Try to translate the following into Chinese . 1.To my mind, to be able to make your work your pleasure is the one class distinction in the world worth striving for; and I do not wonder that others are inclined to envy those happy human beings who find their livelihood in the gay effusions of their fancy.

Art for Heart’s Sake Keith Koppel, private duty nurse to the extraordinarily wealthy Collis P. Ellsworth, was glad to leave his patient’s room to answer the door. He had had a tiring morning trying to get Ellsworth to cooperate in his own recovery. As soon as Koppel discovered that the caller was Ellsworth’s doctor, he began to complain. “I can’t do a thing with him,” he told Dr.Caswell. “He won’t take his juice. He doesn’t want me to read to him. He hates listening to the radio or watching TV. He doesn’t like anything.” Actually, he did like something: his business. The problem was that while he was still a fabulously wealthy man, he had recently begun to make big mistakes. He insisted on buying companies at very high prices, only to watch them fail or go bankrupt. Ellsworth was in pretty good shape for a 76-year-old , but his business failures were ruinous to his health. He had suffered his last. Heart attack after his disastrous purchase of a small railroad in Iowa. The health problem he suffered before that came about because of excitement over the failure of a chain of grocery stores, stores which he had purchases had to be liquidated at a great sacrifice to both his pocketbook and his health. They were beginning to have serious effects. Dr. Caswell had done his homework, however. He realized that he needed to interest the old man in something which would take his mind off his problem and redirect his energies. His answer was art. The doctor entered his patient’s room. “I hear that you haven’t been obeying orders,” the doctor said. “Who’s giving me orders at my time of life?” The doctor drew up his chair and sat down close to the old man. “I’ve got a suggestion for you,” he said quietly. Old Ellsworth looked suspiciously over his eyeglasses. “What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides, more foolishness to keep me away form my office? “How would you like to take up art?” The doctor had his stethoscope ready in case the suddenness of the suggestion proved too much for the patient’s heart. But the old man’s answer was a strong “foolishness!” ‘I don’t mean seriously,” said the doctor, relieved that nothing had happened. “Just play around with chald and crayons. It’ll be fun.” But after several more scowls, which were met with gentle persuasion by the wise doctor, Ellsworth gave in. he would, at least, try it for a while. Caswell went to his friend Judson Livingston, head of the Atlantic Art Institute, and explained the situation. Livingston introduced Frank Swain. Swain was an 18-year-old art student, quite good; who needed money to continue his education. He would tutor Ellsworth one afternoon a week for ten dollars an hour. Their first lesson was on the next afternoon. It was less than an overwhelming success. Swain began by arranging some paper and crayons on the table. “Let’s try to draw that vase over there,” he suggested. “What for?” It’s only a bowl with some blue stains on it. Or are they green?” “Try it, Mr. Ellsworth, please.” “Umph!” The old man took a piece of crayon in a shaky hand and drew several lines. He drew several more and then connected these crudely. “There it is, young man,” he said with a tone of satisfaction. “Such foolishness!” Frank Swain was patient. He needed the ten dollars. “If you want to draw, you will have to look at what you’re drawing, sir.” Ellsworth looked. “Gosh, it’s rather pretty. I never noticed it before.” Koppel came in with the announcement that his patient had done enough for the first lesson. “Oh, it’s pineapple juice again,” Ellsworth said. Swain left, not sure if he would be invited back. When the art student came the following week, there was a drawing on the table that had a slight resemblance to a vase. The wrinkles deepened at the corners of the old gentleman’s eyes as he asked. “Well, what do you think of it?” “Not bad, sir,” answered Swain. “But it’s not quite straight.” “Gosh,” old Ellsworth smiled, “I see. The halves don’t match.” He added a few lines with a shaking hand and colored the open spaces blue, like a child playing with a picture book. Then he looked towards the door. “Listen, young man,” he whispered, “I want to ask you something before old Pineapple Juice comes back.” “Yes, sir,” answered Swain politely. “I was thinking--- do you have the time to come twice a week, or perhaps three times?” As the weeks went by, Swain’s visits grew more frequent. When Dr. Caswell called, Ellsworth would talk about the graceful lines of the chimney or the rich variety of color in a bowl of fruit. The treatment was working perfectly. No more trips downtown to his office for the purpose of buying some business that was to fail later. No more crazy financial plans to try the strength of his tired old heart. Art was a complete cure for him. The doctor thought it safe to allow Ellsworth to visit the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and other exhibitions with Swain. An entirely new word opened up its mysteries to him. The old man showed a tremendous curiosity in the art galleries and in the painters who exhibited in them. How were the galleries run? Who selected the pictures for the exhibitions? An idea was forming in is brain. When the late spring began to cover the fields and gardens with color, Ellsworth painted