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  外语解密学习法 逆读法(Reverse Reading Method)   解读法(Decode-Reading Method)训练范文 ——                 

解密目标语言:英语                                解密辅助语言:汉语
              Language to be decoded:  English             Auxiliary Language :  Chinese  

  
                    
解密文本:     《警察和赞美诗》   [美] 欧·亨利 原著      谢国芳(Roy Xie)译    
 

 

            The Cop and the Anthem        
                                                                     by   O. Henry   
                                                                

          只看英语(English Only)                                     英汉对照(English & Chinese)                                     只看汉语(Chinese Only


  


       On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand.

      A dead leaf fell in Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready.

      Soapy's mind became cognisant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigour. And therefore he moved uneasily on his bench.

      The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In them there were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island was what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.

      For years the hospitable Blackwell's had been his winter quarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual hegira to the Island. And now the time was come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square. So the Island loomed big and timely in Soapy's mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city's dependents. In Soapy's opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy's proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition. Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman's private affairs.

      Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant; and then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do the rest.

      Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering café, where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape, the silkworm and the protoplasm.

      Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspected success would be his. The portion of him that would show above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter's mind. A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing—with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar would be enough. The total would not be so high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the café management; and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge.

      But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter's eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard.

      Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to the coveted island was not to be an epicurean one. Some other way of entering limbo must be thought of.

      At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous. Soapy took a cobblestone and dashed it through the glass. People came running around the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons.

      "Where's the man that done that?" inquired the officer excitedly.

      "Don't you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?" said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good fortune.

      The policeman's mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who smash windows do not remain to parley with the law's minions. They take to their heels. The policeman saw a man half way down the block running to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit. Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful.

      On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter be betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers.

      "Now, get busy and call a cop," said Soapy. "And don't keep a gentleman waiting."

      "No cop for youse," said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. "Hey, Con!"

      Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched Soapy. He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter's rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed very far away. A policeman who stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street.

      Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again. This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously termed to himself a "cinch." A young woman of a modest and pleasing guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the window a large policeman of severe demeanour leaned against a water plug.

      It was Soapy's design to assume the role of the despicable and execrated "masher." The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would insure his winter quarters on the right little, tight little isle.

      Soapy straightened the lady missionary's ready-made tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young woman. He made eyes at her, was taken with sudden coughs and "hems," smiled, smirked and went brazenly through the impudent and contemptible litany of the "masher." With half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised his hat and said:

      "Ah there, Bedelia! Don't you want to come and play in my yard?"

      The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cozy warmth of the station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand, caught Soapy's coat sleeve.

      "Sure, Mike," she said joyfully, "if you'll blow me to a pail of suds. I'd have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching."

      With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked past the policeman overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to liberty.

      At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in the district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows and librettos. Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest. The thought brought a little of panic upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of "disorderly conduct."

      On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved and otherwise disturbed the welkin.

      The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a citizen.

      "'Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin' the goose egg they give to the Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm. We've instructions to leave them be."

      Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind.

      In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering. Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily.

      "My umbrella," he said, sternly.

      "Oh, is it?" sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny.       "Well, why don't you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don't you call a cop? There stands one on the corner."

      The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that luck would again run against him. The policeman looked at the two curiously.

      "Of course," said the umbrella man—"that is—well, you know how these mistakes occur—I—if it's your umbrella I hope you'll excuse me—I picked it up this morning in a restaurant—If you recognise it as yours, why—I hope you'll—"

      "Of course it's mine," said Soapy, viciously.

      The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away.

      Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong.

      At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench.

      But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy's ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence.

      The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians were few; sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves—for a little while the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars.

      The conjunction of Soapy's receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties and base motives that made up his existence.

      And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet; he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. To-morrow he would go into the roaring downtown district and find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He would find him to-morrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody in the world. He would—

      Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around into the broad face of a policeman.

      "What are you doin' here?" asked the officer.

      "Nothin'," said Soapy.

      "Then come along," said the policeman.

      "Three months on the Island," said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning.

