五年级语文教学反思-纸的由来

The Dandelion Girl
The girl on the hill made Mark think of Edna St. Vincent Millay. Perhaps it was because
of the way she was standing there in the afternoon sun, her dandelion-hued hair dancing
in the wind; perhaps it was because of the way her old-fashioned white dress was swirling
around her long and slender legs. In any event, he got the definite impression that she
had somehow stepped out of the past and into the present; and that was odd, because as
things turned out, it wasn't the past she had stepped out of, but the future.
He paused some distance behind her, breathing hard from the climb. She had not seen him
yet, and he wondered how he could apprise her of his presence without alarming her. While
he was trying to make up his mind, he took out his pipe and filled and lighted it, cupping
his hands over the bowl and puffing till the tobacco came to glowing life. When he looked
at her again, she had turned around and was regarding him curiously.
He walked toward her slowly, keenly aware of the nearness of the sky, enjoying the feel
of the wind against his face. He should go hiking more often, he told himself. He had
been tramping through woods when he came to the hill, and now the woods lay behind and
far below him, burning gently with the first pale fires of fall, and beyond the woods
lay the little lake with its complement of cabin and fishing pier. When his wife had
been unexpectedly summoned for jury duty, he had been forced to spend alone the two weeks
he had saved out of his summer vacation and he had been leading a lonely existence, fishing
off the pier by day and reading the cool evenings away before the big fireplace in the
raftered living room; and after two days the routine had caught up to him, and he had
taken off into the woods without purpose or direction and finally he had come to the
hill and had climbed it and seen the girl.
Her eyes were blue, he saw when he came up to her—as blue as the sky that framed her
slender silhouette. Her face was oval and young and soft and sweet. It evoked a déjà
vu so poignant that he had to resist an impulse to reach out and touch her wind-kissed
cheek; and even though his hand did not leave his side, he felt his fingertips tingle.
Why, I'm forty-four, he thought wonderingly, and she's hardly more than twenty. What
in heaven's name has come over me

it simply marvelous!
He followed her gaze.
spread out over the lowlands in warm September colors, embracing a small hamlet several

miles away, finally bowing out before the first outposts of the suburban frontier. In
the far distance, haze softened the serrated silhouette of Cove City, lending it the
aspect of a sprawling medieval castle, making it less of a reality than a dream.
you from the city too

and forty years from now.
The smile told him that she didn't really expect him to believe her, but it implied that
it would be nice if he would pretend. He smiled back. would be . twenty-two hundred
and one, wouldn't it
it has,she said. part of a megalopolis now and extends all the way to there.
She pointed to the fringe of the forest at their feet. Thousand and Fortieth Street
runs straight through that grove of sugar maples,
stand of locusts over there


go through it, and you can buy almost anything in it from aspirins to aerocars. And next
to the supermarket, where that grove of beeches stands, is a big dress shop just bursting
with the latest creations of the leading couturiers. I bought this dress I'm wearing
there this very morning. Isn't it simply beautiful
If it was, it was because she made it so. However, he looked at it politely. It had been
cut from a material he was unfamiliar with, a material seemingly compounded of cotton
candy, sea foam, and snow. There was no limit any more to the syntheses that could be
created by the miracle-fiber manufacturers—nor, apparently, to the tall tales that
could be created by young girls. suppose you traveled here by time machine,he said.

He looked at her closely. He had never seen such a guileless countenance.
come here often

and look and look and look. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer,
and today, you.
can there be a yesterday,asked, always return to the same point
in time

the passage of time the same as anything else, and you have to set it back every

twenty-four hours if you want to maintain exactly the same co-ordinate. I never do because
I much prefer a different day each time I come back.

Overhead, a V of geese was drifting lazily by, and she watched it for some time before
she spoke. father is an invalid now,she said finally. like very much to come
if he only could. But I tell him all about what I see,
almost the same as if he really came. Wouldn't you say it was
There was an eagerness about the way she was looking at him that touched his heart.
sure it is,—then,
She nodded solemnly.
the twenty-third century there aren't very many pleasant leas left.
He smiled. very many of them left in the twentieth. I guess you could say
that this one is sort of a collector's item. I'll have to visit it more often.

staying in a cabin about three miles back. I'm supposed to be on vacation, but it's
not much of one. My wife was called to jury duty and couldn't come with me, and since
I couldn't postpone it, I've ended up being a sort of reluctant Thoreau. My name is Mark
Randolph.

The name suited her. The same way the white dress suited her—the way the blue sky suited
her, and the hill and the September wind. Probably she lived in the little hamlet in
the woods, but it did not really matter. If she wanted to pretend she was from the future,
it was all right with him. All that really mattered was the way he had felt when he had
first seen her, and the tenderness that came over him every time he gazed upon her gentle
face.

pirouette and clasped her hands before her.
went on. must be simply marvelous working in a big important office and taking down
what important people say. Would you like me to be your secretary, Mr. Randolph
like it very much,he said. wife was my secretary once—before the war. That's
how we happened to meet.

very best. I was sorry to lose her; but then when I lost her in one sense, I gained
her in another, so I guess you could hardly call that losing her.

wanting to hear about all the things I saw, and I've got to fix his supper.



He watched her run lightly down the hill and disappear into the grove of sugar maples
where, two hundred and forty years hence, Two Thousand and Fortieth Street would be.
He smiled. What a charming child, he thought. It must be thrilling to have such an
irrepressible sense of wonder, such an enthusiasm for life. He could appreciate the two
qualities all the more fully because he had been denied them. At twenty he had been a
solemn young man working his way through law school; at twenty-four he had had his own
practice, and small though it had been, it had occupied him completely—well, not quite
completely. When he had married Anne, there had been a brief interim during which making
a living had lost some of its immediacy. And then, when the war had come along, there
had been another interim—a much longer one this time—when making a living had seemed
a remote and sometimes even a contemptible pursuit. After his return to civilian life,
though, the immediacy had returned with a vengeance, the more so because he now had a
son as well as a wife to support, and he had been occupied ever since, except for the
four vacation weeks he had recently been allowing himself each year, two of which he
spent with Anne and Jeff at a resort of their choosing and two of which he spent with
Anne, after Jeff returned to college, in their cabin by the lake. This year, though,
he was spending the second two alone. Well, perhaps not quite alone.
His pipe had gone out some time ago, and he had not even noticed. He lighted it again,
drawing deeply to thwart the wind, then he descended the hill and started back through
the woods toward the cabin. The autumnal equinox had come and the days were appreciably
shorter. This one was very nearly done, and the dampness of evening had already begun
to pervade the hazy air.
He walked slowly, and the sun had set by the time he reached the lake. It was a small
lake, but a deep one, and the trees came down to its edge. The cabin stood some distance
back from the shore in a stand of pines, and a winding path connected it with the pier.
Behind it a gravel drive led to a dirt road that gave access to the highway. His station
wagon stood by the back door, ready to whisk him back to civilization at a moment's notice.
He prepared and ate a simple supper in the kitchen, then went into the living room to
read. The generator in the shed hummed on and off, but otherwise the evening was unsullied

