I sat there at my Underwood typewriter, but I wished that something real would happen.我坐在安德伍牌打字机前,想写些真实的事儿。
That was the summer that my cousin, Helen-Marie, came to stay with us suddenly. She was seventeen. She was four years older than I and I'd always admired her. She was lovelier than the rest of us. The rest of us had our family's looks; we had homelyfaces and she was pretty. She had blondehair, a rarity in our family.
那年夏天,我的表姐海伦·玛莉突然来我们家住下。她十七岁,比我大四岁,我很喜欢她。她比我们家的其他人都可爱。其他人都有着家族的容貌特征,脸蛋儿一点儿也不起眼,她却很漂亮。那一头金发在我们家族里是极少见的。
Then I wrote a story about her; about a girl who is cooking lunch at home one day and a woman in a white satin dress holding a flaming torch bursts in through the door, and it startles the girl so much that she drops the cast iron skillet on her dog and the dog bites her and she gets an incurableblood disease from this. Doctors give her two weeks to live, and then, on top of everything, a tornado comes in and it blows the roof off the house and itimpalesfour blades of grass in her side. And there's something on that grass that cures that blood disease. Medical science has never seen anything like it. She's cured. She comes home. And that night the dog scratches on her door, and the dog says, "Aren't you curious to know what it was on the grass that cured that blood disease?" I sort of liked the story.
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