 


       在麦迪逊广场的长凳上苏比翻来覆去、坐卧不宁。当高高的夜空中传来雁叫,当没有海豹皮外套的女人变得对丈夫温柔体贴,当苏比在公园的长凳上翻来覆去、坐卧不宁的时候,你就知道冬天已近在咫尺了。

      一片枯死的叶子飘落在苏比的大腿上,那是严冬之神的名片。冬神对麦迪逊广场的常住居民们是友好的,在一年一度的拜访前,总要公平地预先通报一下。在十字街头,他将他的名片递给一切“露天广厦”的听差——“北风”,好让那里的住户们做好准备。

      苏比清醒地意识到时候又到了,自己必须立刻下决心组建单人财政委员会来预防日益临近的严寒,因此他在长凳上坐卧不宁了。

      苏比过冬的奢望并不属于最高的那种,他没有去地中海巡游的考虑,也不想到维苏威海湾去曝晒那让人昏昏欲睡的南方的太阳。他的灵魂渴望的只是在那个岛上呆上三个月的时光。三个月有保证的膳食和眠床,有趣味相投的同伴,和免受朔风和警察的侵扰,对苏比来说,这些似乎就构成了可欲之物的精华。

      多年以来,好客的布莱克韦尔岛一直是他冬天的住所。正如比他更幸运的纽约人每年冬天要买票去棕榈滩和里维埃拉,苏比也一样为他一年一度向该岛屿的逃亡做了一些微贱的安排。现在时候又到了。昨天夜里,他睡在这个古老广场喷泉附近的长凳上,用三份安息日的报纸分别垫在外套里面、包住脚踝、盖住大腿,竟然也未能抵御寒冷。于是那个岛屿又及时而赫然地浮现在苏比的脑海中。他蔑视那些以慈善的名义为这个城市的穷人们所做的救济工作。在苏比看来,法律比慈善更宽厚,虽然他可前往投靠、在那里获得与简朴生活相宜的食宿的机构——包括市政的和慈善的——多得数不胜数,但是对苏比这种有着高傲灵魂的人来说,慈善的赠品是有负累的。从慈善机构的手中领受的每一点好处,倘不用钱币来偿付,就必须以精神上的屈辱作为代价。正如恺撒之有布鲁图斯,要睡慈善机构的床,先得硬着头皮去洗澡;白吃人家一条面包,就必须接受秘密的个人调查。因此,做法律的座上客要更好些。虽然它按规矩办事,但并不过分地干涉一个男子汉的私事。

      既已决定去岛上,苏比立刻着手实现他的这个心愿了,有很多容易的方法能遂此愿。最惬意的是去某个昂贵的餐馆大吃一顿,然后宣告自己无力支付,接着便被安安静静、没有喧闹地移交给警察。一个肯通融的治安官会料理其余的一切。

      苏比离开了长凳,信步踱出广场,然后越过百老汇大街和第五大道汇合处那一大片平坦的柏油马路。接着他转向百老汇大街北行,在一家灯光闪耀的咖啡馆前停下了脚步,这里夜夜都聚集着葡萄、桑蚕和原生质的最上等的制品。

      苏比对自己从马甲最底下的那颗纽扣以上的部分还是有信心的,他修过面,外套是像样的,那条已经系好的黑色活结领带也干净整洁,这是一位女传教士在感恩节那天送给他的。只要他能不被猜疑地抵达餐馆的饭桌,成功就锁定了。他暴露在桌面之上的部分绝不会令侍者生疑。一只烤野鸭庶几就差不多了——苏比心想,再来一瓶夏布利白葡萄酒,接着再要一块卡门贝干酪,一小杯浓咖啡和一支雪茄。雪茄抽一美元一支的也就够了。总额不宜太高,免得招来咖啡馆管理人员过于厉害的报复;然而,那些肉会确保他在奔向冬季避难所的旅程中有一个饱足的肚子和愉快的心情。

      可是,苏比的脚刚踏进餐馆的门,侍者领班的眼睛便落到了他那磨坏了的裤子和破烂的鞋子上。几只强壮迅捷的手将他推了个转身,急速而悄无声息地押送到了人行道上,使那只受到威胁的野鸭逃过了一劫。

      苏比离开了百老汇大道。看来他通向这个梦寐以求的岛屿的路将不是一条享乐之道。要进监狱必须另想办法。

      在第六大道的一个拐角处,明亮的灯光和平板玻璃背后巧妙陈设的商品使橱窗显得十分醒目,苏比捡起一块鹅卵石砸向玻璃。拐角周围的人们纷纷跑过来,跑在最前头的是一位警察。苏比一动不动地站着,两手插在口袋里,一看见黄铜纽扣就露出了微笑。

      “肇事的家伙在哪里?”警察激动地问道。

      “你不觉得这件事可能和我有点关系吗?”苏比不无挖苦、但却友好地说道,那口吻活像一个交了好运的人。

      可警察甚至拒绝接受苏比作为一条破案的线索。砸碎窗玻璃的人是不会逗留在现场和法律的忠犬谈判的,他们早就逃之夭夭了。警察看见半个街段外有个男人跑着赶一辆车,便拔出警棍加入了追赶之列。