by the usual sounds the ears of modern man are heir to. Selecting an anthology of American
poetry from the well-stocked bookcase by the fireplace, he sat down and thumbed through
it to Afternoon on a Hill. He read the treasured poem three times, and each time he read
it he saw her standing there in the sun, her hair dancing in the wind, her dress swirling
like gentle snow around her long and lovely legs; and a lump came into his throat, and
he could not swallow.
He returned the book to the shelf and went out and stood on the rustic porch and filled
and lighted his pipe. He forced himself to think of Anne, and presently her face came
into focus—the firm but gentle chin, the warm and compassionate eyes with that odd hint
of fear in them that he had never been able to analyze, the still-soft cheeks, the gentle
smile—and each attribute was made more compelling by the memory of her vibrant light
brown hair and her tall, lithe gracefulness. As was always the case when he thought of
her, he found himself marveling at her agelessness, marveling how she could have
continued down through the years as lovely as she had been that long-ago morning when
he had looked up, startled, and seen her standing timidly before his desk. It was
inconceivable that a mere twenty years later he could be looking forward eagerly to a
tryst with an overimaginative girl who was young enough to be his daughter. Well, he
wasn't—not really. He had been momentarily swayed—that was all. For a moment his
emotional equilibrium had deserted him, and he had staggered. Now his feet were back
under him where they belonged, and the world had returned to its sane and sensible orbit.
He tapped out his pipe and went back inside. In his bedroom he undressed and slipped
between the sheets and turned out the light. Sleep should have come readily, but it did
not; and when it finally did come, it came in fragments interspersed with tantalizing
dreams.

you.

On the second afternoon she was wearing a blue dress, and there was a little blue ribbon
to match tied in her dandelion- colored hair. After breasting the hill, he stood for some
time, not moving, waiting till the tightness of his throat went away; then he walked
over and stood beside her in the wind. But the soft curve of her throat and chin brought
the tightness back, and when she turned and said,
it was a long while before he was able to answer.

A nearby outcropping of granite formed a bench of sorts, and they sat down on it and
looked out over the land. He filled his pipe and lighted it and blew smoke into the wind.

same way you do, even when there isn't any wind. You and he are alike in lots of ways.

And she did, saying that she was twenty-one, that her father was a retired government
physicist, that they lived in a small apartment on Two Thousand and Fortieth Street,
and that she had been keeping house for him ever since her mother had died four years
ago. Afterward he told her about himself and Anne and Jeff—about how he intended to
take Jeff into partnership with him someday, about Anne's phobia about cameras and how
she had refused to have her picture taken on their wedding day and had gone on refusing
ever since, about the grand time the three of them had had on the camping trip they'd
gone on last summer.
When he had finished, she said,
Nineteen- sixty-one must be a marvelous year in which to live!


my father, there's the time police to take into consideration. You see, time travel is
limited to the members of government-sponsored historical expeditions and is out of
bounds to the general public.

because my father invented his own machine, and the time police don't know about
it.

She nodded. only in their eyes, only in the light of their concept of time. My father
has his own concept.
It was so pleasant hearing her talk that it did not matter really what she talked about,
and he wanted her to ramble on, no matter how farfetched her subject.
it,

from the future should participate physically in anything that occurred in the past,
because his very presence would constitute a paradox, and future events would have to
be altered in order for the paradox to be assimilated. Consequently the Department of

Time Travel makes sure that only authorized personnel have access to its time machines,
and maintains a police force to apprehend the would-be generation-jumpers who yearn for
a simpler way of life and who keep disguising themselves as historians so they can return
permanently to a different era.

a macrocosmic viewpoint, my father says, everything that is going to happen has already
happened. Therefore, if a person from the future participates in a past event, he becomes
a part of that event—for the simple reason that he was a part of it in the first place—and
a paradox cannot possibly arise.
Mark took a deep drag on his pipe. He needed it.
remarkable person,

of her eyes.
apartment is bursting with them! Hegel and Kant and Hume; Einstein and Newton and
Weizscker. I've—I've even read some of them myself.

She gazed raptly up into his face.
we've got just scads of mutual interests!
The conversation that ensued proved conclusively that they did have—though the
transcendental esthetic, Berkeleianism and relativity were rather incongruous subjects
for a man and a girl to be discussing on a September hilltop, he reflected presently,
even when the man was forty-four and the girl was twenty-one. But happily there were
compensations—their animated discussion of the transcendental esthetic did more than
elicit a priori and a posteriori conclusions, it also elicited microcosmic stars in her
eyes; their breakdown of Berkeley did more than point up the inherent weaknesses in the
good bishop's theory, it also pointed up the pinkness of her cheeks; and their review
of relativity did more than demonstrate that E invariably equals mc2; it also
demonstrated that far from being an impediment, knowledge is an asset to feminine charm.
The mood of the moment lingered far longer than it had any right to, and it was still
with him when he went to bed. This time he didn't even try to think of Anne; he knew
it would do no good. Instead he lay there in the darkness and played host to whatever
random thoughts came along—and all of them concerned a September hilltop and a girl
with dandelion- colored hair.
Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.