a simply horrible picture which he called “Trees Dressed in White”. Then he made a surprising announcement. He was going to exhibit the picture in the summer show at the Lathrop Gallery. The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest art exhibition of the year---in quality, if not in size. The lifetime dream of every important artist in the United States was a prize from this exhibition. Among the paintings of this distinguished group of artists, Ellsworth was now going to place his “Trees Dressed in White”, which resembled a handful of salad dressing thrown violently against the side of a house. “If the newspapers hear about this, everyone in town will be laughing at Mr. Ellsworth. We’ve got to stop him,” said Koppel. “No,” warned the doctor. “We can’t interfere with him now and take a chance of running down all the good work which we have done.” To the complete surprise of al three--- and especially Swain--- “Trees Dressed in White” was accepted for the Lathrop show. Not only was Mr. Ellsworth crazy, thought Koppel, but the Lathrop Gallery was crazy, too. Fortunately, the painting was hung in an inconspicuous place, where it did not draw any special notice or comment. During the curse of the exhibition, the old man kept on taking lessons, seldom mentioning his picture. He was unusually cheerful. Every time Swain entered the room, he found Ellsworth laughing to himself. Maybe Koppel was right. The old man was crazy. But it seemed equally strange that the Lathrop committee should encourage his craziness by accepting his picture. Two days before the close of the exhibition, a special messenger brought a long, official-looking envelope to Mr. Ellsworth while Swain, Koppel, and the doctor were in the room. “Read it to me,” said the old man. “My eyes are tired from painting.” It gives the Lathrop Gallery great pleasure to announce that the First Prize of $1000 has been awarded to Collis P. Ellsworth for his painting “Trees Dressed in White”. Swain and Koppel were so surprised that they could not say a word. Dr. Caswell, exercising his professional self-control with a supreme effort, I didn’t expect such great news. But, but---wel l, now, you’ll have to admit that art is much more satisfying than business.” “Art has nothing to do with it,” said the old man sharply. “I bought the Lathrop Gallery last month.” 　6.How often did Ellsworth want Swain to come?

The Luncheon I caught sight of her at the play and in answer to her beckoning I went over during the interval and sat down beside her. It was long since I had last seen her and if someone had not mentioned her name I hardly think I would have recognized her. She addressed me brightly. “Well ,it’s many years since we first met. How time does fly! We’re none of us getting any younger. Do you remember the first time o saw you? You asked me to luncheon . Did I remember ? It was twenty years ago and I was living in Paris. I had a tiny apartment in the Laatin Quarter overlooking a cemetery and I was earning barely enough money to keep body and soul together. She had read a book of mein and had written to me about it . I answered, thanking her, and presently I received form her another letter saying that she was passing through Paris and would like to have a chat with me; but her time was limited and the only free moment she had was on the following Thursday; she was spending the morning at the Luxembourg and would I give her a little luncheon at Foyot’s afterwards? Foyot’s is a restaurant at which the French senators eat and it was so far beyond my means that I had never even thought of going here. But I was flattered and I was too young to have learned to say no to a woman.(Few men, I may add, learn this until they are too old to make it of any consequence to a woman that they say. ) I had eight francs (gold francs) to last me the rest of the month, and a modest luncheon should not cost more than fifteen. If I cut out coffee for the next two weeks I could manage well enough. I answered that I would meet my friend –by correspondence –at Foyot’s on Thursday at half past twelve. She was not so young as I expected and in appearance imposing rather than attractive. She was, in fact, a woman of forty (a charming age, but not one that excites a sudden and devastating passion at first sight), and she gave me the impression of having more teeth, white and large and even, than were necessary for any practical purpose. She was talkative, but since she seemed inclined to talk about me I was prepared to be an attentive listener. I was startled when the bill of fare was brought, for the prices were a great deal higher than I had anticipated. But she reassured me. “I never eat anything for luncheon,” she said. “Oh, don’t say that!” I answered generously. “I never eat more than one thing. I think people eat far too much nowadays. A little fish, perhaps. I wonder if they have any salmon.” Well, it was early in the year for salmon and it was not on the bill of fare, but I asked the waiter if there was any. Yes ,a beautiful salmon had just come in, it was the first they had had, I ordered it for my guest. The waiter asked her if she would have something while it was being cooked. “No,” she answered, “I never eat more than one thing. Unless you had a little caviare.” My heart sank a little. I knew I could not afford caviare, but I could not very well tell her that. I told the waiter by all means to bring caviare. For myself I chose the cheapest dish on the menu and that was mutton chop. “I think you are unwise to eat meat,” she siak. “I don; t know how you can