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Directions:Read the text blow, and fill in the number gaps with the vocabulary provided below. Note that there are more lexical items than needed, and that some changes in form are necessary. much other regardless since well in with after do not something itself of take make respective at Global English Global English exists as a political and cultural reality. Many misguided theories attempt to explain why the English language should have succeeded internationally, whilst(1)   have not. Is it because there is (2)   inherently (内在的,固有的)logical or beautiful about the structure of English ? Does its simple grammar(3)   it easy to learn ? Such ideas are misconceived. Latin was once a major international language, despite having a complicated grammatical structure, and English also presents learners(4)   all manner of real difficulties,(5)   least its spelling system, Ease(6)   learning, therefore, has little to (7)   with it. (8)   all, children learn to speak their mother tongue in approximately the same period of time, (9)   of their language. English has spread not so (10)    for linguistic reasons, but rather because it has often found (11)   in the right place, at the right time. (12)   the 1960s, two major developments have contributed to strengthening this global status. Firstly, in a number of countries of countries, English is now used in addition to national or regional languages. As (13)   as this , an electronic revolution has(14)   place. It is estimated that(15)   the region of 80% of worldwide electronic communication is now in English.
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The Wrong House The night was dark. And the house was dark. Dark-and silent. The two men ran toward it quietly. They slipped quickly through the dark bushes which surrounded the house. They reached the porch, ran up the steps, and knelt down, breathing heavily, in the dark shadows. They waited, listening. Silence. Perfect silence. Then--- out of the blackness---a whisper: “ We can’t stay out here… Take this suitcase…Let me try those keys. We’ve got to get in!” Ten…twenty…thirty seconds. With one of the keys, the first man opened the door. Silently, the two men entered the house, closed the door behind them, and locked it. Whispering, they discussed the situation. They wondered if they had awakened anyone in the house. “Let’s have a look at this place. Careful, Hy. I hope there isn’t anybody awake!” And the soft rays of a flashlight swept the room. It was a large room. A living room. Rugs, carefully rolled, lay piled on one side. The furniture---chairs, tables, couches---was covered by sheets. Dust lay like a light snow over everything. The man who held the flashlight spoke first. “Well, Blackie,” he said, “we’re in luck. Looks as if the family’s away.” “Yeah, gone for the summer, I guess. We better make sure, though.” Together they searched the house. They went on tiptoe through every room. There could be no doubt about it, the family was away. Had been away for weeks. Yes, Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns were in luck. Only once in the past ten days had their luck failed them. It had been with them when they made their big robbery---their truly magnificent robbery---on the Coast. It had been with them during their thousand-mile trip eastward, by car. It had been with them every moment---but one. That moment had come just one hour before. It came when Blackie, driving the car, ran over a policeman. And Blackie, thinking of the suitcase at Hy’s feet, had driven away. Swiftly. There had been a chase, of course. A wild, crazy chase. And when a bullet had punctured the gasoline tank, they had had to abandon the car. But luck or no luck, here they were. Alone, and without a car, in a completely strange town. But safe and sound---with the suitcase. The suitcase lay in the center of the table, in the center of the room. In it, neat little package on neat little package, lay nearly three hundred thousand dollars. “Listen,” said Hogan. “We have to get a car. Quick, too. and we can’t steal one: It’s too dangerous. We have to buy one. That means that we have to wait until the lots open. That will be about eight o’clock in this town.” “But what are we going to do with that?” Burns pointed to the suitcase. “Hide it right here. Sure! Why not? It’s much safer here than with us---until we get a car.” And so they hid the suitcase. They carried it down to the basement and buried it in an unfinished corner where no cement had been laid. Just before dawn, they slipped out. As they were walking down the street, Hogan remarked that a Samuel W. Rogers lived in the house they had just left. “How do you know?” “Saw the name on some of the library books. The guy’s really got a lot of books. Looks like a library in there.” The used car lots opened at eight, as they had supposed. Shortly before nine, Hogan and Burns had a car. A nice little car. Very quiet. Very inconspicuous. Very speedy. They arranged fro temporary plates and drove off. There blocks from the house, they stopped. Hogan got out. Walked toward the house. He’d just go around to the rear, he thought, and slip in. Fifty yards from the house, he stopped. Stared, swore softly. The front door was open. The window shades were up. The family had returned! Well, what bad luck! And what could they do? Break into the cellar that night, and pick up the suitcase? No---too dangerous, Hogan would have to think of something. “Leave it to me, kid.” He told Burns. “You drive the car. I’ll do the special brain work. Let’s find a telephone. Quick!” Ten minutes later, Hogan was consulting a telephone directory. Yes, there it was---Samuel W. Rogers, 555-6329. A moment later he was talking to the surprised Mr. Rogers. “Hello,” he began. “is his Mr. Rogers---Mr. Samuel Rogers?” “Yes, this is Mr. Rogers.” Hogan cleared his throat. “Mr. Rogers,” he said---and his tone was sharp, official, impressive---“this is Headquarters, Police Headquarters, talking. I am Simpson. Sergeant Simpson, of the detective division…” “Yes, yes!” came over the wire. “The Chief---the Chief of Police, you know,” here Hogan lowered his voice a little---“has ordered me to get in touch with you. He’s sending me out with one of our men to see you.” “Am I in trouble of some kind?” asked Mr. Rogers. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. But I have something of great importance to talk to you about.” “Very well,” came the voice of Mr. Rogers. “I’ll wait for you.” “And, Mr. Rogers,” Hogan cautioned, “please keep quiet about this. Don’t say anything to anybody. You’ll understand why when I see you.” On the way back to the house, Hogan explained his idea to Burns. Within ten minutes, “Sergeant Simpson” and “Detective Johnson” were conversing with the surprised Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers was a small man. Rather insignificant. He had pale blue eyes. Not much of a chin. A funny little face. He was nervous---a badly frightened man. Hogan told the whole story. Somewhat changed, of course. Mr. Rogers was surprised, but he was delighted to be able to help the police. He accompanied Hy Hogan to the cellar. And together they dug up the suitcase. Took it to the living room, opened it, saw that it had not been touched---that it really did hold a small fortune. Bills, bills, bills! Hogan closed the suitcase. “And now, Mr. Rogers,” he announced, in his best official manner, “Johnson and I must run along. The Chief wants a report---quick. We have to catch to rest of the robbers. I’ll keep in touch with you.” He picked up the suitcase and rose. Burns also rose. Mr. Rogers also rose. The trio walked to the door. Mr. Rogers opened it. “ Come on in, boys,” he said pleasantly---and in walked three men. Large men. Strong men. Men in police uniforms who, without fear, stared at Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns. “What does this mean, Mr. Rogers?” asked Hogan. “It’s quite simple,” said Mr. Rogers. “It just happens that I am the Chief of Police!” 7. What did they discover when they returned to the house?