Next morning he drove over to the hamlet and checked at the post office to see if he
had any mail. There was none. He was not surprised. Jeff disliked writing letters as
much as he did, and Anne, at the moment, was probably incommunicado. As for his practice,
he had forbidden his secretary to bother him with any but the most urgent of matters.
He debated on whether to ask the wizened postmaster if there was a family named Danvers
living in the area. He decided not to. To have done so would have been to undermine the
elaborate make- believe structure which Julie had built, and even though he did not
believe in the structure's validity, he could not find it in his heart to send it toppling.
That afternoon she was wearing a yellow dress the same shade as her hair, and again his
throat tightened when he saw her, and again he could not speak. But when the first moment
passed and words came, it was all right, and their thoughts flowed together like two
effervescent brooks and coursed gaily through the arroyo of the afternoon. This time
when they parted, it was she who asked, you be here tomorrow—though only because
she stole the question from his lips—and the words sang in his ears all the way back
through the woods to the cabin and lulled him to sleep after an evening spent with his
pipe on the porch.
Next afternoon when he climbed the hill it was empty. At first his disappointment numbed
him, and then he thought, She's late, that's all. She'll probably show up any minute.
And he sat down on the granite bench to wait. But she did not come. The minutes passed—the
hours. Shadows crept out of the woods and climbed partway up the hill. The air grew colder.
He gave up, finally, and headed miserably back toward the cabin.
The next afternoon she did not show up either. Nor the next. He could neither eat nor
sleep. Fishing palled on him. He could no longer read. And all the while, he hated
himself—hated himself for behaving like a lovesick schoolboy, for reacting just like
any other fool in his forties to a pretty face and a pair of pretty legs. Up until a
few days ago he had never even so much as looked at another woman, and here in the space
of less than a week he had not only looked at one but had fallen in love with her.
Hope was dead in him when he climbed the hill on the fourth day—and then suddenly alive
again when he saw her standing in the sun. She was wearing a black dress this time, and
he should have guessed the reason for her absence; but he didn't—not till he came up
to her and saw the tears start from her eyes and the telltale trembling of her lip.
what's the matter
She clung to him, her shoulders shaking, and pressed her face against his coat. father
died,

tearless through the wake and funeral and had not broken down till now.
He put his arms around her gently. He had never kissed her, and he did not kiss her now,
not really. His lips brushed her forehead and briefly touched her hair—that was all.

knew he was dying all along,she said. must have known it ever since the strontium
90 experiment he conducted at the laboratory. But he never told anyone—he never even
told me … I don't want to live. Without him there's nothing left to live for—nothing,
nothing, nothing!
He held her tightly.
still a child, really.
Her head jerked back, and she raised suddenly tearless eyes to his.
Don't you dare call me a child!
Startled, he released her and stepped back. He had never seen her angry before. didn't
mean—
Her anger was as evanescent as it had been abrupt.
feelings, Mr. Randolph. But I'm not a child, honest I'm not. Promise me you'll never
call me one again.


—will you be here tomorrow
She looked at him for a long time. A mist, like the aftermath of a summer shower, made
her blue eyes glisten.
to be replaced—and I don't know how to replace them. Ours—mine may be good for one
more trip, but I'm not sure.

She nodded.

—and for the record—I love you.
She was gone then; running lightly down the hill, and a moment later she disappeared
into the grove of sugar maples. His hands were trembling when he lighted his pipe, and
the match burned his fingers. Afterward he could not remember returning to the cabin
or fixing supper or going to bed, and yet he must have done all of those things, because
he awoke in his own room, and when he went into the kitchen, there were supper dishes
standing on the drainboard.

He washed the dishes and made coffee. He spent the morning fishing off the pier, keeping
his mind blank. He would face reality later. Right now it was enough for him to know
that she loved him, that in a few short hours he would see her again. Surely even a run-down
time machine should have no trouble transporting her from the hamlet to the hill.
He arrived there early and sat down on the granite bench and waited for her to come out
of the woods and climb the slope. He could feel the hammering of his heart and he knew
that his hands were trembling. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer,
and today, you.
He waited and he waited, but she did not come. She did not come the next day either.
When the shadows began to lengthen and the air grow chill, he descended the hill and
entered the grove of sugar maples. Presently he found a path, and he followed it into
the forest proper and through the forest to the hamlet. He stopped at the small post
office and checked to see if he had any mail. After the wizened postmaster told him there
was none, he lingered for a moment. —is there a family by the name of Danvers living
anywhere around here
The postmaster shook his head.


After that, although he visited the hill every afternoon till his vacation ran out, he
knew in his heart that she would not return, that she was lost to him as utterly as if
she had never been. Evenings he haunted the hamlet, hoping desperately that the
postmaster had been mistaken; but he saw no sign of Julie, and the description he gave
of her to the passersby evoked only negative responses.
Early in October he returned to the city. He did his best to act toward Anne as though
nothing had changed between them; but she seemed to know the minute she saw him that
something had changed. And although she asked no questions, she grew quieter and quieter
as the weeks went by, and the fear in her eyes that had puzzled him before became more
and more pronounced.
He began driving into the country Sunday afternoons and visiting the hilltop. The woods
were golden now, and the sky was even bluer than it had been a month ago. For hours he
sat on the granite bench, staring at the spot where she had disappeared. Day before
yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.
Then, on a rainy night in mid-November, he found the suitcase. It was Anne's, and he
found it quite by accident. She had gone into town to play bingo, and he had the house

to himself; and after spending two hours watching four jaded TV programs, he remembered
the jigsaw puzzles he had stored away the previous winter.
Desperate for something—anything at all—to take his mind off Julie, he went up to the
attic to get them. The suitcase fell from a shelf while he was rummaging through the
various boxes piled beside it, and it sprang open when it struck the floor.
He bent over to pick it up. It was the same suitcase she had brought with her to the
little apartment they had rented after their marriage, and he remembered how she had
always kept it locked and remembered her telling him laughingly that there were some
things a wife had to keep a secret even from her husband. The lock had rusted over the
years, and the fall had broken it.
He started to close the lid, paused when he saw the protruding hem of a white dress.
The material was vaguely familiar. He had seen material similar to it not very long
ago—material that brought to mind cotton candy and sea foam and snow.
He raised the lid and picked up the dress with trembling fingers. He held it by the
shoulders and let it unfold itself, and it hung there in the room like gently falling
snow. He looked at it for a long time, his throat tight. Then, tenderly, he folded it
again and replaced it in the suitcase and closed the lid. He returned the suitcase to
its niche under the eaves. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer,
and today, you.
Rain thrummed on the roof. The tightness of his throat was so acute now that he thought
for a moment that he was going to cry. Slowly he descended the attic stairs. He went
down the spiral stairway into the living room. The clock on the mantel said ten-fourteen.
In just a few minutes the bingo bus would let her off at the corner, and she would come
walking down the street and up the walk to the front door. Anne would … Julie would.
Julianne
Was that her full name Probably. People invariably retained part of their original names
when adopting aliases; and having completely altered her last name, she had probably
thought it safe to take liberties with her first. She must have done other things, too,
in addition to changing her name, to elude the time police. No wonder she had never wanted
her picture taken! And how terrified she must have been on that long-ago day when she
had stepped timidly into his office to apply for a job! All alone in a strange generation,
not knowing for sure whether her father's concept of time was valid, not knowing for
sure whether the man who would love her in his forties would feel the same way toward
her in his twenties. She had come back all right, just as she had said she would.