expect to work after eating heavy things like chops. I don’t believe in overloading my stomach.” Then came the question of drink. “I never drink anything for luncheon,” she said. “Neither do I ,”I answered promptly. “Except white wine,” she proceeded as though I had not spoken. “These French white wines are so light. They’re wonderful for the digestion .” “What would you like ?”I asked ,hospitable still, but not exactly effusive. She gave me a bright and amicable flash of her white teeth. “My doctor won’t let me drink anything but champagne .” I fancy I turned a trifle pale. I ordered half a bottle. I mentioned casually that my doctor had absolutely forbidden me to drink champagne. “What are you going to drink, the ?” “Water .” She ate the caviare and she ate salmon. She talked gaily of are and literature and music. But I wondered what the bill would come to. When my mutton chop arrived she took me quite seriously to task. “I see that you’re in the habit of eating a heavy luncheon. I’m sure it’s a mistake. Why don’t you follow my example and just eat one thing?” I’m sure you’d feel ever so much better for it.” “I am only going to eat one thing,” I said, as the waiter came again with the bill of fare. She waved him aside with an airy gesture. “No, no. I never eat anything for luncheon. Just a bite, I never want more than that, and I eat that more as an excuse for conversation than anything else. I couldn’t possibly eat anything more unless they had some of those giant asparagus. I should be sorry to leave Paris without having some of them.” My heart sank. I had seen them in the shops and I knew that they were horribly expensive. My mouth had often watered at the sight of them. “Madame wants to know if you have any of those giant asparagus .”I asked the waiter. I tried with all my might to will him to say no. A happy smile spread over his broad, priest-like face, and he assured me that they had some so large, so splendid, so tender, that it was a marvel. “I’m not in the least hungry ,” my guest sighed, “but if you insist I don’t mind having some asparagus .” I ordered them. “Aren’t you going to have any?” “No ,I never eat asparagus.” “I know there are people who don’t like them. The fact is ,you ruin your palate by all the meat you eat.” We waited for the asparagus to be cooked. Panic seized me. It was not a question now how much money I should have left over for the rest of the month, but whether I had enough to pay the bill. It would be mortifying to find myself ten francs short and be obliged to borrow from my guest. I could not bring myself to do that. I knew exactly how much I had, and if the bill came to more I made up my mind that I would put my hand in my pocket and with a dramatic cry start up and say it had been picked. Of course it would be awkward if she had not money enough either to pay the bill. Then the only thing would be to leave my watch and say I would come back and pay later. The asparagus appeared. They were enormous, succulent and appetizing. The smell of the melted butter tickled my nostrils as the nostrils of Jehovah were tickled by the burned offerings of the virtuous Semites. I watched the abandoned woman thrust them down her throat in large voluptuous mouthfuls and my polite way I discoursed on the condition of the drama in the Balkans. At last the finished. “Coffee ?”I said. “Yes, just an ice-cream and coffee ,”she answered. I was past caring now, so I ordered coffee for myself and an ice-cream and coffee for her. “You know, there’s one thing I thoroughly believe in ,” she said ,as she ate the ice-cream. “One should always get up from a meal feeling one could cat a little more.” “Are you still hungry ?” is asked faintly. “Oh, no, I’m not hungry; you see, I don’t eat luncheon. I have a cup of coffee in the morning and then dinner, but I never eat more than one thing for luncheon. I was speaking for you .” Then a terrible thing happened. While we were waiting for the coffee, the head waiter, with an ingratiating smile on his false face, came up to us bearing a large basket full of huge peaches. They had the blush of an innocent girl; they had the rich tone of an Italian landscape. But surely peaches were not in season then? Lord knew what they cost. I knew too –a little later, for my guest, going on with her conversation, absentmindedly took one . “You see, you’ve filled your stomach with a lot of meat”—my one miserable little chop—“and you can’t eat any more. But I’ve just had a snack and I enjoy a peach .” The bill came and when I paid it I found that I had only enough for quite inadequate tip. Her eyes rested for an instant on the three francs I left for the waiter and I knew that she though me mean. But when I walked out of the restaurant I had the whole month before me and not a penny in my pocket. “Follow my example,” she said as we shook hands, “and never eat more than one thing for luncheon .” “I’ll do better than that ,” I retorted. “I’ll eat nothing for dinner tonight .” “Humorist!” she cried gaily, jumping into a cab. “You’re quite a humorist !” But I have had my revenge at last. I do not believe that I am a vindictive man, but when the immortal gods take a hand in the matter it is pardonable to observe the result with complacency. Today she weighs twenty-one stone. 1. The Luncheon describes the hilarious （令人发笑的） meeting of an impoverished writer and a friend with an appetite. Give a brief description of the embarrassing situation where this writer was involved. Did he ever take revenge on his woman friend? What led him to think that he had had his revenge at last?