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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. 9. How did the young man feel when the old woman made no move? And what did he think before and after he found the woman dead?
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The Wrong House The night was dark. And the house was dark. Dark-and silent. The two men ran toward it quietly. They slipped quickly through the dark bushes which surrounded the house. They reached the porch, ran up the steps, and knelt down, breathing heavily, in the dark shadows. They waited, listening. Silence. Perfect silence. Then--- out of the blackness---a whisper: “ We can’t stay out here… Take this suitcase…Let me try those keys. We’ve got to get in!” Ten…twenty…thirty seconds. With one of the keys, the first man opened the door. Silently, the two men entered the house, closed the door behind them, and locked it. Whispering, they discussed the situation. They wondered if they had awakened anyone in the house. “Let’s have a look at this place. Careful, Hy. I hope there isn’t anybody awake!” And the soft rays of a flashlight swept the room. It was a large room. A living room. Rugs, carefully rolled, lay piled on one side. The furniture---chairs, tables, couches---was covered by sheets. Dust lay like a light snow over everything. The man who held the flashlight spoke first. “Well, Blackie,” he said, “we’re in luck. Looks as if the family’s away.” “Yeah, gone for the summer, I guess. We better make sure, though.” Together they searched the house. They went on tiptoe through every room. There could be no doubt about it, the family was away. Had been away for weeks. Yes, Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns were in luck. Only once in the past ten days had their luck failed them. It had been with them when they made their big robbery---their truly magnificent robbery---on the Coast. It had been with them during their thousand-mile trip eastward, by car. It had been with them every moment---but one. That moment had come just one hour before. It came when Blackie, driving the car, ran over a policeman. And Blackie, thinking of the suitcase at Hy’s feet, had driven away. Swiftly. There had been a chase, of course. A wild, crazy chase. And when a bullet had punctured the gasoline tank, they had had to abandon the car. But luck or no luck, here they were. Alone, and without a car, in a completely strange town. But safe and sound---with the suitcase. The suitcase lay in the center of the table, in the center of the room. In it, neat little package on neat little package, lay nearly three hundred thousand dollars. “Listen,” said Hogan. “We have to get a car. Quick, too. and we can’t steal one: It’s too dangerous. We have to buy one. That means that we have to wait until the lots open. That will be about eight o’clock in this town.” “But what are we going to do with that?” Burns pointed to the suitcase. “Hide it right here. Sure! Why not? It’s much safer here than with us---until we get a car.” And so they hid the suitcase. They carried it down to the basement and buried it in an unfinished corner where no cement had been laid. Just before dawn, they slipped out. As they were walking down the street, Hogan remarked that a Samuel W. Rogers lived in the house they had just left. “How do you know?” “Saw the name on some of the library books. The guy’s really got a lot of books. Looks like a library in there.” The used car lots opened at eight, as they had supposed. Shortly before nine, Hogan and Burns had a car. A nice little car. Very quiet. Very inconspicuous. Very speedy. They arranged fro temporary plates and drove off. There blocks from the house, they stopped. Hogan got out. Walked toward the house. He’d just go around to the rear, he thought, and slip in. Fifty yards from the house, he stopped. Stared, swore softly. The front door was open. The window shades were up. The family had returned! Well, what bad luck! And what could they do? Break into the cellar that night, and pick up the suitcase? No---too dangerous, Hogan would have to think of something. “Leave it to me, kid.” He told Burns. “You drive the car. I’ll do the special brain work. Let’s find a telephone. Quick!” Ten minutes later, Hogan was consulting a telephone directory. Yes, there it was---Samuel W. Rogers, 555-6329. A moment later he was talking to the surprised Mr. Rogers. “Hello,” he began. “is his Mr. Rogers---Mr. Samuel Rogers?” “Yes, this is Mr. Rogers.” Hogan cleared his throat. “Mr. Rogers,” he said---and his tone was sharp, official, impressive---“this is Headquarters, Police Headquarters, talking. I am Simpson. Sergeant Simpson, of the detective division…” “Yes, yes!” came over the wire. “The Chief---the Chief of Police, you know,” here Hogan lowered his voice a little---“has ordered me to get in touch with you. He’s sending me out with one of our men to see you.” “Am I in trouble of some kind?” asked Mr. Rogers. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. But I have something of great importance to talk to you about.” “Very well,” came the voice of Mr. Rogers. “I’ll wait for you.” “And, Mr. Rogers,” Hogan cautioned, “please keep quiet about this. Don’t say anything to anybody. You’ll understand why when I see you.” On the way back to the house, Hogan explained his idea to Burns. Within ten minutes, “Sergeant Simpson” and “Detective Johnson” were conversing with the surprised Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers was a small man. Rather insignificant. He had pale blue eyes. Not much of a chin. A funny little face. He was nervous---a badly frightened man. Hogan told the whole story. Somewhat changed, of course. Mr. Rogers was surprised, but he was delighted to be able to help the police. He accompanied Hy Hogan to the cellar. And together they dug up the suitcase. Took it to the living room, opened it, saw that it had not been touched---that it really did hold a small fortune. Bills, bills, bills! Hogan closed the suitcase. “And now, Mr. Rogers,” he announced, in his best official manner, “Johnson and I must run along. The Chief wants a report---quick. We have to catch to rest of the robbers. I’ll keep in touch with you.” He picked up the suitcase and rose. Burns also rose. Mr. Rogers also rose. The trio walked to the door. Mr. Rogers opened it. “ Come on in, boys,” he said pleasantly---and in walked three men. Large men. Strong men. Men in police uniforms who, without fear, stared at Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns. “What does this mean, Mr. Rogers?” asked Hogan. “It’s quite simple,” said Mr. Rogers. “It just happens that I am the Chief of Police!” 2. What did they conclude about the residents of the house? Why?