Twenty years, he thought wonderingly, and all the while she must have known that one
day I'd climb a September hill and see her standing, young and lovely, in the sun, and
fall in love with her all over again. She had to know because the moment was as much
a part of her past as it was a part of my future. But why didn't she tell me Why doesn't
she tell me now
Suddenly he understood.
He found it hard to breathe, and he went into the hall and donned his raincoat and stepped
out into the rain. He walked down the walk in the rain, and the rain pelted his face
and ran in drops down his cheeks, and some of the drops were raindrops, and some of them
were tears. How could anyone as agelessly beautiful as Anne—as Julie—was, be afraid
of growing old Didn't she realize that in his eyes she couldn't grow old—that to him
she hadn't aged a day since the moment he had looked up from his desk and seen her standing
there in the tiny office and simultaneously fallen in love with her Couldn't she
understand that that was why the girl on the hill had seemed a stranger to him
He had reached the street and was walking down it toward the corner. He was almost there
when the bingo bus pulled up and stopped, and the girl in the white trench coat got out.
The tightness of his throat grew knife-sharp, and he could not breathe at all. The
dandelion-hued hair was darker now, and the girlish charm was gone; but the gentle
loveliness still resided in her gentle face, and the long and slender legs had a grace
and symmetry in the pale glow of the November street light that they had never known
in the golden radiance of the September sun.
She came forward to meet him, and he saw the familiar fear in her eyes—a fear poignant
now beyond enduring because he understood its cause. She blurred before his eyes, and
he walked toward her blindly. When he came up to her, his eyes cleared, and he reached
out across the years and touched her rain-wet cheek. She knew it was all right then,
and the fear went away forever, and they walked home hand in hand in the rain.



THE END


蒲公英女孩


山上的那个女孩使马克想起了埃德娜.文森特.米莱。或许是因为她 站在午
后的阳光下，而她那蒲公英般色泽的头发则在风中起舞；又或许是因为她

那老式的白色连衣裙缠绕着其修长而苗条的双腿。无论如何，马克都有个
强烈的感觉便是那位女孩来自过 去，然而事实证明这个感觉是错误的，女
孩并非来自过去，而是未来。马克在女孩身后的不远处停住了， 他的呼吸
由于登山的缘故显得有些急促。女孩还没有发现他，而他也正在考虑如何
使女孩知晓他 的存在，而又不至于受到惊吓。当他下定决心之后，他便取
出烟斗，填满烟叶，点着它，并用手护住烟斗 ，猛吹几口直到烟叶完全被
点燃。当马克再望向女孩时，女孩已经转过头来，正好奇地打量着他。马克慢慢地走向女孩，享受微风轻轻拂过脸颊的快感，明显地感觉到天空变
得更近了。他暗暗告诉自己 ，以后要经常进行徒步旅行。在到达这座小山
之前，他曾不时地穿过一片树林，而此时那边树林早已远远 地落在他身后，
一片淡黄，似乎在这浅浅的秋意中慢慢燃烧着。在树林的那一边有一个小
湖，湖 边的小屋和钓鱼的桥墩与小湖似乎融为了一体。在妻子被意外地召
去履行陪审义务之后，马克只能独自一 人打发从暑假中挤出的两周时间，
白天钓鱼，夜晚则在客厅的大壁炉前看书。在过了两天这样有规律的生 活
之后，马克出发进入了那片树林，漫无目的和方向地走着，直到他到达了
这座山，看到了那个 女孩。 女孩的眼睛像天空一般蔚蓝，而天空也似乎也
成了她那苗条轮廓的外框。她那鹅蛋般的脸庞柔软 而又甜美。这种似曾相
识的感觉使得马克非常地痛苦，因为他必须强忍住自己内心的冲动——想
要伸手摸一摸她那被风轻吻的精致脸颊的冲动。尽管自己的手并未离开身
旁，但马克却似乎感觉到指尖隐 隐作痛。怎么会这样我已经44岁了，而她
顶多刚过20岁，是什么抓住了我的心马克心里波浪起伏。
“嗨，你喜欢这里的风景吗”他大声问道。
“哦，是的”，女孩边说边转过身去并将手环绕在身前。“这里简直
太迷人了。”
马克随着女孩的眼光望去，嘴里不禁念道：“是啊，确实如此”。
在他们脚下，那片树林，以一 种暖秋的色调再次向前方的低地铺展出
去，在环绕过几里外的一个小村落后，最终在远处边境的一个村落 前从容
褪开。在远处，薄雾使小湾城那锯齿状的轮廓变得柔和起来，并赋予了它
中世纪城堡的外 貌，使它看来更象是在梦里而非现实中。
“你也是来自于那座城市吗”马克问道。
“在某种程度上是的。”女孩微笑地望着她，“我来自于240年后的
小湾城。”

这个笑容让马克意识到女孩并非真的认为马克会相信她，但是如果马
克假装 相信的话却也不错。因此，马克也笑了：“那一定是公元2201年，
是吧我想到那时小湾城会变得很大 ”
“哦，是的”，女孩指着他们脚下的树林边缘，说道：“那时这里将
是人口稠密带， 第2040号大街正好穿过那片糖枫林。你看到那群蝗虫所在
的地方了吗”
“是的”，马克说，“我看到了。”
“那是一个新购物中心的所在地。它的超级市场是如此巨大 ，以至于
你需要花上半天的时间才能穿过它。在那里，你可以购买到从阿斯匹林到
陆空两用运输 器等等在内的几乎所有你想要的东西。在超级市场旁边，也
就是那片山毛榉树林所在的位置，有一间大型 女装商场，里面专门销售顶
级女装设计师的最新设计。我穿的这件连衣裙就是今天早上在那里买的，很漂亮吧”
“哦，是的。”不过，我可不相信这裙子是240年后的产物。马克心
里虽然这么想，表面上却很有礼貌地观察着那件连衣裙。裙子是用一种未
曾见过的材料剪裁而成的，这种 材料似乎是由棉花糖、海水泡沫以及雪花
混合而成的。这大概是女孩自己做的衣服吧，马克边想边说道： “我猜你
是乘坐时间机器来的吧”
“是的，我父亲发明了一台时间机器。”
马克端详着女孩，他从未见过如此坦诚的一张脸，“那你经常来这里
吗”
“哦，是的。这里是我最喜欢的‘时光坐标’，我有时在这里站上好
几个小时，不停地看这看那。前天我 看见了一只兔子，昨天是一头鹿，而
今天则是你。”
“可怎么会有昨天呢”，马克问道：“如果你总是按时回到同一个地
点的话”
“哦，我 明白你的意思”，女孩说：“那是因为那个时间机器同其他
事物一样也是受时间影响的，因此如果你想要 保持相同的‘时光坐标’的
话，你必须每隔24个小时就将它的钟表指针往回拨，而我没有这样做，那< br>是因为我更喜欢每次回来时都是不同的一天。”
“那你父亲有跟你回来过吗”
女孩并没有马上回答马克，她抬起头来，一群“V”字型的天鹅正懒洋
洋地从他们头顶飞过 ，女孩出神地看了好一会，才说道：“我的父亲现在

