ISTOOD one evening in Piccadilly, at the dinner hour, staring into the bright shop windows. London’s display of haberdashery and gold and silver ornaments1 interests me intensely. It was drizzling2 and I had no umbrella; yet that situation soon ceases to annoy one in England. I walked on into Regent Street and stopped under an arc light to watch the home-surging crowds—the clerks, men and women, the boys and girls.
The thought was with me as I walked in the rain, “Where shall I dine? How shall I do it?” I wandered through New Bond Street; and looking idly at the dark stores, as I came back along Piccadilly, I saw two girls, arm in arm, pass by. One of them looked over her shoulder at me and smiled. She was of medium size and simply dressed. She was pretty in the fresh English way, with large, too innocent eyes. The girls paused before a shop window and as I stopped beside them and looked at the girl who had smiled, she edged over toward me and I spoke3 to her.
“Wouldn’t you like to take the two of us?” she asked with that quaint4 odd accent of the Welsh. Her voice was soft and her eyes were as blue and weak in their force as any unsophisticated girl’s might well be.
“This girl isn’t hard and vulgar,” I said to myself. I suppose we all pride ourselves on knowing something of character in women. I thought I did.
“No,” I replied rather directly to her question.114 “Not to-night. But let’s you and I go somewhere for dinner.”
“Would you mind givin’ my friend a shillin’?” she asked.
“Not at all,” I replied. “There you are.”
It was a wet night, chill and dreary6, and on second thought I made it half-a-crown. The second girl went away—a girl with a thin white face—and I turned to my companion.
“Now,” I said, “what shall we do?” It was nearly eight o’clock and I was wondering where I could go with such a girl to dine. Her clothes, I perceived, were a mere7 patchwork8. Her suit was of blue twill, worn shiny. She wore the cheapest kind of a feather boa and her hat was pathetic. But the color of her cheeks was that wonderful apple color of the English and her eyes—really her eyes were quite a triumph of nature—soft and deep blue, and not very self-protective.
“Poor little storm-blown soul,” I thought as I looked at her. “Your life isn’t much. A vague, conscienceless thing (in the softer sense of that word). You have a chilly9 future before you.”
She looked as though she might be nineteen.
“Let’s see! Have you had your dinner?” I asked.
“No, sir.”
“Where is there a good restaurant? Not too smart, you know.”
“Well, there’s L.’s Corner House.”
“Oh, yes, where is that? Do you go there yourself, occasionally?”
“Oh, yes, quite often. It’s very nice, I think.”
“We might go there,” I said. “Still, on second thought, I don’t think we will just now. Where is the place you go to—the place you take your—friends?”
“It’s at No. — Great Titchfield Street.”
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“Is that an apartment or a hotel?”
“It’s a flat, sir, my flat. The lady lets me bring my friends there. If you like, though, we could go to a hotel. Perhaps it would be better.”
I could see that she was uncertain as to what I would think of her apartment.
“And where is the hotel? Is that nice?”
“It’s pretty good, sir, not so bad.”
I smiled. She was holding a small umbrella over her head.
“We had better take a taxi and get out of this rain.”
I put up my hand and hailed one. We got in, the driver obviously realizing that this was a street liaison10, but giving no sign. London taxi-drivers, like London policemen, are the pink of civility.
This girl was civil, obliging. I was contrasting her with the Broadway and the American type generally—hard, cynical11 little animals. The English, from prostitutes to queens, must have an innate12 sense of fair play in the social relationship of live and let live. I say this in all sincerity14 and with the utmost feeling of respect for the nation that has produced it. They ought to rule, by right of courtesy. Alas15, I fear me greatly that the force and speed of the American, his disregard for civility and the waste of time involved, will change all this.
In the taxi I did not touch her, though she moved over near to me in that desire to play her rôle conscientiously16 line by line, scene by scene.
“Have we far to go?” I asked perfunctorily.
“Not very, only a little way.”
“How much ought the cab charge to be?”
“Not more than eight or ten pence, sir.” Then, “Do you like girls, sir?” she asked quaintly17 in a very human effort to be pleasant under the circumstances.
“No,” I replied, lying cautiously.
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She looked at me uncertainly—a little over-awed, I think. I was surely a strange fish to swim into her net anyhow.
“Very likely you don’t like me then?”
“I am not sure that I do. How should I know? I never saw you before in my life. I must say you have mighty18 nice eyes,” was my rather banal19 reply.
“Do you think so?” She gave me a sidelong, speculative20 look.