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Three Days to see All of us have read thrilling stories in which the hero had only a limited and specified time to live .sometimes it was as long as a year; sometimes as short as twenty four hours .but always we were interested in discovering just how the doomed man chose to spend his last days or his last hours. I speak ,of course ,of free men who have a choice ,not condemned criminals whose sphere of activities is strictly delimited. Such stories set us thinking, wondering what we should do under similar circumstances. What events ,what experiences ,what associations should we crowd into those last hours as mortal beings? what happiness should we find in reviewing the past, what regrets? Sometimes I have thought it would be an excellent rule to live each day as if we should die tomorrow. such an attitude would emphasize sharply the values of life .we should live each day with a gentleness ,a vigor, and a keenness of appreciation which are often lost when time stretches before us in the constant panorama of more days and months and years to come. there are those ,of course, who would adopt the eqicurean motto of ‘Eat, drink, and be merry’ but most people would b e chastened by certainty of impending death. In stories, the doomed hero is usually saved at the last minute by some stroke of fortune ,but almost always his sense of values is changed.he becomes more appreciative of the meaning of life and its permanent spiritual value s.it has often been noted that those who live,or have lived,in the shadow of death bring a mellow sweetness to everything they do. Most of us ,however ,take life for granted. we know that one day we must die, but usually we picture that day as far in the future .when we are in buoyant health, death is all but unimaginable .we seldom think of it .the days stretch out in an endless vista. so we go about our petty task, hardly aware of our listless attitude toward life. The same lethargy, I am afraid, characterizes the use of all our faculties and senses. Only the deaf appreciate hearing ,only the blind realize the manifold blessings that lie in sight .particularly does this observation apply to those who have lost sight and hearing in adult life. but those who have never suffered impairment of sight or hearing seldom make the fullest use of these blessed faculties .their eyes and ears take in all sights and sounds hazily. without concentration, and with little appreciation. it is the same old story of not being grateful for what we have until we lose it. of not being conscious of health until we are ill. I have often thought it would be a blessing if each human being were stricken blind and deaf for a few days at some time during his early adult life. Darkness would make him more appreciative of sight; silence would teach him the joys of sound. Now and then I have tested my seeing friends to discover what they see. recently I was visited by a very good friend who had just returned from a long walk in the woods ,and I asked her what she had observed’ nothing in particular,’she replied.i might have been incredulous had I not been accustomed to such responses,for long ago I became convinced that the seeing see little. How was it possible ,I asked myself to walk for an hour through the woods and see nothing worthy of note? I who cannot see find hundreds of things to interest me through mere touch. I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I pass my hands lovingly about the smooth skin of a silver birch ,or the rough shaggy bark of a pine. In spring I touch the branches of trees hopefully in search of a bud, the first sign of awakening nature after her winter’s sleep. I feel the delightful, velvety texture of a flower, and discover its remarkable convolutions; and something of the miracle of nature is revealed to me .occasionally , if I am very fortunate, I place my hand gently on a small tree and feel the happy shiver of a bird in full song. I am delighted to have the cool waters of a brook rush through my open fingers. To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious persian rug. To me the pageant of seasons is a thrilling and unending dramam, the action of which streams through my fingertips. At times my heart cries out with longing to see all these things. if I can get so much pleasure from mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by sight. Yet,those who have eyesapparently see little .the panorama of color and action which fills the world is taken for granted .it is human ,perhaps ,to appreciate little that which we have and to long for that which we have not, but it is a great pity that in the world of light the gift of sight is used only as a mere convenience rather than as a means of adding fullness to life. If I were the president of a university I should establish a compulsory course in ‘how to use your eyes’.the professor would try to show his pupils how they could add joy to their lives by really seeing what passes unnoticed before them.he would try to awake their dormant and sluggish faculties. Suppose you get your mind to work on the problem of how you would use your own eyes if you had only three more days to see.if with the oncoming darkness of the third night you knew that the sun would never rise for you again.how would you spend those three precious interventing days?what would you most want to let you gaze rest upon? I,naturally,should want most to see the things which have become dear to me through my years of darkness.you,too,would want to let your eyes rest long on the things that have become dear to you so that you could take the memory of them with you to the night that loomed before you. I should want to see the people whose kindness and gentleness