什么牌子空调好The Legacy
By Virginia Woolf
平安就是福
“For Sissy Miller.” Gilbert Clandon, taking up the pearl 搏客brooch that lay among a litter of rings and brooches on a little table in his wife’s drawing-room, read the inscription: “For Sissy Miller, with my love.”
It was like Angela to have remembered even Sissy Miller, her cretary. Yet how strange it was, Gilbert Clandon thought once more, that she had left everything in such order — a little gift of some sort for every one of her friends. It was as if she had foreen her death. Yet she had been in perfect health when she left the hou that morning, six weeks ago; when she stepped off the kerb in Piccadilly and the car had killed her.
He was waiting for Sissy Miller. He had asked her to come; he owed her, he felt, after all the years she had been with them, this token of consideration. Yes, he went on, as he sat there waiting, it was strange that Angela had left everything in such order. Every friend had been l
eft some little token of her affection. Every ring, every necklace, every little Chine box — she had a passion for little boxes — had a name on it. And each had some memory for him. This he had given her; this — the enamel dolphin with the ruby eyes — she had pounced upon one day in a back street in Venice. He could remember her little cry of delight. To him, of cour, she had left nothing in particular, unless it were her diary. Fifteen little volumes, bound in green leather, stood behind him on her writing table. Ever since they were married, she had kept a diary. Some of their very few — he could not call them quarrels, say tiffs — had been about that diary. When he came in and found her writing, she always shut it or put her hand over it. “No, no, no,” he could hear her say, “After I’m dead — perhaps.” So she had left it him, as her legacy. It was the only thing they had not shared when she was alive. But he had always taken it for granted that she would outlive him. If only she had stopped one moment, and had thought what she was doing, she would be alive now. But she had stepped straight off the kerb, the driver of the car had said at the inquest. She had given him no chance to pull up. . .. Here the sound of voices in the hall interrupted him.
“Miss Miller, Sir,” said the maid.
She came in. He had never en her alone in his life, nor打屁股作文大全, of cour, in tears. She was terribly distresd, and no wonder. Angela had been much more to her than an employer. She had been a friend. To himlf, he thought, as he pushed a chair for her and asked her to sit down, she was scarcely distinguishable from any other woman of her kind. There were thousands of Sissy Millers — drab little women in black carrying attache cas. But Angela, with her genius for sympathy, had discovered all sorts of qualities in Sissy Miller. She was the soul of discretion; so silent; so trustworthy, one could tell her anything, and so on.
Miss Miller could not speak at first. She sat there dabbing her eyes with her pocket handkerchief. Then she 形容小孩的词语made an effort.
“Pardon me, Mr. Clandon,” she said.
He murmured. Of cour he understood. It was only natural. He could guess what his wife had meant to her.
“I’ve been so happy here,” she said, looking round. Her eyes rested on the writing table behind him. It was here they had worked — she and Angela. For Angela had her share of the duties that fall to the lot of a prominent politician’s wife. She had been the greatest help to him in his career. He had often en her and Sissy sitting at that table — Sissy at the typewriter, taking down letters from her dictation假设英语. No doubt Miss Miller was thinking of that, too. Now all he had to do was to give her the brooch his wife had left her. A rather incongruous gift it emed. It might have been better to have left her a sum of money, or even the typewriter. But there it was —“For Sissy Miller, with my love.” And, taking the brooch, he gave it her with the little speech that he had prepared. He knew, he said, that she would value it. His wife had often worn it. . .. And she replied, as she took it almost as if she too had prepared a speech, that it would always be a treasured posssion. . .. She had, he suppod, other clothes upon which a pearl brooch would not look quite so incongruous. She was wearing the little black coat and skirt that emed the uniform of her profession. Then he remembered — she was in mourning, of cour. She, too, had had her tragedy — a brother, to who m she was devoted, had died only a week or two bef
ore Angela. In some accident was it? He could not remember — only Angela telling him. Angela, with her genius for sympathy, had been terribly upt. Meanwhile Sissy Miller had rin. She was putting on her gloves. Evidently she felt that she ought not to intrude. But he could not let her go without saying something about her future. What were her plans? Was there any way in which he could help her?
云鬓半偏新睡觉She was gazing at the table, where she had sat at her typewriter, where the diary lay. And, lost in her memories of Angela, she did not at once answer his suggestion that he should help her. She emed for a moment not to understand. So he repeated:
“What are your plans, Miss Miller?”
“My plans? Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Clandon,” she exclaimed. “Plea don’t bother yourlf about me.”
He took her to mean that she was in no need of financial assistance. It would be better, he realized, to make any suggestion of that kind in a letter. All he could do now was to sa
y as he presd her hand, “Remember, Miss Miller, if there’s any way in which I can help you, it will be a pleasure. . . .” Then he opened the door. For a moment, on the threshold, as if a sudden thought had struck her, she stopped.
“Mr. Clandon,” she said, looking straight at him for the first time, and for the first time he was struck by the expression, sympathetic yet arching, in her eyes. “If at any time,” she continued, “there’s anything I can do to help you, remember, I shall feel it, 兽脚亚目for your wife’s sake, a pleasure . . .”