病了，他一定非常想来，如果他身体 允许的话，不过没关系，我把我所看
到的全部都告诉他了”。
女孩又急忙补充道：“那就好像他亲自来到这里一样，你说是吧”
马克看着女孩那期待的眼神， 心里一阵感动：“是的，肯定是那样的”，
接着他又说道：“有一台时间机器一定很棒吧！”
女孩严肃地点点头：“这对于喜欢草地的人们来说是一种恩惠，在23
世纪，已经几乎没有 多少草地了。”
马克笑了，说道：“是啊，即使是二十世纪的今天，也已经没有多少
草 地了，我猜你肯定会说这片草地是属于某个收藏家的吧，看来我以后得
经常来这里，呵呵。”
“你住在这附近吗”女孩问。
“我住在后面三里远的一个小屋里，原本是来度假的 ，可现在却不是
这么一回事了，我的妻子由于要履行陪审义务，因此不能和我一道来这里
度假， 而我又不能推迟这个假期，因为我已经累得像个梭罗了。我叫马克.
伦道夫。”
“我叫朱莉”，女孩说，“朱莉.丹弗斯。”
这名字就像这条白色连衣裙一样很适合她，还有这 蓝色的天空、小山
以及这九月的微风都很适合她。或许她就住在这树林里的某个小村落......但是这并没有关系，如果她想假装来自未来，那就让她继续装下去好了。
马克真正在意的是他第一眼 看到女孩时，那种心动的感觉，以及端详女孩
那温柔的脸蛋时所产生的嫩滑感。
“你从事什么工作呢，朱莉”马克问道，“或者你还是个学生吗”
“我还在读书，正努力成为一 名秘书。”朱莉回答道，她向前走了半
步，做了一个漂亮的旋转，将手环绕在自己胸前。
“我真的非常想成为一名秘书”，朱莉接着说道：“你想，在一个很
重要的大办公室里，将那些重要人物 的谈话记录下来，这是多么非凡的一
项工作啊！想让我成为你的秘书吗，伦道夫先生”
“我非常愿意”，马克说，“我的妻子就曾经是我的秘书。哦，那是
战前的事了，那也是我们俩相识的原 因。”哦，我怎么会说起这个，马克
自己都有点惊讶。
“她是个好秘书吗”朱莉问。
“她是最好的，我很遗憾后来她不再是我的秘书了，不过她却成为了
我的妻子，这或许就是 所谓的‘失之于朝，得之于野’吧。”

“呵呵，是的，确实如此。哦，伦道夫先 生，我得回去了，我父亲正
在家里急着听我今日的见闻呢，而且我也得回去给他准备晚饭了。”
“明天你还会来这里吗”
“应该会吧，我最近每天都有来这，再见了，伦道夫先生”
“再见，朱莉。”
马克看着女孩轻巧地跑下山，消失在那片糖枫林中——也就是240年
后，第2040号大街的所在地。 马克笑了，心想：多么可爱的女孩啊。一种
难以抑制的好奇心就如同对生命的热情一样令马克全身颤抖起 来。正因为
曾经否认过这两种价值，因此此刻，马克更能体会它们的重要性。
20岁时 ，他是个严肃的年轻人，通过自己的努力考取了法学院；24岁
时，他就拥有了自己的事业，虽然那时事 业还小，可却占据了他的全部——
哦，好吧，并非全部，当他与安妮结婚时，曾经有一段短暂的时期—— 工
作在某种程度上失去了它的紧迫感。接着，随着战争的来临，又有一段时
期——这次要长的多 ——工作不仅变得遥远，甚至在某些时候还有些卑鄙。
然而，在他回归平民生活之后，工作的紧迫感又回 来了而且似乎报复般的
更加紧迫，因为此时，他不仅要抚养妻子，还有儿子杰夫。于是从那个时
候到现在，马克便被自己的工作占据了生活的全部，除了每年四个礼拜的
假期——而这也是他最近几年才 允许自己享有的。前两个礼拜，他会和安
妮、杰夫一起去后者所挑选的某个旅游胜地；后两个礼拜，也就 是在杰夫
回学校以后，他会和安妮两人独自呆在他们湖边的小屋里。然而，今年他
也许只能独自 一人度过那两个礼拜了。唔，或许并非是单独一人。 马克的
烟斗不知何时已经熄灭了。他再次将它点燃 ，深吸一口，慢慢地走下山，
动身返回那片树林，朝着小屋的方向走去。
秋风已至，白 天的长度逐渐变短，而夜晚的潮湿也已开始侵袭这雾色
朦胧的天空。马克走得很慢，当他回到湖边时太阳 已经落山了。这是一个
小湖，但却很深，树木沿着湖畔延展开来。小屋就在距离湖边不远处的一
排松树下，一条曲折的小路将它和钓鱼的桥墩连接在一起。小屋后面有一
条泥路与高速公路相通，而马克 的旅行车就停在后门边上，随时准备将其
载回文明社会。马克在厨房随便地吃了点东西，吃完后，他便回 到起居室
看书。屋外小棚里的发电机不时地传来一阵嗡嗡声，但这早已被现代人的
耳朵所习惯的 吵杂声并未打破夜的寂静。马克从壁炉旁那精心准备的书架
上挑出一本美国诗集，坐了下来，翻到《小山 上的午后》这一页，他将这
首宝贵的诗来回读了三遍，每读一遍他便仿佛看到那女孩站在午后的阳光下，她的长发在风中起舞，她的连衣裙则像柔和的雪花般缠绕在她那修长

