大学英语二医用教材赵贵旺Unit13Word文档格式.docx

大学英语二医用教材赵贵旺Unit13Word文档格式.docx

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relatives 

worshiped, 

a 

small 

cemetery 

tells 

other 

stories. 

Pausing 

to 

read 

gravestones 

dating 

back 

1800s, 

names 

inscriptions 

dulled 

by 

elements, 

visitors 

awed 

this 

silent 

community 

former 

residents 

who 

played 

varying 

roles 

in 

shaping 

town.

Sometimes 

such 

pilgrimages 

are 

bittersweet. 

One 

woman 

New 

York 

describes 

her 

sadness 

discovering 

that 

favorite 

cherry 

tree 

grandparents'

yard 

is 

gone, 

grandfather'

s 

carpentry 

shop 

basement 

has 

been 

turned 

into 

studio 

apartment. 

A 

man 

Jersey 

laments 

loss 

his 

garden, 

now 

paved 

concrete.

Neglect 

also 

take 

its 

toll. 

My 

father 

I 

once 

visited 

beautifully 

maintained 

house 

he 

was 

born. 

But 

elation 

over 

pristine 

condition 

at 

next 

stop, 

dairy 

farm 

belonged 

grandparents. 

The 

barns 

looked 

derelict, 

badly 

need 

paint 

repairs. 

Never 

again, 

vowed, 

would 

go 

back. 

Some 

beloved 

memories 

best 

left 

unchanged.

Tracing 

family 

roots 

on 

paper, 

through 

documents, 

letters, 

diaries, 

brings 

many 

rewards. 

actually 

walking 

footsteps 

earlier 

generations 

adds 

powerful 

new 

dimension 

– 

sense 

place.

foreign 

country:

They 

do 

things 

differently 

there,"

observed 

British 

novelist 

L.P. 

Hartley. 

Those 

differences 

make 

case 

for 

visiting 

past.

Several 

years 

ago 

Christine 

Louise 

Hohlbaum, 

an 

American 

living 

Paunzhausen, 

Germany, 

went 

with 

Long 

Island, 

N.Y., 

see 

owned 

great-aunt. 

As 

they 

walked 

grounds, 

she 

says, 

felt 

overwhelming"

history. 

It 

if 

were 

convening 

essence 

family. 

This 

real 

live 

place 

important 

events 

happened."

vacationers 

own 

long-ago 

places"

summer, 

some 

might 

agree 

Thomas 

Wolfe 

you 

can'

t 

home 

least 

not 

permanently. 

hour, 

or 

even 

15 

minutes. 

And 

chances 

good 

you'

ll 

richer 

it.Unit2

Ithadbeenalonglongyear--thelastyearofmysonAdrian’sbrieflife.ThejourneyupbytraintoLondon’sWaterlooStationhadbecomealmostroutine.Thenthe25-minutewalkacrossWaterlooBridgeandontoTheHospitalforSickChildren,GreatOrmondStreet.Thewalktothehospitalwasnotwithoutenjoyment,foriwaseagertoseemysonagainandbuoyedupbythesomehowindestructiblehopethattoday,bysomemiracle,hewouldberecovering.

Butthereturntotherailwaystationintheeveningwasdevastating.Onceagain,nomiracle.Someeveningsitbecame,astheFrenchsay,insupportable.

Afterputtingmylittlesontobedintheward,hearinghisprayersandholdinghiminmyarmswhilehefellasleep,iusuallyhadplentyoftimetomakemywaytothestation.IfrequentlypausedonthebridgespanningtheRiverThamestowatchthebroadriverflowingalongonitsnever-endingjourneytothesea.

Oneeveningigazed,hypnotizedalmost,intotheblack,oilywaterandwasnotimmediatelyawarethatawomanhadjoinedme.Ilookedupandsawher;

shewasstandingquiteclose.Ihadseenherbeforeintheshadowsontheoppositesideofthestreetandhadrecognized,withoutgivingthemattermuchthought,thatshewas,almostcertainly,ofthesisterhoodeuphemisticallyreferredtoas“ladiesoftheevening.”

“Evenin’,Guv’or,”shesaid.

“Goodevening,”ireplied,alittlediscomfitedbyherpresenceandunsureforherintentions.

ShelookedawayfrommeandgazedintotheThames.“YoubeentotheChildren’s,”shesaid.Itwasastatementratherthanaquestion.

“Yes,ihave,”itoldher,abitbewilderedbyherinterest.“Mylittlesonisapatienthere.”

“Bad,ain’the?

”shesaid.

“Yes,i’mafraidheis,”ireplied.Andagain,asmuchtomyselfastoher,”i‘mverymuchafraidheis.”

Shereachedoutandtouchedmyarm.Icouldseetearsinhereyes.“I‘msorry,Guv,”shesaidsoftly.Thenshewithdrewherhandquickly,turnedandwalkedaway.Ithoughtabouttheencounterallthewayhomeandfeltstrangelyheartenedbyit.

Foethenextfewmonths,iregularlymademywaytoandfromthehospital,myemotionsalternatingwildlybetweenunreasoninghopeandcompletedespair.Oftenshewouldjoinmeonthebridge.

“’Owis’e,then?

”shewouldenquire.“Anythingdifferent?

’E’sinMr.Punchward,ain’t‘e?

”

“Heis,”iagreed,wonderinghowsheknew.“There’snochange.”

SheneveraskedmynamebutinvitedmetocallherRosie.“That’swhatmyfriendscallme.”

“Myson’snameisAdrian,Rosie,”itoldher.“He’squiteblondwithgreyeyes,andhe’salmostfouryearsold.”