Try to translate the following into Chinese . 3.No chains can bind, no poverty can choke, no tariff can restrict the free play of his mind, and even the “Times” Book Club can only exert a moderately depressing influence upon his rewards.

Try to translate the following into Chinese . 1.He loved to make the crooked straight, to crush down the uneven places in life.

Try to translate the following into Chinese . 7.We are now prepared to look briefly at the Constitution itself. What are its leading principles? What are its leading provisions?

Art for Heart’s Sake Keith Koppel, private duty nurse to the extraordinarily wealthy Collis P. Ellsworth, was glad to leave his patient’s room to answer the door. He had had a tiring morning trying to get Ellsworth to cooperate in his own recovery. As soon as Koppel discovered that the caller was Ellsworth’s doctor, he began to complain. “I can’t do a thing with him,” he told Dr.Caswell. “He won’t take his juice. He doesn’t want me to read to him. He hates listening to the radio or watching TV. He doesn’t like anything.” Actually, he did like something: his business. The problem was that while he was still a fabulously wealthy man, he had recently begun to make big mistakes. He insisted on buying companies at very high prices, only to watch them fail or go bankrupt. Ellsworth was in pretty good shape for a 76-year-old , but his business failures were ruinous to his health. He had suffered his last. Heart attack after his disastrous purchase of a small railroad in Iowa. The health problem he suffered before that came about because of excitement over the failure of a chain of grocery stores, stores which he had purchases had to be liquidated at a great sacrifice to both his pocketbook and his health. They were beginning to have serious effects. Dr. Caswell had done his homework, however. He realized that he needed to interest the old man in something which would take his mind off his problem and redirect his energies. His answer was art. The doctor entered his patient’s room. “I hear that you haven’t been obeying orders,” the doctor said. “Who’s giving me orders at my time of life?” The doctor drew up his chair and sat down close to the old man. “I’ve got a suggestion for you,” he said quietly. Old Ellsworth looked suspiciously over his eyeglasses. “What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides, more foolishness to keep me away form my office? “How would you like to take up art?” The doctor had his stethoscope ready in case the suddenness of the suggestion proved too much for the patient’s heart. But the old man’s answer was a strong “foolishness!” ‘I don’t mean seriously,” said the doctor, relieved that nothing had happened. “Just play around with chald and crayons. It’ll be fun.” But after several more scowls, which were met with gentle persuasion by the wise doctor, Ellsworth gave in. he would, at least, try it for a while. Caswell went to his friend Judson Livingston, head of the Atlantic Art Institute, and explained the situation. Livingston introduced Frank Swain. Swain was an 18-year-old art student, quite good; who needed money to continue his education. He would tutor Ellsworth one afternoon a week for ten dollars an hour. Their first lesson was on the next afternoon. It was less than an overwhelming success. Swain began by arranging some paper and crayons on the table. “Let’s try to draw that vase over there,” he suggested. “What for?” It’s only a bowl with some blue stains on it. Or are they green?” “Try it, Mr. Ellsworth, please.” “Umph!” The old man took a piece of crayon in a shaky hand and drew several lines. He drew several more and then connected these crudely. “There it is, young man,” he said with a tone of satisfaction. “Such foolishness!” Frank Swain was patient. He needed the ten dollars. “If you want to draw, you will have to look at what you’re drawing, sir.” Ellsworth looked. “Gosh, it’s rather pretty. I never noticed it before.” Koppel came in with the announcement that his patient had done enough for the first lesson. “Oh, it’s pineapple juice again,” Ellsworth said. Swain left, not