而又可爱的 双腿上……忽然有一种块状物涌上了马克的喉咙，使他难以下
咽。 马克将书放回了书架，走出小屋，站 在门廊上，他再一次点燃了手中
的烟斗。马克开始强迫自己想安妮，不多时，安妮的脸便呈现在他眼前：
坚实而又温和的下巴，温柔而又富有同情心的双眼，尽管里面总有一丝马
克至今无法了解的恐惧 ，还有那依旧柔软的脸颊以及那优雅的微笑。这些
所有的优点都在她那波动的浅棕色长发以及那高挑身材 、优美身姿的映衬
下显得更加引人注目。每当马克想起自己的妻子，他总会惊叹于她那似乎
永远 不老的脸庞，惊叹于他如何能在这么多年后依旧像多年以前的那个早
上——马克第一眼见到她时那样可爱 。因此，很难想象仅仅过了20年之后，
自己竟会那么期待与一个按年龄几乎可以做自己女儿的接近于虚 构的一个
女孩约会。哦，不是这样的——但似乎也不是完全无法想象，马克立刻摇
摆起来。有一 阵子，马克甚至感觉自己的身体似乎离开了自己，完全无法
掌握。所幸，过了不久，双腿又重新回到了他 的控制之下，而这个世界似
乎也回复到其原本健康有序的轨道上。马克熄灭了烟斗，重新回到了屋里。< br>在卧室里，他脱了衣服，钻进被窝并关上了灯。梦乡本应很容易地到来，
但却没有，等到它最终来 临时，却是一些穿插着许多急促的梦的碎片。
“前天我看见了一只兔子”，女孩说，“昨天看见了一头鹿，而今天
则遇见了你。”
第 二天下午，女孩穿着一件蓝色的连衣裙，用一条蓝色的丝带绑住她
那蒲公英般色泽的长发。马克在到达山 下后，站了一会，一动也不动，直
到他那绷紧的喉咙放松下来，他才走上山去，站在女孩的身旁。但女孩 那
具有柔和曲线的脖子和下颚却令他的喉咙再度绷紧起来。因此当女孩转过
身来向他说：
“嗨，我还以为你不会来了。”
马克停了好长一会才回答道：“但我还是来了，你也是。”
“是的。”女孩说，“我很高兴你能来。”
他们俩在附近一些露出地面的花岗岩上坐了下来，俯 望着山下的风景。
马克点燃了烟斗开始抽烟，并朝风中吐出烟圈。
“我父亲也吸烟斗， ”女孩说，“当他点烟叶时，也像你那样，用手
护住烟斗，即使一点风也没有。你和我的父亲在好多地方 都很相像。”
“给我讲讲你父亲吧，”马克说，“也讲讲你自己。”
于是，女 孩便开始讲起她和她的父亲。她说她今年21岁，她父亲是一
名已退休的政府的物理学家，他们住在第2 040号大街的一套小公寓里，自
从她母亲四年前去世后，便由她一个人来照顾父亲。

接着马克也给她讲起了他自己以及安妮和杰夫——包括他准备在将来
使杰夫 成为自己的合伙人；以及安妮对照相机的恐惧症，例如在他们结婚
的那天，安妮便拒绝照相并且自那以后 ，一直也不肯照相；还有他们三个
去年夏天野营旅途中的快乐时光。
当马克讲完后，女孩不禁赞叹道：“多么令人愉快的家庭生活啊。生
活在1961年定是非常美妙。”
“有了时间机器，你随时都可以搬来这里住啊。”
“并非那么简单，除了要照顾我 父亲外——我无论如何也不会抛弃他
的，还有时空警察必须加以考虑。你要知道，时空旅行实际上是仅限 于政
府发起的历史探险队成员的，它并不向一般公众开放。”
“但你似乎来去自如啊。”
“那是因为我父亲他自己发明了一台时间机器，而时空警察并不知
道。”
“但你还是违反了法律呀。”
女孩点点头：“是的，但这仅仅是在他们眼里违法，仅仅是依据他 们
的时空观念，我父亲他有自己的看法。”
聆听女孩说话是如此的愉快，以至于并不用 考虑她讲的是什么内容，
马克非常希望女孩继续讲下去，不管她讲的话题在他听来是多么的牵强。
“给我讲讲你父亲的看法吧。”马克赶紧说道。
“首先我要告诉你官方意见。那些 认可它的人们认为，未来的人不应
实际参与到过去所发生的事情里，因为他们的出现很可能造成某种矛盾 ，
而未来的事件则有可能因为这些矛盾而需发生改变。因此，时空旅行部门
规定只有经过授权的 人员才有权利使用他们的时间机器，并且组织了专门
的警察部门来抓捕那些试图跨越年代的人，如那些向 往更简单生活的人，
还有那些将自己伪装作历史学家以便永久地回到另一个时代的人。”
“但在我父亲看来，时间这本书早已写成。我父亲说，从宏观世界的
角度来看，即将发生的每件事情其实 已经发生了。因此，如果未来世界的
某个人参与了过去的某个事件，那他也就成为了这个事件的一部分— —这
是因为他原本就是该事件的一部分——因此矛盾也就不可能产生。”
马克深吸了一口烟，郑重地说道：“你父亲是一个非同寻常的人。”
“哦，是的。”兴奋使女孩的脸颊显得愈发绯红，她那蓝色的双眸更
亮了。