Shenoddedandsaidnothing.

IcametorelyontheseencounterstoaremarkabledegreeandoneeveninggaveherasmallpictureofAdrian,aduplicateofoneicarriedinmywallet.Iwroteonthebackofit:

“Thankyou,Rosie.”Shelookedatitforalongmomentbeforewrappingitinherhandkerchiefandputtingitcarefullyinherhandbag.

Then,finally,thetelephonecallcamefromthehospital:

“Ithinkyouhadbettercomeatonce.”

Helookedsosmalllyingthere,hiegreyeyesfixedearnestlyonmine.Ileanedoverandwipedtheperspirationfromhisforehead.

“Daddy,whyareyoucrying?

Daddy,i’mfrightened.Oh,Daddy,isitgoingtobeallright?

“Yes,darling,Daddy’shere.It’sgoingtobeallright.”

Thetinyhandclaspedinminerelaxeditsgrip.

Whenitwasover,thetwocompassionatenurseputtheirarmsroundmyshouldersandledmeaway.IwentoutintotheLondonstreets--anditwasnight.

Thefollowingevening,aftertakingcareofnecessarybusinessatthehospital,istoppedonthebridgeandleanedovertherailings,gazing,unseeing,intothewater,tryingtogetagriponmyself.Wheniturned,Rosiewasstandingbesideme.Shetouchedmegentlyonthearm,justasshehadthefirsttimewemet.

“Ere,”shesaid,profferingmesomethingwrappedintissuepaper.“They’reforhim.You’llputthemonhisgraveforme,won’tyou?

”Thrustingatinybouquetoflilyofthevalleyintomyhand,shemadeasortofchokingsound,turnedandran.

Amassofwreathscoveredthegrave.Inthecentreoftheprofusionoffloraltributesthetinybunchoflilyofthevalleycontrastedsharplywiththevividroses,daffodils,tulipsandanemonesthatsurroundedit.

ItimedmyreturnfrommyfinalvisitstothehospitalvicinitysothatiwouldpassbyWaterlooBridgeratherlateintheevening.IwantedtotellRosiethatihavedeliveredherflowers.Butisawnothingofher.Icouldnotimaginewhathadhappenedtoher.

Summoningupmycourage,imademywaytothenearestpolicestation,notmanyblocksdistant.WiththeunfailingcourtesyandgenuinehelpfulnessoftheBritishpoliceman,anofficerlistenedtomystoryoflookingforafriend.Heeyedmeabitquizzically.

“Yes,sir,iamalmostsureiknowtowhomyourefer,”heassuredme.“ShewasregularlyinthevicinityofWaterlooBridge.Herregular‘beat,’youmightsay.HernamewasRosie,wasn’tit?

“Yes,yes,”isaid.“That’sthepersoni’mlookingfor.”

“I’msorry,sir,”hetoldmequietly.“Thepersoninquestionisdead.Wefoundherinthestreetseveralnightsago.Apparentlyaheartattack.”

“Didshehaveanyrelatives,anyfamily?

”iasked.

“No,sir,i’msorry,”thepolicemansaid.“Wewentthroughherhandbag,buttherewasnoidentificationofanykind.Cosmetics,matches,cigarettes,handkerchief,acoupleofpictures.Thatwasall.”

“Doyoustillhaveherhandbag?

”Iasked.“Woulditbepossibleformetoseeit--tolookintoit?

Theofficerhesitated.“Well,sir,that’sratheranunusualrequest.”

“Lookconstable,”icontinued,takingoutmywalletandwithdrawingthepictureofmysonfromit.“Thisismyson.Ifthepersonyoufoundisreallytheoneiamlookingfor,therewillbeanidenticalpictureinherhandbag.”

“Justamoment,sir,”theofficersaidandretreatedtoaninneroffice.Withinminuteshereturned,carryingabrownhandbagwithalargecardattached,evidentlyalistingofthecontents.Helookedalittlealittleexcited.

“Yes,sir,”heassuredme,runninghisfingerdownthelistonthecard.“Therearetwosnapshotshere.”

Heopenedthehandbagandpassedmetwophotographs.Onewasareplicaofthepictureiheldinmyhand.Iturneditoverandreadinmyownhandwriting:

“Thankyou,Rosie.”theotherpicturewasofasmall,dark-hairedgirl.

Ihadonemoreplacetogo.ThefollowingdayitookatraintoLondonandmademywaytothechildren’shospital.IrecalledRosiementioningthatshehadafriend“Ben,”whowasaporteratthehospital.Ienquiredattheporters’lodge.Amiddle-agedmanwithakindlyfacecameforward.

“Yes,indeed,”heassuredme.“IknewRosie.Sheusedtocallbyregularly,youknow,andenquireaboutyourboy.Iusedtogetareportforherfromthewardabouthim.”

“Shewasn’talwaysinthelineofbusinessshewasinwhenyoumether,youknow,”Bencontinued.“Sheusedtobeawaitress.Itwasaftershelosthergirlshewentonthestreet.Thelittlediedinhere,youknow,sixyearsold.Itwasaboutayearago.That’swhenifirstmetRosie--sheusedtocomehereandvisitBerda.Thatwasthechild’sname.Afterthelittleonedied,Rosieneverwentbacktothewaitressjob.”

“Ben,canyoutellmewhereRosieisburied?

“No,Guv,ican’t.Buticantellyouwherethechildlies.RosieusedtogothereeverySundayafternoonandcutthegrassandtakeflowers.Iwentwithheratimeortwo.”

Ikneltbesidethetinymound.Lackingshears,itriedtopullthelongestgrass,growinglankandweedynow,withmyhands.Ifilledthebluevase