and companonship have made my life worth living.First I should like to gaze long upon the face of my dear teacher,Mrs Anne Sullivan Macy,who came to me when I was a child and opened the outer world to me. I should want not merely to see the outline of her face,so that I could cherish it in my memory,but to study that face and find in it the living evidence of the sympathetic tenderness and patience with which she accomplished the difficult task of my eduction. I should like to see in her eyes that strength of character which has enabled her to stand firm in the face of difficulties,and that compassion for all humanity which she has revealed to me so often. I do not know what it is to see into the heart of a friend through that ‘window of the soul’,the eye. I can only ‘see’ through my fingertips the outline of a face.i can detect laughter,sorrow,and many other obvious emotions. I know my friends from the feel of their faces.but I cannot really picture their personalities by touch. I know their personalities, of course,through other means,through the thoughts they express to me,through whatever of their actions are revealed to me.but I am denied that deeper understanding of them which I am sure would come through sight of them,through watching their reactions to various expressed thoughts and circumstance,through noting the immediate and fleeting reactions of their eyes and countenance. Friends who are near to me I know well,because through the months and years they reveal themselves to me in all their phases;but of casual friends I have only an incomplete impression,an impression gained from a handclasp,from spoken words which I take from their lips with my fingertips,or which they tap into the palm of my hand. How much easier,how much more satisfying it is for you who can see to grasp quickly the essential qualities of another person by watching the subtleties of expression,the quiver of a muscle,the flutter of a hand.but does it ever occur to you to use your sight to see into the inner nature of a friend or acquaintance?do not most of you seeing people grasp casually the outward features of a face and let it go at that? For instance,can you describe accurately the faces of five good friends?some of you can,but many cannot.as an experient, I have questioned husbands of long standing about the color of their wives’s eyes,and often they express embarrassed confusion and admit that they do not know.and,incidentally,it is a chronic complaint of wives that their husbands do not notice new dresses,new hats,and changes in household arrangements. The eyes of seeing persons soon become accustomed to the routine of their surroundings,and they actually see only the startling and spectacular.but even in viewing the most spectacualr sights the eyes are lazy.court records reveal every day how inaccurately ‘eyewitnesses’ see.a given event will be ‘seen’ in several different ways by as many witnesses.some see more than others,but few see everything that is within the range of their vision. Oh,the things that I should see if I had the power of sight for just three days! Try to translate the following into Chinese . 10.How much easier, how much more satisfying it is for you who can see to grasp quickly the essential qualities of another person by watching the subtleties of expression, the quiver or a muscle, the flutter of a hand.
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The Necklace She was one of those pretty and charming girls who are sometimes,as if by a mistake of destiny,born into a family of clerks.she had no dowry,no expectations,no means of being known,understood,loved,or wedded by any rich and distinguished man;and she let herself be married to a little clerk at the Ministry of Public Instruction. She dressed plainly because she could not dress well,but her unhappiness seemed to be deeper than one might expect.She seemed to feel that she had fallen from her proper station in life as a woman of wealth,beauty.grace,and charm.She valued these above all else in life,yet she could not attain them.she cared nothing for caste or rank but only for a natural fineness,an instinct for what is elegant,and a suppleness of wit.these would have made her the equal of the greatest ladies of the land.If only she could attain them…. She suffered,feeling born for all the delicacies and all the luxuries.She suffered from the poverty of her dwelling,from the wretched look of the walls,from the worn-out chairs,from the ugliness of the curtains.All those things,of which another woman of her rank would never even have been conscious,tortured her and made her angry.The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble housework aroused in her despairing regrets and distracted dreams.She thought of silent antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry,lit by tall bronze candelabra,and of two great footmen in knee breaches sleeping in big armchairs,made drowsy by the heavy warmth of the hot-air stove.She thought of long salons fitted up with ancient silk,of delicate furniture carrying priceless curiosities,and of coquettish perfumed boudoirs made for talks at five o’clock with intimate friends,with men famous and sought after,whom all women envy and whose attention they all desire. When she sat down to dinner before the round table covered with a tablecloth three days old, opposite her hushand,who declared with an enchanted air.”Ah,the good pot-au-feu!I don’t know anything better than that,”she though of best dinners,of shining silverware of tapestry which peopled the walls with ancient personages and with strange birds flying in the midst of a fairy forest;and she thought of delicious dishes served on marvelous plates,and of the whispered gallantries which you listened to with a sphinx-like smile while you are eating the ink flesh of a trout or the wings of a quail. She had no dresses,no jewels,nothing.And she loved nothing but that;she felt made for that.She would have liked to be envied,to be charming,to be sought after. She had a friend,a former schoolmate at the convent,who was rich,and whom she did not like to go and see anymore because she suffered so much when she came back. But one evening,her husband returned home with a triumphant air and holding