Things went drearily4 at the H?tel des Grottes. But little manhood remained at Brant?me. Women worked in the fields and drove the carts and kept the shops where so few things were sold. Félise busied herself in the fabrique, her staff entirely5 composed of women. Fortinbras made a pretence6 of managing the hotel to which for days together no travellers came. No cars of pleasant motorists were unloaded at its door. Now and then an elderly bagman in vain quest of orders sat in the solitary7 salle-à-manger, and Fortinbras waited on him with urbane8 melancholy9. Thrown intimately together father and daughter grew nearer to each other. They became companions, walking together on idle afternoons and sitting on mild nights on the terrace, with the town twinkling peacefully below them. They talked of many things. Fortinbras drew from the rich store of his wisdom, Félise from her fund of practical knowledge. There were times when she forgot the harrowing mystery of her mother, and, only conscious of a great and yearning10 sympathy, unlocked her heart and cried a little in close and comforting propinquity. Together they read the letters from the trenches11, all too short, all too elusive12 in their brave cheeriness. The epistles of Martin and Bigourdin were singularly alike. Each said much the same. They had not the comforts of the H?tel des Grottes. But what would you have? War was war. They were in splendid health. They had enough to eat. They had had a sharp tussle13 with the Boches and many of their men were killed. But victory in the end was certain. In the meanwhile they needed some warm underclothes as the nights were growing cold; and would Félise enclose some chocolate and packets of Bastos. Love to everybody and Vive la France!
These letters Fortinbras would take to the Café de l’Univers and read to the grey-headed remnant of the coterie14, each of whom had a precisely15 similar letter to read. The Adjoint du Maire was the first to come without a letter. He produced a telegram which was passed from hand to hand in silence. He had come dry-eyed and brave, but when the telegram reached him, after completing its round, he broke down.
“C’est stupide! Forgive me, my friends. I am proud to have given my son to my country. Mais enfin, he was my son—my only son. For the first time I am glad that his mother is no longer living.” Then he raised his head valiantly17. “Et toi, Viriot—Lucien, how is he doing?”
Then some one heard of the death of Beuzot, the young professor at the Ecole Normale.
At last, after a long interval18 of silence came disastrous19 news of Bigourdin, lying seriously, perhaps mortally wounded in a hospital in a little northern town. There followed days of anguish20. Telegrams elicited21 the information that he had been shot through the lung. Félise went about her work with a pinched face.
In course of time a letter came from Madame Clothilde Robineau at Chartres:
My Dear Niece:
Although your conduct towards me was ungrateful, I am actuated by the teachings of Christianity in extending to you my forgiveness, now that you are alone and unprotected. I hear from a friend of the Abbé Duloup, a venerable priest who is administering to the wounded the consolations23 of religion, that your Uncle Gaspard is condemned25 to death. Christian22 duty and family sentiment therefore make it essential that I should offer you a home beneath my roof. You left it in a fit of anger because I spoke26 of your father in terms of reprobation27. But if you had watched by the death-bed of your mother, my poor sister, as I did, in the terrible garret in the Rue28 Maugrabine, you would not judge me so harshly. Believe me, dear child, I have at heart your welfare both material and spiritual. If you desire guidance as to the conduct of the hotel I shall be pleased to aid you with my experience.
Your affectionate Aunt,
Clothilde Robineau.
The frigid29 offer well meant according to the woman’s pale lights, Félise scarcely heeded30. Father or no father, uncle or no uncle, protector or no protector, she was capable of conducting a score of hotels. The last thing in the world she needed was the guidance of her Aunt Clothilde. Save for one phrase in the letter she would have written an immediate31 though respectful refusal and thought nothing further of the matter. But that one phrase flashed through her brain. Her mother had died in the Rue Maugrabine. They had told her she had died in hospital. Things hitherto bafflingly dark to her became clear—on one awful, tragic33 hypothesis. She shook with the terror of it.
It was the only communication the postman had brought that late afternoon. She stood in the vestibule to read it. Fortinbras engaged in the bureau over some simple accounts looked up by chance and saw her staring at the letter with great open eyes, her lips apart, her bosom34 heaving. He rose swiftly, and hurrying through the side door came to her side.