sure if he would be invited back. When the art student came the following week, there was a drawing on the table that had a slight resemblance to a vase. The wrinkles deepened at the corners of the old gentleman’s eyes as he asked. “Well, what do you think of it?” “Not bad, sir,” answered Swain. “But it’s not quite straight.” “Gosh,” old Ellsworth smiled, “I see. The halves don’t match.” He added a few lines with a shaking hand and colored the open spaces blue, like a child playing with a picture book. Then he looked towards the door. “Listen, young man,” he whispered, “I want to ask you something before old Pineapple Juice comes back.” “Yes, sir,” answered Swain politely. “I was thinking--- do you have the time to come twice a week, or perhaps three times?” As the weeks went by, Swain’s visits grew more frequent. When Dr. Caswell called, Ellsworth would talk about the graceful lines of the chimney or the rich variety of color in a bowl of fruit. The treatment was working perfectly. No more trips downtown to his office for the purpose of buying some business that was to fail later. No more crazy financial plans to try the strength of his tired old heart. Art was a complete cure for him. The doctor thought it safe to allow Ellsworth to visit the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and other exhibitions with Swain. An entirely new word opened up its mysteries to him. The old man showed a tremendous curiosity in the art galleries and in the painters who exhibited in them. How were the galleries run? Who selected the pictures for the exhibitions? An idea was forming in is brain. When the late spring began to cover the fields and gardens with color, Ellsworth painted a simply horrible picture which he called “Trees Dressed in White”. Then he made a surprising announcement. He was going to exhibit the picture in the summer show at the Lathrop Gallery. The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest art exhibition of the year---in quality, if not in size. The lifetime dream of every important artist in the United States was a prize from this exhibition. Among the paintings of this distinguished group of artists, Ellsworth was now going to place his “Trees Dressed in White”, which resembled a handful of salad dressing thrown violently against the side of a house. “If the newspapers hear about this, everyone in town will be laughing at Mr. Ellsworth. We’ve got to stop him,” said Koppel. “No,” warned the doctor. “We can’t interfere with him now and take a chance of running down all the good work which we have done.” To the complete surprise of al three--- and especially Swain--- “Trees Dressed in White” was accepted for the Lathrop show. Not only was Mr. Ellsworth crazy, thought Koppel, but the Lathrop Gallery was crazy, too. Fortunately, the painting was hung in an inconspicuous place, where it did not draw any special notice or comment. During the curse of the exhibition, the old man kept on taking lessons, seldom mentioning his picture. He was unusually cheerful. Every time Swain entered the room, he found Ellsworth laughing to himself. Maybe Koppel was right. The old man was crazy. But it seemed equally strange that the Lathrop committee should encourage his craziness by accepting his picture. Two days before the close of the exhibition, a special messenger brought a long, official-looking envelope to Mr. Ellsworth while Swain, Koppel, and the doctor were in the room. “Read it to me,” said the old man. “My eyes are tired from painting.” It gives the Lathrop Gallery great pleasure to announce that the First Prize of $1000 has been awarded to Collis P. Ellsworth for his painting “Trees Dressed in White”. Swain and Koppel were so surprised that they could not say a word. Dr. Caswell, exercising his professional self-control with a supreme effort, I didn’t expect such great news. But, but---well, now, you’ll have to admit that art is much more satisfying than business.” “Art has nothing to do with it,” said the old man sharply. “I bought the Lathrop Gallery last month.” 7.What happened when Ellsworth began to visit museums and galleries?