a large envelope in his hand. “There,”said he.”Here is something for you.” She tore the paper sharply and drew out a printed card which bore these words: “The Miniser of Public Instruction and Madame Georges Ramponneau request the honor of Monsieur and Madame Loisel’s company at the palace of the Ministry on Monday evening,January eighteenth.” Instead of being delighted,as her husband hoped,she threw the invitation on the table with disdain,murmuring,”what do you want me to do with that?” “But ,my dear,I thought you would be glad.You never go out,and this is such a fine opportunity.Everyonne wants to go;it is very select,and they are not giving many invitations to lerks.The whole official world will be there.” She looked at him with an irritated glance and said,impatiently,”And what do you want me to put on my back?” He had not thought of that;he stammered,”Why,the dress you go to the theater in.It looks very well to me.” He stopped,distracted,seeing his wife was cring.Two great tears descended slowly from the corners of her eyes toward the corners of her mouth.He stuttered,”What’s the matter:what’s the matter:” But by violent effort she had conquered her grief,and she replied with a calm voice while she wiped her wet cheeks,”Nothing.Only I have no dress and therefore I can’t go to this ball.Give your card to some colleague whose wife is better equipped than I.” He was in despair.He resumed,”Come,let us see,Mathilde.How much would it cost,a suitable dress which you could use on othe occasions,something very simple?” She reflected several seconds,making her calculations and wondering also what sum she could ask without drawing on herself an immediate refusal and a frightened exclamation from the economical clerk. Finally,she replied,hesitatingly,”I don’t know exactly,but I think I could manage it with four thousand francs.” He had grown a little pale,because he was laying aside just that amount to buy a gun and treat himself to a little shooting next summer on th plain of Nanterre with several friends who went to shoot larks down there. But he said,”All right.I will give you four thousand francs.And try to have a pretty dress.” The day of the ball drew near and Mme.Loisel seemed sad,uneasy,and anxious.Her dress was ready,however,Her husband said to her one evening,”What is the matter?Come,you’ve been so strange these last three days.” And she answered,”It annoys me to have not a single jewel, not a single stone,nothing to put on.I will look like distress.I would almost rather not go at all.” He resumed,”You might wear natural flowers.It’s very stylish at this time of the year.For ten francs you can get two or three magnificent roses.” She was not convinced. “No;there is nothing more humiliating than to look poor among other women who are rich.” But her husband cried,”How stupid you are! Go look up your friend Mme.Forestier and ask her to leand you some jewels.You are a close friend of hers.” She uttered a cry of joy,”It’s true!I never thought of it.” The next day she went to her friend and told of her distress.Mme Forestier went to a wardrobe with a glass door,took out a large jewel box,brought it back,opened it,and said to Mme.Loisel,”Choose,my dear.” She saw first of all some bracelets then a pearl necklace,and then a Venetian cross,with gold and precious stones of admirable workmanship.She tried on the ornaments before the glass, hesitated, and could not make her mind to depart with them or to give them back.She kept asking,”Haven’t you any more?” “Why,yes.Look.I don’t know what you like” All of a sudden she discovered in a black satin box a superb necklace of diamonds,and her heart began to obeat with an immoderate desire.Her hands trembled as she took it.she fastened it around her throat,outside her high-necked dress,and remained lost in ecstasy at the sight of herself. Then she asked,hesitating,filled with anguish,”Can you lend me that,only that?” “Why,yes,certainly.” She sprang upon the neck of her friend, kissed her passionately,and then fled with her treasure. The day of the ball arrived.Mme.Loisel was a great success.She was prettier than them all,elegant, gracious, smiling,and crazy with joy.All the men looked at her and asked her name,wanting to be introduced.All the attaches of the Cabinet wanted to waltz with her,even the minister himself. She danced with passion,made drunk by pleasure,forgetting all the triumph of her beauty,in the glory of her success,in a sort of cloud of happiness composed of all tis admiration,of all these awakened desires,and of that sense of complete victory which was so sweet to her heart.This was her ultimate moment. She left about four o’clock in the morning.Her husband had been sleeping since midnight in a little deserted room with three other gentlemen whose wives were having a very good time.He threw over her shoulders the coat which he had bought.Its poverty contrasted witth the eleganve of the ball dress.She felt this and wanted to escape so as not to be seen by the other women,who were wrapped in cosly furs. Loised held her back. “Wait a bit.You will catch cold outside.I will go and call a cab.” But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the stairs.When they were in the stree they did not find a carriage;and they begin to look for one,shouting after the cabmen whom they swa passing by at a distance. They went down toward the Seine in despair, shivering with cold .At last they found one of those ancient taxis which look as though they can carry only poor people. It took them to the Rue des Martyrs ,and once more,sadly, they climbed up homeward .All was ended for her .And he reflected that he must e at he Ministry at ten o’clock. She removed the wraps which covered the shoulders before the glass so as once more to see herself in all her glory .But suddenly she uttered a cry.She no longer had the necklace around her neck! Her husband ,already half undressed,demanded,”What is the matter with you?” She turned madly towards him,” I have—I have—I’ve lost Mme. Forestier’s necklace!” He stood up,distracted, ”What?___How?