“My God! Not bad news?”
She handed him the letter. He read, his mind not grasping at once that which to her was essential.
“The priests are exaggerating. And as for the proposal——”
“The Rue Maugrabine,” said Félise.
He drew the quick breath of sudden realisation, and for a long time they stood silent, looking into each other’s eyes. At last she spoke, deadly white:
“That woman I saw—who opened the door for me—was my mother.”
She had pierced to the truth. No subterfuge35 he could invent had power to veil it. He made a sad gesture of admission.
“Why did you hide it from me?” she asked.
“You had a beautiful ideal, my child, and it would have been a crime to tear it away.”
She held herself very erect—there was steel in the small body—and advanced a step or so towards him, her dark eyes fearless.
“You know what you gave me to understand when I saw her?”
“Yes, my child,” said Fortinbras.
“You also were an ideal.”
He smiled. “You loved me tenderly, but I was not in your calendar of saints, my dear.”
“You are now,” she said.
He laughed uncertainly. “A poor old sinner of a saint,” he said, and gathered her to him.
And later, in the salon37, before the fire, for the autumn was damp and cold, he told her the cheerless story of his life, concealing38 nothing, putting the facts before her so that she could judge. She sat on the rug, her arm about his knee. She felt very tired, as though some part of her had bled to death. But a new wonder filled her heart. In a way she had been prepared for the discovery. In her talks with her uncle and with Martin she had been keen to mark a strange disingenuousness39. She had accused them of conspiracy40. They were concealing something; what, she knew not; but a cloud had rested on her mother’s memory. If, on that disastrous evening, the frowsy woman of the Rue Maugrabine had revealed herself as her mother, her soul would have received a shock from which recovery might have been difficult. Now the shock had not only been mitigated41 by months of torturing doubt, but was compensated42 by the thrill of her father’s sacrifice.
When he had ended, she turned and wept and knelt before him, crying for forgiveness, calling him all manner of foolish names.
He said, stroking her dark hair: “I am only a poor old bankrupt Marchand de Bonheur!”
“You will be Marchand de Bonheur to the end,” she said, and with total want of logical relevance43 she added: “See what happiness you have brought me to-night.”
“At any rate, my dear,” said he, “we have found each other at last.”
She went to bed and lay awake till dawn looking at a new world of wrong doing, suffering and heroism44. Who was she, humble45 little girl, living her sequestered46 life, to judge men by the superficialities of their known actions? She had judged her father almost to the catastrophe47 of love. She had judged Martin bitterly. What did she know of the riot in his soul? Now he was offering his life for a splendid ideal. She felt humble beside her conception of him. And her Uncle Gaspard, great, tender, adored, was lying far, far away in the north, with a bullet through his body. She prayed her valiant16 little soul out for the two of them. And the next morning she arose and went to her work brave and clear-eyed, with a new hope in God based upon a new faith in man.
A day or two later she received a wild letter from Corinna Hastings. Corinna’s letters were as frequent as blackberries in March. Félise knitted her brows over it for a long time. Then she took it to her father.
“The sense,” she said, “must lie in the scrabble I can’t make out.”
Fortinbras put on his spectacles and when, not without difficulty, he had deciphered it, he took off the spectacles and smiled the benevolent48 smile of the Marchand de Bonheur.
“Leave it to me, my dear,” said he. “I will answer Corinna.”