Lady in the Dark From the other side of the road he saw the only lighted window on the third floor go black. His eyes came down to the big door, the entrance to the building. The light came warmly through there into the cold of the evening. After a little time a girl passed through the door, stopped at the top of the steps and pulled her coat close round her. He watched her come down the steps, turn to the left and disappear along the road. He had plenty of time. He knew that she would be gone for two hours. He knew a great many things. It wasn’t difficult to find out all you wanted to know so long as you took your time and were sensible. He crossed the road. He went past the main entrance, turned the corner of the building and went in at a side door. There was a staircase there used by the servants. He climbed up to the third floor. Then he pushed open a small door. He came out into a brightly lit passage. At the end of the passage there was a door; on a plate on the door he could read “Mrs. Walter Courtney.” He turned the handle and went in. that door was never locked when the servant was out: the old lady did not like to be locked in. if she rang for the doorman she didn’t want to have to come and open the door, not at her age, not in her condition. He knew exactly the arrangement of the rooms in the flat. Four months age the flat on the floor below was empty and he looked over it. He crossed the hall to the door of the sitting room. The window of this room looked out onto the street. He had seen its window when he watched, but it was not in this room that the light had gone out. The light had gone out in the servant’s room on the left. This room was dark. He went in and shut the door behind him. A voice said, “Who is that?” It was the first time he had heard her voice, and it was very much as he had expected, a thin old voice: she was over eighty years of age. It was the voice of a lady, of a proud woman who all her life had had wealth and an easy life, rich places---all the things that he had not had. That was why she spoke in that way---“Who are you, my man?” He said, “Never mind who I am, and don’t get alarmed: I’m not going to hurt you.” He went forward and sat down on a chair by the big desk. There was a certain amount of light in the room from the street outside, and he could see her sitting there on the other side of the desk. He could see her white hair and her straight back and the gold pin in her dress. She was holding up her hands a little and he saw that she had been knitting when he entered the room. “Well,” she said, “what do you want?” “I want the key to your safe.” “How dare you ask such a thing!” He felt the anger in him rise. This thing was so nearly done that he was eager to get it finished. He had lived with the thing for years, thinking it over. “I said that I wouldn’t hurt you, and I won’t. I just want your key. Your servant has gone out for two hours and there is nothing that you can do.” She moved forward a little in her chair and put her knitting down on the desk, but he noticed that one hand was still playing with a long knitting needle. Perhaps this was because she was a little bit afraid. Well, that suited him. He wanted her to be afraid. “I understand,” she said. “And, when you have the key, I suppose that you will take my jewels.” “That’s right,” he laughed. “They can give me a good life from now on.” “So you have not had what you call a ‘good life’ up to now?” “No, I have not.” “I see. You’re that sort of young man.” “How do you know I’m a young man?” She shook her head and her hand tapped on the soft paper lying in front of her on the desk. “I have been blind for twenty years, and that only makes it easier for me to tell some things. You have a young man’s voice and you’re angry. You have a lot of anger in you. You feel that you that you have no that the things which you have a right to have. And you are a fool to think that this is the way to get these things.” “Just give me the key. You can tell the police later that your jewels were taken by an angry young man that never went to a good school. It will be a great help to them in picking me out from about ten million others.” He pulled a case out of his pocket and lit a cigarette. “I want that key. If you won’t give it to me, I shall take it from that chain which you wear round your neck.” “Listen to me, young man.” There was sign of anger in her voice, and she tapped with her knitting needle on the desk calling him to order. “I do not mean to give the police a better description of you than you imagine. But, if you go now, I will forget this unpleasant visit.” “You don’t frighten me, and I’ve wasted enough time. Give me the key.” “Once more, for your own good, young man, listen to me. Go away at once. Go away and work for the things, which you want. Do you think that, because I am blind, I am helpless? Of course I’m not helpless. I know already a great deal about you, which would help the police if you take my jewels. You are a young man about 5 feet 10 inches in height. I can tell that from the way in which your voice comes down to me. You are wearing a bowler hat, a round hard hat, and you are wearing a raincoat. I can hear it as you move. I am glad to know that you had the politeness to take off your hat when you came into the room, but I have noticed that you keep on tapping the top of that hard hat as you hold it on your knee. You smoke: you are smoking some kind of American cigarette, certainly not an English cigarette. You did not ask me if you might smoke.” He laughed. “It’s still a description which would fit thousands and thousands of men in this country. Why do you want those jewels? You have plenty of money, and I haven’t; and I’m going to have some of the things which you’ve enjoyed all your life.” The old lady was silent for a moment, and then she said: “You want to take my jewels because they mean money. I have never looked at the in that way. To me they are memories. They all mean something in my life. If you think that I’ll give you the key to my safe so that you can walk out of here with my memories, you are very much mistaken.” He stood up. He had suddenly become angry. “You’re a silly old woman. What do I care about your memories, about your past, ‘each jewel a memory’.” He laughed. “Well, I’ll tell you what I think of your memories. There’s your husband’s gold watch and chain; and there’s a little curl of hair from your child in the back of that diamond pin. Memories are worth nothing to me, but jewels mean money, just that. That’s what they mean to me.” As he moved to go round the desk her hands shook with a rapid and angry-tap-tap-tap and she said, “Don’t you dare to come near me? Don’t you dare!” “Then give me the key.” “You fools, go away.” But he did not go away; he moved slowly round the desk and stood at her side. If it had to be that way, well that’s how it had to be! He had come too far, dreamt too long of this to back away now. Even so, there was something in him, which drew back at the thought of using force on such an old woman. She turned in her seat to face him. “Come on, give me the key,” he said. “You’ve got no choice.” He put out his cigarette and put the end of it carefully in his pocket. But she shook her head. “I will do nothing to help you, nothing.” He stepped towards her. He put out his hands and took her by the shoulder. She struck at his hand with a knitting needle. He caught her arms and held them with one hand, while his free hand went to her neck, searching for the chain. He pulled it free. It was then that he heard her give a little cry, and her body fell back from him pulling at the hand with which he held her arms. She was lying back in the chair. He let go of her arms: she made no move. He stood there for a moment undecided. She was an old lady. He’d never meant it this way. It couldn’t be true! She couldn’t be dead! She’d be all right in a few moments. He went to the wall and found the picture, which covered the safe. Nothing could be allowed to stop him now, not after all these weeks of work, listening to the servant talking to her friend in the café three miles from here where she went on her night off. He learnt that the safe was behind the picture, and that the key was on a chain round the old lady’s neck. He had done all that work to learn these things. He put the jewel cases in the pockets of his raincoat. When the safe was empty he went back to the old lady. He put his hand on her heart. It was true: she was dead. Well, what did it matter? He had what he wanted. She couldn’t tell the police the few little things that she had learned about him. Detective Inspector Burrows walked into Albert Munster & Son’ shop. It was a small but very good-class jeweler’s shop. When he was alone with Mr. Munster, Inspector Burrows said, “I believe that you did some work for a Mrs. Walter Courtney.” “Yes, that is so. Every two years her jewelry came here to be cleaned.” “How many people in this shop dealt with the stuff?” “There are only three of us here: myself, Mr. Brown and the man we have in the workshop who does the cleaning.” Burrows looked across at Mr. Munster. He was a very short fat man, more than sixty years of age. “No,” said Burrows. “No, I don’t think the description fits you.” “What description, Inspector?” “The description of the person who last night stole Mrs. Courtney’s jewels. She was found dead by her servant.” “Dead? What a terrible thing! Poor Mrs. Courtney. But---but, Inspector, what has this to do with us?” “You will see.” Burrows took a piece of paper out of his pocket. “What I want is a young man who did not go to one of the best schools. His height is about five feet ten inches. He smokes American cigarettes, and he wears a bowler hat and a raincoat, does that description fit Mr. Brown?” “No, no; he’s as old as I am, and he doesn’t smoke. The description fits young Greisens. He’s not a bad young fellow. He has been with me for about eight years.” He shook his head. “Dear me, dear me; Mrs. Courtney’s dead! I can’t believe it.” “Well, it’s true.” “What makes you think it is young Greisens?” “Mrs. Courtney lived alone with her servant. She had never worn the jewels since she went blind twenty years ago. The servant has never seen them. The jewels left her room once every two years to come here for cleaning. So she knew that the thief came from your shop.” “But how could she have told you? She’s dead, you say.” “She was a very brave old lady. She was blind, but not helpless. She knew how to deal with young Greisens. He came in to her, and I imagine there was some talk between them while she refused to hand over the key; and while they talked, unknown to him, she was making notes about him.” Burrows looked at the piece of paper and read: “Young man, not gentleman, height abut five feet ten inches, bowler hat, raincoat, American cigarette, angry, knows jewels well, Walter’s watch and chain, Edith’s hair in pin. Must be from Munster & Sons. Burrows put the paper back in his pocket. “Yet, she was no fool. The room was in darkness. She was blind. She wrote it all down on the nice soft piece of paper on her desk. She wrote it pushing the point of her knitting needed into the paper. Wrote it in pinholes, which you can arrange in sixty-three different ways. These can tell anything that a blind person wants to tell you. Braille. I think you had better send for young Greisens,” said the Inspector. “Tapping away! Just think of it! Tapping away with her knitting needle in the dark,” said Mr. Munster. 10. How did the inspector finally find out who the thief was?