“你肯定不会相信他读过那么多的书，伦道夫先生。啊，我们住的公
寓都被他的书给挤满了！黑格尔的， 康德的，休姆的，爱因斯坦的，牛顿
的，等等等等。我也——我自己也读过其中的一些。”
“我收集的同样多，事实上，我也读过其中一些。”
女孩全神贯注地看着马克的脸。“太棒了， 伦道夫先生，”她高兴地
说，“我敢打赌我们俩拥有许多相同的爱好。”
两人后面的谈 话最终证明了他们俩确实有许多相同的爱好——尽管先
验主义、贝克莱主义以及相对论并非适合一个男人 和一个女孩在九月的小
山顶上谈论的话题，尤其是这个男人已经四十四岁了，这个女孩才二十一
岁，而马克直到刚才才意识到这一点，不过幸运的是补偿还在后面——两
人关于先验主义的愉快讨论不仅 引出了“较早”和“较晚”的结论，也引
出了女孩眼中那微妙的火花；两人对贝克莱主义的批判不仅强调 了这位虔
诚的主教的理论中所固有的内在缺陷，也使得女孩的脸更红了；而两人对
相对论的回顾 则不仅证明了能量确实总是等于质量乘以光速的平方，而且
还证明了知识非但不是一种障碍，它还是吸引 女性的财富。 那天下午的感
觉令马克久久难以忘怀，直到他上床后仍是念念不忘。这一次他不再试图< br>想起安妮，而是躺在黑暗中，任由各种想法不断地向自己涌来——而这些
想法都是有关于一个有着 蒲公英般色泽长发的女孩。
前天我看见了一只兔子，昨天看见了一头鹿，今天则遇见了你。
第三天早上马克开车前往附近的那个村落，去邮局查看是否有他的信
件，结果一封也没有， 这并不出乎他的意料。杰夫跟他一样都不爱写信，
而安妮此时此刻则很可能是被禁止写信的。至于律师事 务所方面，他已要
求秘书不得打扰他，除非是极其重要的事情。马克犹豫着是否要向枯瘦的
邮局 女局长打听这里是否住着姓丹弗斯的人家，最终他还是放弃了，因为
这样做便会破坏朱莉所精心虚构的故 事，虽然他并不相信这一故事的真实
性，但他却不想将这美妙的故事破坏掉。
那天下午 ，女孩穿着一条黄色的连衣裙并系着一条同头发颜色相同的
发带。当马克看到女孩时，他的喉咙又一次紧 绷起来，连话都说不出来。
但这种感觉很快便消失了，两人的思想如同两条兴奋的小溪一样汇流在一起，欢快地流过下午那段短暂的时光。当他们分手时，女孩问道：“明天
你还会来吗”
这还是女孩第一次这么问——或许这仅仅是女孩从马克的嘴边偷出的
问题而已。但这句话却在马克的耳边 不断萦绕，一直伴着他走回小屋，直
至其恬然入睡。

第四天下午，当马 克爬上山顶时，女孩并不在。失望之情淹没了马克，
但只一会他便想到，女孩可能是迟到了，或许她立马 就要来了。于是马克
便坐在那些花岗岩上等待女孩。但女孩并没有来，几分钟过去了——几个
小 时过去了，女孩还是没有来。阴影从树林中蔓延出来爬上了半山腰，太
阳就快下山了，而天气也变得更冷 了，马克最终还是放弃了等待，悲伤地
走回小屋。第五天下午，女孩还是没有出现。第六天也是。马克吃 不下也
睡不着，对钓鱼也失去了兴趣，书更是读不进去。自始至终，他都在恨自
己——恨自己就 像个害相思病的小男生，恨自己就像其他40岁的傻瓜一样
对一张漂亮的脸蛋和一对修长的大腿起了那么 大的反应。就在不久前，除
了安妮外，他还从未如此关注过另外一个女人，然而现在就在这里，在短短不到一个礼拜的时间里，他不仅关注甚至还爱上了那个女人。
第七天下午，在马克爬上山顶前，他已经不抱希望了...... 但突然这
希望之火又重新点燃了，因 为女孩就站在阳光下的山顶上，这次她穿着一
条黑色的连衣裙。马克本应在猜测为何她这几天没来，然而 他并没有——
直到他走近女孩，他才发现女孩流着泪，嘴唇不断地颤抖。
“发生什么事了，朱莉！”
女孩一把抱住了马克，她的肩膀不断颤抖，她将脸紧紧地贴在马克的
外套上。
“我父亲死了，”她痛苦地说。
不知为何，马克知道这是女孩第一次流泪。在葬礼和守丧的整个 过程，
女孩一滴眼泪也没流过，直到现在崩溃为止。
马克轻轻地抱住女孩。在这之前他 从未吻过她，现在他也没有，但或
许也不能这么说。因为他的嘴唇掠过了女孩的前额，轻轻地吻了她的长 发
——仅此而已。
“我很遗憾，朱莉，”马克说，“我知道你父亲对你意味着什么。”
“他早就知道自己快要死了，”
“从他在实验室里做锶90的实验时起他肯定便知 道了。但他没有告诉
任何人——他甚至没有告诉我......我也不想活了。没有了他我活着还有什么意义！没有任何的意义了！”
马克紧紧地抱住女孩：“不，朱莉，还有一些东西值得你 活着，或许
是某个人。你还年轻，你还不过是个孩子。”
女孩的脸猛地往后一仰，她的 双眼突然之间眼泪全无，并紧紧地盯着
马克的眼睛：“我不是个孩子，你竟敢称我为孩子！”

一惊之下，马克放开了女孩，往后退了几步。他还从未见过女孩生气
的样子 ，“我不是这个意思......”
女孩的气来得快，去得也快。“我知道你不是有意要伤我的 心，伦道
夫先生，但我不是个孩子，真的不是，请答应我，以后别再叫我孩子了，
好吗”
“好的，”马克忙说，“我答应你。”
“现在我得走了，”女孩说，“还有一大堆的事等着我去做呢。”
“明天...明天你还会来吗”
女孩久久地注视着马克。一阵薄雾——那是夏季雨后的产物，令她那
蓝色的双眸更加闪亮。
“时间机器出了些问题，”她说，“有些零件需要更换......但我不
知道要如何更换。它可能只能 再做一次旅行了，我并不能确定。”
“但你还是会设法来的，对吧”
女孩点点头：“是的，我会。还有......先生......”
“怎么了，朱莉”
“万一我没法来的话......请记住——我爱你。”
女孩走了，她轻巧地跑下 山，不一会儿便消失在那片糖枫林里。马克
想点烟斗，但他的手却不断颤抖，划开的火柴烧着了他的手。 马克已经完
全不记得他是如何回到小屋，如何做的晚饭，如何上的床，但他确实做了
这些，因为 当他醒来时，他就躺在卧室里，而当他走进厨房时，那些用过
的餐具则躺在洗碗池里。马克将碗洗好并煮 了咖啡。一个早上他都在桥墩
上钓鱼，以保持脑子里面一片空白。他想过会儿再面对现实，他的脑子里< br>都是有关于女孩向他表白的事。再过几个小时就能见面了——当然即使那
“时间机器”出了问题也 完全能将女孩从“未来”带到山上的。
马克提早到了山上，他坐在那些花岗岩上等待女孩。他感 觉到自己的
心脏正在“砰砰砰”地乱跳，而他的手则在不断颤抖。
前天我看见了一只兔子，昨天看见了一头鹿，今天则遇见了你。
马克等啊等，等啊等，可女孩没 有来。隔天她还是没有来。当影子变
得更长而天气更冷时，马克爬下山，走进了那片糖枫林。不久，他便 找着
一条小路，沿着那条小路，马克穿过树林到达了那个小村落，他在邮局前
停了下来，查看是 否有自己的信件。那位枯瘦的女局长告诉他没有寄给他
的信，马克在那里踌躇了一会后，突然问道：“是 否有户姓丹弗斯的人家
住在这附近呢”
女局长摇了摇头：“从没听说过啊。”