In the tiny town of Wendlebury, in the noisy bosom of her family, Corinna was eating her heart out. During the latter days of June she had returned to the fold, an impecunious49 failure. As a matter of theory she had upheld the principles of woman suffrage50. As a matter of practice, in the effort to obtain it, she loathed51 it with bitter hatred52. She lacked the inspiration of its overwhelming importance in sublunary affairs. She was willing enough to do ordinary work in its interests, at a living wage, even to the odious53 extent of wearing an an?mic tricolor and selling newspapers in the streets. But when her duties involved incendiarism, imprisonment54 and hunger, striking, Corinna revolted. She had neither the conviction nor the courage. Miss Banditch reviled55 her for a recreant56, a snake in the grass and a spineless doll and left the flat, forswearing her acquaintance for ever. Headquarters signified disapproval57 of her pusillanimity58. Driven to desperation she signified her disapproval of Headquarters in unmeasured terms. The end came and prospective59 starvation drove her home to Wendlebury. When the war broke out, in common with the rest of the young maidenhood60 of the town, she yearned61 to do something to help the British Empire. Her sister Clara, to satisfy this laudable craving62, promptly63 married a subaltern, and, when he was ordered to the front, went to live with his people. The next youngest sister, Evelyn, anxious for Red Cross work, found herself subsidised by an aunt notoriously inimical to Corinna. Corinna therefore had to throw in her lot with Margaret and Winnie, chits of fifteen and thirteen—the intervening boys having flown from the nest. What was a penniless and, in practical matters, a feckless young woman to do? She knitted socks and mufflers and went round the town collecting money for Belgian refugees. So did a score of tabbies, objects of Corinna’s scornful raillery who district-visited the poor to exasperation64. She demanded work more glorious, more heroic; but lack of funds tied her to detested65 knitting-needles. As the Vicar’s daughter she was compelled to go to church and listen to her father’s sermons on the war; compared with which infliction66, she tartly67 informed her mother, forcible feeding was a gay amusement.
Once or twice she had a postcard from Martin in the Argonne. She cursed herself, her destiny and her sex. If only she was a man she would at least have gone forth68 with a gun on her shoulder. But she was a woman; the most helpless thing in women God ever made. Even her mother, whom she had rated low on account of intellectual short-comings, she began to envy. At any rate she had generously performed her woman’s duty. She had brought forth ten children, five men children, two of whom had rushed to take up arms in defence of their country. Martin’s last postcard had told Corinna of Bigourdin being called away to fight. In her enforced isolation69 from the great events of the great world she became acutely conscious that in all the great world only one individual had ever found a use for her. A flash of such knowledge either scorches70 or illuminates71 the soul.
Then early in November she received a misspelt letter laboriously72 written in hard pencil on thin, glazed73 paper. It was addressed from a hospital in the North of France.
Mademoiselle Corinna:
I have done my best to strike a blow for my beloved country. It was written that I should do so, and it was written perhaps that I should give my life for her. I am dictating74 these words to my bedside neighbour who is wounded in the knee. For my part, a German bullet has penetrated75 my lung, and the doctors say I may not live. But while I still can speak, I am anxious to tell you that on the battlefield your image has always been before my eyes and that I always have in my heart a love for you tender and devoted76. Should I live, Mademoiselle, I pray you to forget this letter, as I do not wish to cause you pain. But should I die, let me now have the consolation24 of believing that I shall have a place in your thoughts as one who has died, not unworthily or unwillingly77, in a noble cause.
Gaspard-Marie Bigourdin.
Corinna sat for a long time, frozen to her soul, looking out of her bedroom window at the hopeless autumn drizzle78, and the sodden79 leaves on the paths of the vicarage garden. Then, with quivering lips, she sat down at the rickety little desk that had been hers since childhood and wrote to Bigourdin. She sealed it and went out in the rain and dropped it in the nearest pillar box. When she reached her room again, the realisation of the inadequacy80 of her words smote81 her. She threw herself on her bed and sobbed82. After which she wrote her wild letter to Félise.
For the next few days a chastened Corinna went about the Vicarage. An unusual gentleness manifested itself in her demeanour, and at last emboldened83 Mrs. Hastings, good, kind soul, to take the unprecedented84 step of enquiring85 into her wayward and sharp-tongued daughter’s private affairs.
“I’m afraid, dearie, that letter you had from France contained bad news.”
“Yes, mother,” said Corinna, with a sigh.
They were alone in the drawing room. Mrs. Hastings laid aside her knitting, rose slowly—she was a portly woman—and went across to Corinna and put her arm about her shoulders.
“Can’t you tell me what it was, dearie?” she whispered.
Corinna melted to the voice. It awakened86 memories of unutterable comfort of childish years. She surrendered to the embrace.