American Social Relations American society is much more informal than that of many other countries and, in some ways, is characterized by less social distinction. The American mixture of pride in achievement and sense of “I’m just as good as anybody else.” Along with lack of importance placed on personal dignity, is difficult for a foreigner to understand. Americans in general do not like to be considered inferior, and they grumble loudly about inconveniences or not getting a “fair deal.” Yet they do not make a point of their personal honor. As an illustration of the difference between European and American reflection in this respect, John Whyte in American Words and Ways gives the following account. A… [European] professor [visiting in America] was once sent a bill for hospital services which he had never enjoyed. The bill was accompanied by a strong letter demanding payment. It was obvious that a mistake in names had been made, but the professor, thoroughly aroused by this reflection on his character and financial integrity, wrote a vigorous letter of reply (which an American might also have done). But in this letter of reply he demanded that the creditor write him a formal letter of apology … for this reflection on his honor. Since no publicity could possibly have been given to the mistake, for mistake it was, most Americans in that situation, after getting the matter off their chest (or without doing that) would have let the matter rest. An example of the same thing may be that although Americans like to talk about their accomplishments, it is their custom to show certain modesty in reply to compliments. When someone praises an American upon his achievement or upon his personal appearance, which, incidentally, is a very polite thing to do in America, the American turns it aside. If someone should say, “Congratulations upon being elected president of the club,” an American is expected to reply, “Well, I hope I can do a good job,” or something of the sort. Or if someone says, “That’s a pretty blue necktie you are wearing,” an American is likely to say, “I’m glad you like it,” or “Thank you. My wife gave it to me for my birthday.” The response to a compliment seldom conveys the idea, “I, too, think I’m pretty good.” Likewise, there are fewer social conventions that show social differences in America. Students do not rise when a teacher enters the room. One does not always address a person by his title, such as “Professor” or “Doctor” (“Doctor” is always used, however, for a doctor of medicine). The respectful “sir” is not always used in the northern and western parts of the country. Clothing in America, as in every place in the world, to a certain degree reflects a person’s social position and income, or, at least among the young, his attitudes toward society or toward himself. Yet no person is restricted to a certain uniform or manner of dress because of his occupations or class in society. A bank president may wear overalls to paint his house and is not ashamed of either the job or the clothing, and a common laborer may wear a rented tuxedo at his daughter’s wedding. Yet in spite of all the informality, America is not completely without customs that show consciousness of social distinction. For example, one is likely to use somewhat more formal language when talking to superiors. While the informal “Hello” is an acceptable greeting from employee to employer, the employee is more apt to say, “Hello, Jim.” Southerners make a point of saying “Yes, sir,” or “Yes, ma’am,” or “No, sir,” or “No, ma’am,” when talking to an older person or a person in po-sition of authority. Although this is a good form all over the United States, “Yes, Mr. Weston” or “No, Mrs. Baker” is somewhat more common in a similar situa-tion in the North or West. Certain other forms of politeness are observed on social occasions. Though people wear hats less now than in the past, women still occasionally wear hats in church and at public social functions (except those that are in the evening). In America there are still customs by which a man may show respect for a woman. He opens the door for her and lets her precede him through it. He walks on the side of the walk nearest the street. He takes her arm when crossing a street or descending a stairway. A younger person also shows respect for an older one in much the same fashion, by helping the older person in things requiring physical exertion or involving possible accident. American surface informality often confuses the foreigner because he interprets it to mean no formality at all. He does not understand the point at which informality stops. A teacher, though friendly, pleasant, and informal in class, expects students to study hard, and he grades each student’s work critically and carefully. He also expects to be treated with respect. Although students are free to ask questions about statements made by the teacher, and may say that they disagree with what he says, they are not expected to contradict him. Similarly, in boy-girl relationships a foreign student should not mistake the easy relationship and flattery that are part of the dating pattern in the United States, nor presume that it means more than it does. Also, because an American is perhaps more likely to admit and laugh at his own mistakes than one who stands more on his dignity, a foreigner sometimes does not know how to handle the American’s apparent modest. The American is quite ready to admit certain weaknesses, such as “I never was good at mathematics.” “I’m a rotten tennis player.” Or “I’m the world’s worst bridge player.” However, the stranger must not be too quick to agree with him. Americans think it is all right, even sporting, to admit a defect in themselves, but they feel that it is almost an insult to have someone else agree. A part of American idea of good sportsmanship is the point of being generous to a loser. This attitude is carried over into matters that have nothing to do with competition. If a man talks about his weak points, the listener says something in the way of encouragement, or points to other qualities in which the speaker excels. An American student reports that when he was in a foreign country he was completely stunned when he said to a native, “I don’t speak your language very well.” And the native replied, “I should say you don’t.” in a similar situation an American would have commented, “Well, you have only been here two months.” or “But you’re making progress.” Although Americans are quite informal, it is best for a foreigner, in case of doubt, to be too formal rather than not formal enough. Consideration for others is the basis of all courtesy. 2. What is the attitude Americans adopt towards their own achievement? Give an explanation please.

Try to translate the following into Chinese . 10.Churchill was already planning the future. His aims, as he had said, were not only to defend Britain but also to set Europe free.