      心怀憎恶的苏比又向前游荡,已经两度失算了。

      在对面的街边有一家不张扬的餐馆,它专门迎合那些胃口大钱包小的人。它的碗碟粗厚,空气混浊,汤味淡如水,桌布薄似纸。苏比穿着他的那双烂鞋和泄密的裤子走进了这个地方,没有遇到什么挑战。他在一张餐桌前坐下来,吞吃了一堆牛排、烙饼、油炸圈饼和馅饼,然后便向侍者透露了事实:他和最小的钱币也无缘相识。

      “还不快去叫警察,”苏比说道,“别让大爷久等。”

      “用不着找警察,”声音腻得像奶油蛋糕,眼睛红似曼哈顿鸡尾酒中的樱桃的侍者说。“嗨,上!”

  
   两名侍者干净利索地将苏比抛掷到了坚硬无情的柏油路上,不偏不倚,左耳着地。苏比像木匠展开折尺一般挣扎着一寸一寸地站起来,然后拍掉衣服上的尘土。被捕好像只是一个绮色的梦,那个岛屿似乎很遥远、很遥远。隔两个门面的药店前站着的一个警察大笑着,顺街走去了。

      苏比一连走过了五个街口后,才重新找回了引诱警察来捕获的勇气。这一次机会所呈现的是他私心里愚蠢地称为“小菜一碟、铁板钉钉的事”。一位外表端庄而迷人的年轻女郎正站在橱窗前,兴致勃勃地凝望着陈列在其内的修面杯和墨水瓶架。而离橱窗两码远的地方有一位神态严峻的大个子警察倚靠在防火栓上。

      苏比的计划是扮成一个卑鄙下流、挨千刀的“调情者”的角色。他要下手的对象穿着考究雅致,近旁又有一位恪尽职守的警察,这足以让他相信,他很快就会在他的胳膊上感受到那只惬意的逮捕之手,从而确保自己在那个舒服的小岛上拥有今年冬天的安乐窝。

      苏比拉直了女传教士的那条打好的领带,拉出皱缩的袖口,把帽子歪斜了一个迷人的倾角,然后侧着身子向那个年轻女人挨过去。他对她挤眉弄眼,突然又是咳嗽,又是清嗓子,一会儿微笑,一会儿嘻嘻地傻笑,把“调情者”的种种厚颜无耻、下流可鄙的勾当都一一演绝了。苏比一眼就看出那个警察正死死地盯着他。年轻女人移动了几步,又全神贯注于那些修面杯了。苏比跟上去,大胆地走到她的身旁,举起帽子说:

      “嘿,贝德莉娅,你不想去我的院子玩玩吗?”
     

      警察依旧在旁观。被骚扰的年轻女郎只需招一招手指,苏比差不多就在奔往他的避难岛的路上了。他已经能在想象中感受到派出所里舒适的暖意了。年轻女人转过身来面对着他,然后伸出一只手抓住了苏比的外套袖子。

      “当然啦,迈克,”她欢喜地说道,“假如你愿意破费请我喝一桶啤酒的话。我本来早就跟你搭话了,可那个警察老是看着。”

      苏比无比沮丧地从警察边上走过,身上傍着那位像常春藤一般紧附着他这棵大橡树的年轻女人。他似乎注定了要享受自由。

      在下一个拐角处,他甩掉他的伴侣逃跑了。他跑到了那个夜夜都有最明亮的街道、最轻松的心情、最轻浮的誓言和最轻快的歌剧的地方停了下来。

      穿皮裘的女人和着长大衣的男人们在寒冷的空气中欢乐地走动着。一种突如其来的恐惧攫住了苏比的心:某种可怕的魔法使他永远地免于被捕了。随着这念头而来的是一点点恐慌。所以,当他瞥见另一个警察在灯火辉煌的剧院前煞有介事地晃荡时,他就拼命想抓住“扰乱治安”这根当下的救命稻草。

      苏比在人行道上扯开了他的破嗓子,开始发酒疯似地叫嚷各种胡言乱语。他蹦跳着,嚎叫着,咆哮着,以不同的方式扰乱着苍穹。

      警察捻转了一下他的警棍,转过身去背对着苏比,向一位市民解释说:

      “这是耶鲁大学的一个小子在庆祝他们球队给哈特福德学院吃的零蛋。吵是吵了点,但没有什么伤害。我们有上级的指示,随他们闹去。”  

      郁闷之极的苏比停止了徒劳的吵闹。难道警察永远不会对他下手吗?在他的幻想中,那个岛屿似乎变成了一个不可企及的世外桃源。他扣紧他的薄外套抵御凛冽的寒风。

      在一家雪茄店里,苏比看见一位衣冠楚楚的男子正对着摇摆的火苗点雪茄。在他进去的时候他顺手将一把绸伞搁在了门边。苏比踏步进去,拿起伞又慢悠悠地走出来。点雪茄的男子慌忙跟了出来。

     “那是我的伞,”他严厉地说道。

      “哦,是吗?”苏比讥讽说,这分明是在轻盗窃罪之上再加上侮辱。“那你为什么不叫警察?我是拿了你的伞!怎么了?你为什么不叫警察?拐角那儿就站着一个。”

      伞的主人放慢了步子,苏比也跟着慢了下来,他预感到这一次命运又要和他作对。警察好奇地看着他们俩。

      “当然,”伞的主人说道,“那是……这个,你知道这些个误会是怎么发生的……我……倘若它是你的伞,希望你能见谅……这是我今天早上在一家餐馆捡的……倘若你认出是你的,那个……我希望你能……”

       “当然是我的,”苏比恶狠狠地说。

      伞的前主人退却了。警察则急忙赶去帮助一个身披夜礼服斗篷的高个子金发女郎过马路,以免被正从两个街区外逼近过来的有轨电车撞到。

      苏比向东走去,穿过一条因为翻修被破坏得不成样子的街道。他忿怒地将那把伞掷进了一个坑里。他咕哝着抱怨那些头戴钢盔、手持棍棒的家伙。因为他想遭他们的毒手,而他们却似乎把他当作永远不会犯错的国王。

      最后苏比到达了东侧的一条大道,这里的灯光相对暗淡些,也不那么嘈杂。他顺着这街道向麦迪逊广场的方向眺望,因为即使当“家”不过是公园里的一条长凳,回家的本能也还是存在的。

      可是在一个异常宁静的拐角处,苏比停住了。这里有一座很老的教堂,它那有山形墙的建筑显得杂乱而又古怪。柔和的灯光透过一扇染了紫色的玻璃窗映射出来,大概是风琴师在里面轻松地按着琴键,确保自己熟练掌握下个礼拜天的赞美诗。悦耳的音乐飘进了苏比的耳朵,吸引住了他,将他钉在了盘旋的铁栅栏上。

      天上一轮皓月光亮而宁静;车辆和行人都很少;麻雀在屋檐下困倦地啁啾——这一刻,苏比仿佛置身于某个乡下的教堂墓地。风琴师弹奏的赞美诗把苏比紧粘在了铁栅栏上,因为在那遥远的昔日,当他的生活里有母亲、玫瑰、抱负、朋友、纯洁无邪的思想和洁净无垢的衣领这些东西时,他曾经非常熟悉这首赞美诗。

      苏比此时易感的心情同这个古老教堂周围的感化力两者的结合,使他的灵魂突然产生了一种奇妙的变化。他一下子惊骇地看清了自己所坠入的深渊,堕落的日子、卑劣的欲念、死灭的希望、毁掉的才能和卑鄙的动机——这些就构成了他现在的生活。

      他的心灵当即热烈响应了这种新奇的情绪。一种瞬时产生的强烈冲动激励他去和绝望的命运抗争。他要把自己拖出泥潭,他要重新堂堂正正地做人,他要战胜那已经控制了自己的邪恶。现在还来得及,他还相当年轻。他要复活当年那些热切的雄心,毫不动摇地去追求它们。管风琴奏出的庄重但却甜美的音符在他的内心深处引发了一场革命。明天,他要到生意兴隆的闹市区去找工作。一个皮货进口商曾经请他当司机。明天他要找到他,请求得到这个职位,他要成为社会上有头有脸的人物,他要……

      可就在这时,苏比感到有一只手按住了他的胳膊。他迅速地转过身去看,迎面撞见一张警察的宽脸。

      “你在这儿干什么?”警察问道。

      “什么也没干啊,”苏比说。

      “那就跟我来,”警察说。

      “三个月岛上监禁。”第二天早晨,违警罪法庭的治安官宣判道。





    

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       分类:             国芳多语对照文库 >> 英语-汉语 >> 欧·亨利 >> 短篇小说      
    Categories:  Xie's Multilingual Corpus >> English-Chinese >> O. Henry >> Short Novel                                                  
    

 

 



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