“Yes, mother. The truest man I have ever known—a Frenchman—is dying over there. He asked me to marry him a year ago. And I was a fool, mother. Oh! an awful fool!”
And half an hour later, she said tearfully: “I’ve been a fool in so many ways. I’ve misjudged you so, mother. It never occurred to me that you would understand.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Hastings, stroking her hair, “to bring ten children into the world and keep them going on small means, to say nothing of looking after a husband, isn’t a bad education.”
The next day came a telegram.
“Re letter Félise. If you want to find yourself at last go straight to Bigourdin. Fortinbras.”
The message was a lash32. She had not contemplated87 the possibility of going to France. In the sleepless88 nights she had ached to be with him. But how? In Tierra del Fuego he would be equally inaccessible89.
“Go straight to him.” The words were very simple. Of course she would go. Why had she waited for Fortinbras to point out her duty?
Then came the humiliating knowledge of impotence. She looked in her purse and counted out her fortune of thirteen shillings and sevenpence halfpenny. A very humble Corinna showed letter and telegram to her mother.
“The war seems to have turned everything upside down,” said the latter. “You ought to go, dear. It’s a sacred duty.”
“But how can I? I have no money. I can’t ask father.”
“Come upstairs,” said Mrs. Hastings.
She led the way to her bedroom and from a locked drawer took an old-fashioned japanned despatch-box, which she opened.
“All my married life,” she said, “I have managed to keep something against a rainy day. Take what you want, dear.”
Thus came the overthrowal of all Corinna’s scheme of values. She went to France, a woman with a warm and throbbing90 heart.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
insignificant
|
|
| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
speck
|
|
| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
sergeant
|
|
| n.警官，中士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
drearily
|
|
| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
pretence
|
|
| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
urbane
|
|
| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
yearning
|
|
| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
trenches
|
|
| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
elusive
|
|
| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
tussle
|
|
| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
coterie
|
|
| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
precisely
|
|
| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
valiant
|
|
| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
valiantly
|
|
| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
disastrous
|
|
| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
elicited
|
|
| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
consolations
|
|
| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
consolation
|
|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
condemned
|
|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
reprobation
|
|
| n.斥责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
rue
|
|
| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
frigid
|
|
| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
heeded
|
|
| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
immediate
|
|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
lash
|
|
| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
tragic
|
|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
subterfuge
|
|
| n.诡计；藉口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
sob
|
|
| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
salon
|
|
| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
concealing
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
disingenuousness
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
conspiracy
|
|
| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
mitigated
|
|
| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
compensated
|
|
| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
relevance
|
|
| n.中肯，适当，关联，相关性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
heroism
|
|
| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
humble
|
|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
sequestered
|
|
| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
catastrophe
|
|
| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
benevolent
|
|
| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
impecunious
|
|
| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
suffrage
|
|
| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
loathed
|
|
| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
hatred
|
|
| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
odious
|
|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
imprisonment
|
|
| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
reviled
|
|
| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
recreant
|
|
| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
disapproval
|
|
| n.反对，不赞成 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
pusillanimity
|
|
| n.无气力，胆怯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
59
prospective
|
|
| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
maidenhood
|
|
| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
61
yearned
|
|
| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
craving
|
|
| n.渴望,热望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
promptly
|
|
| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
exasperation
|
|
| n.愤慨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
detested
|
|
| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
infliction
|
|
| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
tartly
|
|
| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
isolation
|
|
| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
scorches
|
|
| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的第三人称单数 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
illuminates
|
|
| v.使明亮( illuminate的第三人称单数 )；照亮；装饰；说明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
laboriously
|
|
| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
glazed
|
|
| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
dictating
|
|
| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
penetrated
|
|
| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
unwillingly
|
|
| adv.不情愿地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
drizzle
|
|
| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
sodden
|
|
| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
inadequacy
|
|
| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
smote
|
|
| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
sobbed
|
|
| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
emboldened
|
|
| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
unprecedented
|
|
| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
enquiring
|
|
| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
awakened
|
|
| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
contemplated
|
|
| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
sleepless
|
|
| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
inaccessible
|
|
| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
throbbing
|
|
| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |