arm of her chair, "it's Halloween. I suppose it would be nice?"

No one answered her question.Mrs. Drake, who was hosting the party, was a milf, and she exclaimed: "Although it's a Hallow's Eve party, I don't want to use that name, I want to call it a pre-testing party. The kids are generally in this age group and most are leaving Elm Elementary for secondary school elsewhere." "That's not quite right, Rowena?" said Miss Whittaker, adjusting her pince-nez disapprovingly. Miss Whittaker is a local primary school teacher, and has always been known for her accuracy. "Because we have abolished the pre-middle school entrance examination for a while."

Mrs. Oliver stood up from the armchair and apologized repeatedly: "I didn't help much, and I just sit here and talk nonsense about pumpkins and gourds." She didn't say it out loud. "Then what shall I do?" she asked, adding immediately, "What lovely apples!" Someone has just brought a big bowl of apples, and Mrs. Oliver has a soft spot for apples. "What a red apple," she said again. "It's not really tasty," Rowena Drake replied. "It does look good. It's for apple-biting. It's very doughy, and it's easy to bite. Would you like to take the apples to the study, than Beatrice? Biting apples keeps getting water all over the place. But the study carpet is old and it doesn't matter if it's wet. Oh! Thank you, Joyce."

The thirteen-year-old Joyce was strong and strong. When she picked up the bowl of apples, two of them rolled down, as if by a witch's magic, and happened to stop next to Mrs. Oliver's feet. "You like apples, don't you?" Joyce asked. "Where did I see, perhaps on TV, that you were Mrs. Oliver who wrote murder stories?" "Yes," replied Mrs. Oliver. "We should let you play a game about murder, or there will be a murder case later, and let people judge who is the murderer." "No, thank you," said Mrs. Oliver, "it should never happen again."

"Never again, what do you mean?" "Well, I tried it once, but it wasn't very successful," said Mrs. Oliver. "But you wrote a lot of books," said Joyce. "You must have made a lot of money?" . . . so to speak," replied Mrs. Oliver, her thoughts flying to England Street. "One of your detectives is Finnish." Mrs. Oliver conceded, and a bewildered little boy, probably not yet of pre-exam age, pressed "Why Finn?" "I'm often surprised, too," said Mrs. Oliver openly. Mrs Hargreaves, the organist's wife, came in panting, carrying a large green plastic bucket.

"What's that for," she said. "Bitting an apple? I think it must be fun." The pharmacist, Ms. Li, said, "The iron bucket is better, and it is not easy to knock over. Where do you put it, Mrs. Drake?" "I think it's best to put it in the study room. The carpet there is old and there must be a lot of water splashing." "Yes, let's take it. Rowena, there is still a basket of apples here." "I'll help," said Mrs. Oliver. She picked up the two apples at her feet, and before she knew it, she had already gnawed them with her teeth. Mrs. Drake took the other apple from her hand and put it back in the basket.People talked loudly.

"Yes, but where are we going to play with chestnuts in the fire?" "It should be in the study, where the light is the darkest." "No, it should be in the restaurant." "Then we have to spread something on the table first." "You can spread the green blanket first and then the plastic sheet." "What about looking in the mirror? Can we really see our future husband in it?" Mrs. Oliver nibbled on the apple, secretly took off her shoes and sat on the armchair. She looked at the busy people in the room. As a writer, she couldn't help thinking: "If I write a book with the people present as the protagonists, how should I write? It should be said that most of them are very kind, but who knows if they are true or not?"

She didn't know this group of people well, and she felt that in a sense, they had a special flavor.They all lived in Mule Village, some of whom she had a vague recollection, because Judith mentioned to her that Miss Johnson—something like a church connection, not the vicar's sister, yes, the organist's sister, no wrong.Rowena Drake seemed to be in charge at Woodley New Village, and the woman brought in a bucket, panting.That bucket is really annoying.Mrs. Oliver doesn't have a thing for plastic.There were also quite a few children in the room, ranging in age, some of whom could be considered boys and girls.

Mrs. Oliver knew only a few names at this time, and she was not very familiar with people.She knew Nan, and Beatrice, and Cassie, and a Diana, and a Joyce.Joyce was the showy, questioning girl.I don't like Joyce very much, thought Mrs Oliver.There is a girl named Ann, who is tall and a bit arrogant. The two boys seem to have just tried different hairstyles, and the results are not satisfactory. A thin boy came over, looking very shy. "Mommy asked me to show these mirrors to see if they fit." He didn't seem to dare to breathe. Mrs. Drake took the mirror from him. "Thank you very much, Eddie," she said. "These are ordinary mirrors," the girl named Ann asked. "Can we really see the face of our future husband in it?" "Some may see, some may not," replied Mrs. Butler. "Have you ever seen your husband's face at a party--I mean such a party?" "Of course she didn't," Joyce replied. "She may have seen it," said the haughty Beatrice. "They call it a sixth sense." She uttered the fashionable new term with glee. "I've read one of your books," Ann said to Mrs. Oliver, "The Dying Goldfish. It's pretty good," she said kindly. "I didn't like that one," Joyce said. "There's not much blood. I like bloody murders." "It's kind of unpleasant," said Mrs. Oliver, "don't you think?" "But there's excitement," Joyce said. "Not necessarily," Mrs. Oliver replied. "I saw a murder," said Joyce. "Don't be a fool, Joyce," said Whitaker, the elementary school teacher. "Really," said Joyce. "Really?" Cassie asked, staring at Joyce with wide eyes. "Did you really witness a murder?" "Of course she didn't," replied Mrs. Drake. "Don't be silly, Joyce." "I did," insisted Joyce, "I did. Really, really." A seventeen-year-old boy is sitting on a ladder, looking down with interest. "What kind of murder?" he asked. "I don't believe it," said Beatrice. "Of course not," said Cathy's mother. "She made it up." "I didn't make it up, I saw it." "Then why didn't you call the police?" Cassie asked. "Because I didn't know it was murder when I saw it. I mean, it took me a long time before I realized it was murder, or someone said something two or three months ago that reminded me that what I saw was indeed It was a murder." "Look," Ann said, "she made it all up. Nonsense." "What's the matter?" asked Beatrice. "Many years ago," said Joyce, "when I was little," she added. "Who murdered whom?" asked Beatrice. "I'm not going to tell any of you," Joyce said. "You're so rude." Miss Li brought an iron bucket.The topic immediately turned to whether the iron bucket or the plastic bucket is more suitable for playing the game of biting apples. Most of the people who came to help went to the study to evaluate on the spot. The children were eager to show their abilities, their hair was wet, and the water splashed everywhere Yes, I hurriedly asked someone to get a towel to wipe it. In the end, everyone decided that the iron bucket is better. The plastic bucket looks good, but it is easy to overturn. Mrs. Oliver came in with a big bowl of apples, which she was planning to eat tomorrow. She put the apples on the table and ate one. "I saw an article in the newspaper saying that you like apples." The girl named Ann (or Susan) said, but she was not sure. "That's what I do all the time," replied Mrs. Oliver. "It'd be more fun if you liked melon," retorted one boy, "so much juice. Imagine not making a mess?" he said, looking gloatingly at the carpet. Mrs. Oliver was very embarrassed to appear so greedy in the eyes of everyone.She went out to find somewhere, it shouldn't be hard to find. She climbed to the corner of the stairs, and just happened to meet a boy and a girl hugging against a door. Mrs. Oliver decided that this was where she was eager to go. Yes, the little lovers didn't pay attention at all. Watching her, they sighed and cuddled.How old were they, Mrs. Oliver thought.Boys are about 15 years old, girls are more than 12 years old, although the breasts seem to be quite mature. The Apple Grove House is very big, she thought to herself, and there are a few corners that are not bad.How selfish people are, thought Mrs. Oliver. The old saying "Don't think about others" rings in her head, first by a nanny, then by a nanny, governess, her grandmother, two great aunts, her mother and others talk. "I'm sorry." Mrs. Oliver's voice was loud and clear. The boy and the girl hugged even tighter, their lips pressed together tightly. "Excuse me," repeated Mrs. Oliver, "can I go in? I want to go in." The young lovers parted with great reluctance.They glared at her.Mrs. Oliver went in, slammed the door, and hit the bolt. The door was not very tight, and the conversation outside could vaguely reach her ears. "Is this still plausible?" A tenor voice seemed to change his voice, "We know we don't want to be disturbed." "People are so selfish," the girl shrieked. "Always think of their own interests." "Don't think about others," said the boy.