strolling around the villages on a road that has been asphalted past balconied mansions where doughy cottages used to be,she is slow;she who strode laughing and skipped over its ruts and heaps of dung.she is almost deaf.
passing a garden,she begs a bunch of marigolds from a young householder whose moustache just covers a tolerant smile,she grabs at running children to ask each one;whose little boy,whose little girl?
in barn after barn left open to air,garlands of tobacco are hanging like fur coats.she and the old man no longer grow any.their barn still has sacks of grain,bales of hay and lucerne;he keeps the old horse in there,and the cow with her calf,Kyria Sophia has her vegetable garden,fenced with beans and morning glories.her tomatoes hang in skeins among yellewing leaves.she has round peppers and long ones,deep red,and black eggplants curved like horns.hens scratch and flounce,and two scraggy turkey cockerels.the flowers on her basil are like lilac,white and mauve.
the trees are the same,in the same warm mist as when Bell first saw them,their leaves yellowed,even the cobwebs afloat among them yellowed.
都说了不要机翻