---Impossible!” Any they looked in the folds of her dress ,in the folds of her cloak,in her pockets,everythere.They did not find it. He asked,”You’re sure you had it on when you left the ball?” “Yes,I felt it in the vestibule of the palace.” “But if you had lost it in the street, we would have heard it fall.It must be in the cab.” “Yes.Probably.Did you take his number?” “No.And you,didn’t you notice it?” ”No.” They looked at one anoher,thunderstruck.At last Loisel put on his clothes. “I will go back on foot,”he said,”Over the whole route which we have taken to see if I can find it.” And he went out.She sat waiting on a chair in her ball dress,without strength to go to bed,overwhelmed,without fire,without a thought. Her husband came back about server o’clock.He had found nothing. He went to Police Headquarters and to the newspaper offices to offer a reward;he went yo the cab companies—everywhere,in fact,where he was urged by the least suspicion of hope. She waited all day,in the same condition of mad fear before this terrible calamity. Losiel returned at night with a hollow,pale face;he had discovered nothing. “You must write to your friend,”he said,”that you have broken the clasp of her necklace and that you are having it mended.That will give us time to find it.” She wrote at his dictation. At the end of a week they had lost all hope.And Loisel,who had aged five years,declared,”We must consider how to replace that ornament.” The next day they took the box which had cotained it,and they want to the jeweler whose name was found within.He consulted his books. “It was not I,madame,who sold that necklace;I must simply have furnished the case.” Then they went from jeweler to jeweler,searching for a necklace like the other,consulting their memories,both of them sick with chagrin and anuish. In a shop at the Palais Royal,they found a string of diamonds which seemed to them exactly like the one they looked for.It was worth forty thousand francs.They could have it for thirty-six. So they begged the jeweler not to sell it for three more days.And tghey made a bargain that he could buy it back for thirty-four thousand francs in case they found the other once before the end of February. Loisel had eigthteen thousand francs which his father had left him.He would borrow the rest. He did borrow,asking a gthousand francs of one person,five hundred of another,five luis here,three luis there.He took up very large loans.He compromised all the rest of his life and ,frightened by the pains which were yet to come,by the black misery which he was to suffer,he went to get the new necklace,putting down upon the merchant’s counter thirty-six thousand francs. When Mme.Loisel took back the necklace,Mme.Forestier said to her in a chilly manner,”You should have returned it sooner;I might have needed it.” She did not open the case as her friend had feared.If she detected the substitution,what would she have thought?What would she have said?Would she have thought that Mme.Loisel was a thief? Mme.Loisel now knew the horrible experience of the improverished.She carried her burden,however,with heroism.That dreadful debt had to be paid.and she would pay it.The Loisels fired their servant.They moved from their comfortable apartment to a small attic-like flat under the roof. She came to know what heavy housework meant and she came to know the hateful chores of the kitchen.She washed the dishes, breaking the dirty linen,the shirts, and the dishcloths,which she dried on a line.She carried the garbage down to the street every morning and carried up the water,stopping at every landing to catch her breath.And,dressed like a poor woman of the streets,she went to the grocer,the butcher,and the fruit vender,carrying her basket on her arm,bargaining,shouting,and defending every sou which she had to spend on food. Each month they had to pay off some old debts,renew others and make some new ones. Her husband worked in the evening as a bookkeeper,and late at night he copied manuscripts for people at five sou a page. This life lasted for ten years. At the end of ten years they had paid everything,the principal on their many loans and the terrible high interest,too. Mme.Loisel looked old now.She had become the woman of poor households—strong and hard and rough.With frowsy hari,skirts askew,and red hands,she talked loud while washing the floor with the great swishes of water.But sometimes,when her husband was at the office,she sat down near the window and thought of that gay evening of long ago,of that ball where she had been so beautiful. What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace?who knows?who knows?how life is strange and changeful!how little a thing is need ed for us to be lost or to be saved! But,on Sunday,having gone to take a walk in the Champs Elysees to refresh herself from the labor of the week,she suddenly saw a woman who was leading a child.It was Mme.Forestier, still young,still beautiful,still charming. Mme.Loisel felt moved.Was she ging to speak to her?Yes,certainly.And how that she had paid,she was going to tell her all about it.Why not? She went up. “Good day,Jeanne,” The other,astonished to be familiarly addressed b y this plain housewife,did not recognize her at all and stammered,”But ---madame!----I do not know---You must be mistaken.” “No.I am Mathilde Loise!” Her friend uttered a cry/ “Oh,my poor Mathilde!How you are changed!” “Yes,I have had hard days since I saw you,terrible days—and because of you!” ”Of me!how so?” “Do you remember that diamond necklace which you lent me to wear at the ministerial ball?” “Yes. Well?” “Well, I lost it.” ”What do you mean? You brought it back.” ”I brought you back another just like it. And for ths we have been ten years paying. You can understand that it was not easy for us, us who had nothing.At last it is ended,and I am very glad.” Mme.Forestier had stopped. “You say that you bought a necklace of diamonds to replace mine?” “Yes.You never noticed it. then! They are very like.” And she smiled with a joy which was proud and naïve at once. Mme.Forestier,strongly moved,took her two hands. “Oh,my poor Mathilde!Why,my necklace was paste.It was worth at most five hundred francs!” 5. How did she solve her problem of having no jewelry?
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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. 8. How did the young man learn that the old lady had a safe full of jewels and valuables?
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The Wrong House The night was dark. And the house was dark. Dark-and silent. The two men ran toward it quietly. They slipped quickly through the dark bushes which surrounded the house. They reached the porch, ran up the steps, and knelt down, breathing heavily, in the dark shadows. They waited, listening. Silence. Perfect silence. Then--- out of the blackness---a whisper: “ We can’t stay out here… Take this suitcase…Let me try those keys. We’ve got to get in!” Ten…twenty…thirty seconds. With one of the keys, the first man opened the door. Silently, the two men entered the house, closed the door behind them, and locked it. Whispering, they discussed the situation. They wondered if they had awakened anyone in the house. “Let’s have a look at this place. Careful, Hy. I hope there isn’t anybody awake!” And the soft rays of a flashlight swept the room. It was a large room. A living room. Rugs, carefully rolled, lay piled on one side. The furniture---chairs, tables, couches---was covered by sheets. Dust lay like a light snow over everything. The man who held the flashlight spoke first. “Well, Blackie,” he said, “we’re in luck. Looks as if the family’s away.” “Yeah, gone for the summer, I guess. We better make sure, though.” Together they searched the house. They went on tiptoe through every room. There could be no doubt about it, the family was away. Had been away for weeks. Yes, Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns were in luck. Only once in the past ten days had their luck failed them. It had been with them when they made their big robbery---their truly magnificent robbery---on the Coast. It had been with them during their thousand-mile trip eastward, by car. It had been with them every moment---but one. That moment had come just one hour before. It came when Blackie, driving the car, ran over a policeman. And Blackie, thinking of the suitcase at Hy’s feet, had driven away. Swiftly. There had been a chase, of course. A wild, crazy chase. And when a bullet had punctured the gasoline tank, they had had to abandon the car. But luck or no luck, here they were. Alone, and without a car, in a completely strange town. But safe and sound---with the suitcase. The suitcase lay in the center of the table, in the center of the room. In it, neat little package on neat little package, lay nearly three hundred thousand dollars. “Listen,” said Hogan. “We have to get a car. Quick, too. and we can’t steal one: It’s too dangerous. We have to buy one. That means that we have to wait until the lots open. That will be about eight o’clock in this town.” “But what are we going to do with that?” Burns pointed to the suitcase. “Hide it right here. Sure! Why not? It’s much safer here than with us---until we get a car.” And so they hid the suitcase. They carried it down to the basement and buried it in an unfinished corner where no cement had been laid. Just before dawn, they slipped out. As they were walking down the street, Hogan remarked that a Samuel W. Rogers lived in the house they had just left. “How do you know?” “Saw the name on some of the library books. The guy’s really got a lot of books. Looks like a library in there.” The used car lots opened at eight, as they had supposed. Shortly before nine, Hogan and Burns had a car. A nice little car. Very quiet. Very inconspicuous. Very speedy. They arranged fro temporary plates and drove off. There blocks from the house, they stopped. Hogan got out. Walked toward the house. He’d just go around to the rear, he thought, and slip in. Fifty yards from the house, he stopped. Stared, swore softly. The front door was open. The window shades were up. The family had returned! Well, what bad luck! And what could they do? Break into the cellar that night, and pick up the suitcase? No---too dangerous, Hogan would have to think of something. “Leave it to me, kid.” He told Burns. “You drive the car. I’ll do the special brain work. Let’s find a telephone. Quick!” Ten minutes later, Hogan was consulting a telephone directory. Yes, there it was---Samuel W. Rogers, 555-6329. A moment later he was talking to the surprised Mr. Rogers. “Hello,” he began. “is his Mr. Rogers---Mr. Samuel Rogers?” “Yes, this is Mr. Rogers.” Hogan cleared his throat. “Mr. Rogers,” he said---and his tone was sharp, official, impressive---“this is Headquarters, Police Headquarters, talking. I am Simpson. Sergeant Simpson, of the detective division…” “Yes, yes!” came over the wire. “The Chief---the Chief of Police, you know,” here Hogan lowered his voice a little---“has ordered me to get in touch with you. He’s sending me out with one of our men to see you.” “Am I in trouble of some kind?” asked Mr. Rogers. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. But I have something of great importance to talk to you about.” “Very well,” came the voice of Mr. Rogers. “I’ll wait for you.” “And, Mr. Rogers,” Hogan cautioned, “please keep quiet about this. Don’t say anything to anybody. You’ll understand why when I see you.” On the way back to the house, Hogan explained his idea to Burns. Within ten minutes, “Sergeant Simpson” and “Detective Johnson” were conversing with the surprised Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers was a small man. Rather insignificant. He had pale blue eyes. Not much of a chin. A funny little face. He was nervous---a badly frightened man. Hogan told the whole story. Somewhat changed, of course. Mr. Rogers was surprised, but he was delighted to be able to help the police. He accompanied Hy Hogan to the cellar. And together they dug up the suitcase. Took it to the living room, opened it, saw that it had not been touched---that it really did hold a small fortune. Bills, bills, bills! Hogan closed the suitcase. “And now, Mr. Rogers,” he announced, in his best official manner, “Johnson and I must run along. The Chief wants a report---quick. We have to catch to rest of the robbers. I’ll keep in touch with you.” He picked up the suitcase and rose. Burns also rose. Mr. Rogers also rose. The trio walked to the door. Mr. Rogers opened it. “ Come on in, boys,” he said pleasantly---and in walked three men. Large men. Strong men. Men in police uniforms who, without fear, stared at Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns. “What does this mean, Mr. Rogers?” asked Hogan. “It’s quite simple,” said Mr. Rogers. “It just happens that I am the Chief of Police!” 4. What was in the suitcase? Where and how did Hogan and Burns get it?
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Try to translate the following into Chinese . 3.Beginning in 1775 the Revolution continued for several years. With the aid of France the colonies won the war, and in 1783 Great Britain signed a treaty recognizing their independence.
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The Wrong House The night was dark. And the house was dark. Dark-and silent. The two men ran toward it quietly. They slipped quickly through the dark bushes which surrounded the house. They reached the porch, ran up the steps, and knelt down, breathing heavily, in the dark shadows. They waited, listening. Silence. Perfect silence. Then--- out of the blackness---a whisper: “ We can’t stay out here… Take this suitcase…Let me try those keys. We’ve got to get in!” Ten…twenty…thirty seconds. With one of the keys, the first man opened the door. Silently, the two men entered the house, closed the door behind them, and locked it. Whispering, they discussed the situation. They wondered if they had awakened anyone in the house. “Let’s have a look at this place. Careful, Hy. I hope there isn’t anybody awake!” And the soft rays of a flashlight swept the room. It was a large room. A living room. Rugs, carefully rolled, lay piled on one side. The furniture---chairs, tables, couches---was covered by sheets. Dust lay like a light snow over everything. The man who held the flashlight spoke first. “Well, Blackie,” he said, “we’re in luck. Looks as if the family’s away.” “Yeah, gone for the summer, I guess. We better make sure, though.” Together they searched the house. They went on tiptoe through every room. There could be no doubt about it, the family was away. Had been away for weeks. Yes, Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns were in luck. Only once in the past ten days had their luck failed them. It had been with them when they made their big robbery---their truly magnificent robbery---on the Coast. It had been with them during their thousand-mile trip eastward, by car. It had been with them every moment---but one. That moment had come just one hour before. It came when Blackie, driving the car, ran over a policeman. And Blackie, thinking of the suitcase at Hy’s feet, had driven away. Swiftly. There had been a chase, of course. A wild, crazy chase. And when a bullet had punctured the gasoline tank, they had had to abandon the car. But luck or no luck, here they were. Alone, and without a car, in a completely strange town. But safe and sound---with the suitcase. The suitcase lay in the center of the table, in the center of the room. In it, neat little package on neat little package, lay nearly three hundred thousand dollars. “Listen,” said Hogan. “We have to get a car. Quick, too. and we can’t steal one: It’s too dangerous. We have to buy one. That means that we have to wait until the lots open. That will be about eight o’clock in this town.” “But what are we going to do with that?” Burns pointed to the suitcase. “Hide it right here. Sure! Why not? It’s much safer here than with us---until we get a car.” And so they hid the suitcase. They carried it down to the basement and buried it in an unfinished corner where no cement had been laid. Just before dawn, they slipped out. As they were walking down the street, Hogan remarked that a Samuel W. Rogers lived in the house they had just left. “How do you know?” “Saw the name on some of the library books. The guy’s really got a lot of books. Looks like a library in there.” The used car lots opened at eight, as they had supposed. Shortly before nine, Hogan and Burns had a car. A nice little car. Very quiet. Very inconspicuous. Very speedy. They arranged fro temporary plates and drove off. There blocks from the house, they stopped. Hogan got out. Walked toward the house. He’d just go around to the rear, he thought, and slip in. Fifty yards from the house, he stopped. Stared, swore softly. The front door was open. The window shades were up. The family had returned! Well, what bad luck! And what could they do? Break into the cellar that night, and pick up the suitcase? No---too dangerous, Hogan would have to think of something. “Leave it to me, kid.” He told Burns. “You drive the car. I’ll do the special brain work. Let’s find a telephone. Quick!” Ten minutes later, Hogan was consulting a telephone directory. Yes, there it was---Samuel W. Rogers, 555-6329. A moment later he was talking to the surprised Mr. Rogers. “Hello,” he began. “is his Mr. Rogers---Mr. Samuel Rogers?” “Yes, this is Mr. Rogers.” Hogan cleared his throat. “Mr. Rogers,” he said---and his tone was sharp, official, impressive---“this is Headquarters, Police Headquarters, talking. I am Simpson. Sergeant Simpson, of the detective division…” “Yes, yes!” came over the wire. “The Chief---the Chief of Police, you know,” here Hogan lowered his voice a little---“has ordered me to get in touch with you. He’s sending me out with one of our men to see you.” “Am I in trouble of some kind?” asked Mr. Rogers. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. But I have something of great importance to talk to you about.” “Very well,” came the voice of Mr. Rogers. “I’ll wait for you.” “And, Mr. Rogers,” Hogan cautioned, “please keep quiet about this. Don’t say anything to anybody. You’ll understand why when I see you.” On the way back to the house, Hogan explained his idea to Burns. Within ten minutes, “Sergeant Simpson” and “Detective Johnson” were conversing with the surprised Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers was a small man. Rather insignificant. He had pale blue eyes. Not much of a chin. A funny little face. He was nervous---a badly frightened man. Hogan told the whole story. Somewhat changed, of course. Mr. Rogers was surprised, but he was delighted to be able to help the police. He accompanied Hy Hogan to the cellar. And together they dug up the suitcase. Took it to the living room, opened it, saw that it had not been touched---that it really did hold a small fortune. Bills, bills, bills! Hogan closed the suitcase. “And now, Mr. Rogers,” he announced, in his best official manner, “Johnson and I must run along. The Chief wants a report---quick. We have to catch to rest of the robbers. I’ll keep in touch with you.” He picked up the suitcase and rose. Burns also rose. Mr. Rogers also rose. The trio walked to the door. Mr. Rogers opened it. “ Come on in, boys,” he said pleasantly---and in walked three men. Large men. Strong men. Men in police uniforms who, without fear, stared at Hy Hogan and Blackie Burns. “What does this mean, Mr. Rogers?” asked Hogan. “It’s quite simple,” said Mr. Rogers. “It just happens that I am the Chief of Police!” 5. Where did they decide to hide the suitcase?