“那么最近这镇里举行过葬礼吗”
“那至少是一年前的事了。”
至那以后，尽管每天下午马克都去那座小山，但直到假期结束，女孩
都未再出现过，马克心 里知道女孩再也不会回来了，她已经不再属于他，
完完全全，彻彻底底的，就像她从未属于过他一样。夜 晚，马克常游荡于
那个小村落，他近乎绝望地认为或许是那个女局长搞错了啊，但他并未找
到朱 莉存在的任何迹象，而他向过往的人描述女孩的形象得到的却仅仅是
否定的回答。十月初，马克回到城里 ，他在安妮面前尽力表现以表明他们
俩之间一切如初，但安妮却似乎在看到他的第一眼时便察觉到了某种 不同。
尽管她什么也没有问，但随着时间的推移，她却变得越来越沉默，而她眼
中那曾经使马克 疑惑不已的恐惧感也变得越来越明显了。每个礼拜天的下
午马克便会开车前往那座小山，那片树林现在已 变得金黄，而天空则变得
比一个月前还要蓝。马克在那块花岗岩上一坐便是几个小时，凝视着女孩
消失的那个地方。
前天我看见了一只兔子，昨天看见了一头鹿，今天则遇见了你。
在十一月中旬的一个下雨的夜晚，马克发现了一个手提箱。这是安妮
的手提箱，马克也是很 偶然才发现的。安妮去城里打牌，而他则一个人呆
在家里，在花了两个小时观看无聊的电视后，马克突然 想起去年冬天自己
收藏的一些拼图游戏。为了寻找一些东西——任何东西——以使自己忘记
朱莉 ，马克爬上了阁楼，去寻找那些拼图游戏。当他翻箱倒柜地寻找时，
那个手提箱从一个架子上掉了下来， 撞在地板上，自己打开了——可能是
触动了弹簧。马克弯腰捡起了它，这是他们俩结婚后租在一个小公寓 时，
安妮所携带的那个手提箱。马克还记得安妮总是锁着它，并笑着对他说这
里面放着一些秘密 ，这些秘密即使是对老公也要保密。箱子的锁经过这么
多年早已生锈，而刚才的那下撞击则使它彻底坏掉 。 马克准备把箱子合上，
忽然他看到了一条白色连衣裙的摺边，他停住了。那是一种似曾相识的料子，他曾经在不久之前见过类似的料子——那种由棉花糖、海水泡沫以及
雪花混合而成的料子。马克 抬起箱盖，用他那颤抖的手指拾起那条连衣裙。
他的手抓住连衣裙的两肩，让它自个展开，裙子悬在半空 就像轻轻下落的
雪花。马克盯着裙子一动也不动，他的喉咙绷紧了。过了好久之后，马克
轻轻地 将裙子叠好，将它放回箱里，并把箱子合上。他将箱子放回了原处。
连衣裙上附有一张纸条，上面写着：
前天我看见了一只兔子，昨天看见了一头鹿，今天则遇见了你。

雨点敲打着房顶 ，马克的喉咙愈发绷紧了，以至于有段时间马克都想
喊出声来了。过了一会儿，马克慢慢地从阁楼上走了 下来，他沿着盘旋的
楼梯走进了起居室，壁炉上的时钟显示现在已经是22点14分了，再过几
分钟，公车便会载着安妮在街角停下，安妮下车后将沿着人行道走到前门。
安妮朱莉朱莉安妮那是她的全 名吗或许是的，人们在使用别名时总会保留
自己原名的一部分。在完全更改了自己的姓氏后，她或许认为 保留自己的
名字是安全的，除了改姓氏外，她必定还做过其他的一些事以躲避那些时
空警察。而 她不愿意照相的事现在看来也不足为奇了。现在想来，当时羞
涩地走入自己的办公室谋求一份工作的她， 该是多么诚惶诚恐啊。孤身一
人在一个陌生的年代，既不确定父亲关于时空的观点是否正确，也不确定< br>那个会在40岁时爱上她的男人在20岁时是否对她也有同样的感觉。但她
还是来了，就像她说的 那样。
二十年了，她一直都知道有一天我将会爬上一座小山并看见年轻而又
可爱的她站 在阳光下，知道我会再一次地爱上她。她一定知道这些，因为
这些作为我未来人生的一部分也正是她过去 的一部分。但是她为何不提前
告诉我呢为什么她到现在也还不告诉我呢
马克不断地思考 着。忽然，他明白了。马克觉得自己快要窒息了，他
跑进门厅，穿上雨衣，出了门，快步朝雨中走去，他 沿着人行道走着，雨
点打在他的脸上，并沿着他的脸颊滑落下来，其中有一些是雨水，而还有
一 些则是泪水。
一个人若拥有像安妮或者说朱莉那样的不老容颜，该多么惧怕变老啊。
可 是她难道不知道在我眼里，其实她一点也没变老对于我而言，从在办公
室里见到她并爱上她的那时起，她 就一天也未老过。难道她不明白这就是
为什么山上的那个女孩对我而言，就如同一个陌生人一样的原因
马克朝着街角的方向走去，当他快到时，公车也开到了。穿着白色防
水大衣的安妮从车上走 下。马克的喉咙绷得使他无法呼吸。那蒲公英色泽
的长发现在颜色更深了，而那种少女所特有的魅力已经 不再，但那温柔的
可爱却仍驻留在她那文雅的脸上，那修长而又苗条的双腿在十一月的街灯
下显 得如此地优美、匀称，就如同在九月阳光照耀下的那双长腿一般。
安妮朝马克走来，她的眼中有 着马克所熟悉的那种恐惧——而此时，
那种恐惧更甚以往——马克知道那是为何。马克的视线模糊了，他 盲目地
朝着安妮走去，当他走近时，他的眼睛亮了起来，他的手穿越过岁月，触
摸在安妮那被雨 打湿的脸颊上，安妮很快便明白了一切，她眼中的恐惧永
远地消失了。

他们俩手牵手一起朝家里走去......