“What nationality are you?” I asked.
“I’m Welsh,” she replied.
“I didn’t think you were English exactly. Your tone is softer.”
The taxi stopped abruptly21 and we got out. It was a shabby-looking building with a tea- or coffee-room on the ground floor, divided into small rooms separated by thin, cheap, wooden partitions. The woman who came to change me a half sovereign in order that I might pay the driver, was French, small and cleanly looking. She was pleasant and brisk and her whole attitude reassured22 me at once. She did not look like a person who would conspire23 to rob, and I had good reason to think more clearly of this as we came out later.
“This way,” said my street girl, “we go up here.”
And I followed her up two flights of thinly carpeted stairs into a small dingy24 room. It was clean, after the French fashion.
“It’s not so bad?” she asked with a touch of pride.
“No. Not at all.”
“Will you pay for the room, please?”
I asked how much and found I was to be charged five shillings which seemed a modest sum.
The girl locked the door, as the landlady went out, and began taking off her hat and jacket. She stood before117 me with half-challenging, half-speculative eyes. She was a slim, graceful27, shabby figure and a note of pathos28 came out unexpectedly in a little air of bravado29 as she rested one hand on her hip13 and smiled at me. I was standing in front of the mantelpiece, below which was the grate ready to be fired. The girl stood beside me and watched and plainly wondered. She was beginning to suspect that I was not there on the usual errand. Her eyes, so curiously30 soft and blue, began to irritate me. Her hair I noticed was brown but coarse and dusty—not well kept. These poor little creatures know absolutely nothing of the art of living or fascination31. They are the shabbiest pawns32 in life, mere husks of beauty and living on husks.
“Sit down, please,” I said. She obeyed like a child. “So you’re Welsh. What part of Wales do you come from?”
She told me some outlandish name.
“What were your parents? Poor, I suppose.”
“Indeed not,” she bridled33 with that quaint country accent. “My father was a grocer. He had three stores.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said mockingly. “You women lie so. I don’t believe you’re telling me the truth.”
“Why not?” Her clear eyes looked into mine.
“Oh, I don’t. You don’t look to me like the daughter of a man who owned three grocery stores. That would mean he was well-to-do. You don’t expect me to believe that, with you leading this life in London?”
“Tell me,” I said, “how much can you make out of this business?”
“Oh, sometimes more, sometimes less. I don’t walk118 every day. You know I only walk when I have to. If I pick up a gentleman and if he gives me a good lot I don’t walk very soon again—not until that’s gone. I—I don’t like to very much.”
“What do you call a good lot?”
“Oh, all sorts of sums. I have been given as high as six pounds.”
“That isn’t true,” I said. “You know it isn’t true. You’re talking for effect.”
The girl’s face flushed.
“It is true. As I’m alive it’s true. It wasn’t in this very room, but it was in this house. He was a rich American. He was from New York. All Americans have money. And he was drunk.”
“Yes, all Americans may have money,” I smiled sardonically38, “but they don’t go round spending it on such as you in that way. You’re not worth it.”
She looked at me, but no angry rage sprang to her eyes.
“No, not very much.”
“You’re a woman-hater. That’s what you are. I’ve seen such.”
“Not a woman-hater, no. Simply not very much interested in them.”
She was perplexed40, uncertain. I began to repent41 of my boorishness42 and recklessly lighted the fire (cost—one shilling). We drew up chairs before it and I plied5 her with questions. She told me of the police regulations which permit a woman to go with a man, if he speaks to her first, without being arrested—not otherwise—and of the large number of women who are in the business. Piccadilly is the great walking-ground, I understood, after one o’clock in the morning; Leicester119 Square and the regions adjacent, between seven and eleven. There is another place in the East End—I don’t recall where—where the poor Jews and others walk, but they are a dreadful lot, she assured me. The girls are lucky if they get three shillings and they are poor miserable43 drabs. I thought at the time, if she would look down on them, what must they be?
Then, somehow, because the conversation was getting friendly, I fancy, this little Welsh girl decided44 perhaps that I was not so severe as I seemed. Experience had trained her to think constantly of how much money she could extract from men—not the normal fee, there is little more than a poor living in that, but extravagant45 sums which produce fine clothes and jewels, according to their estimate of these things. It is an old story. Other women had told her of their successes. Those who know anything of women—the street type—know how often this is tried. She told the customary story of the man who picked her up and, having escorted her to her room, offered her a pound when three or four pounds or a much larger sum even was expected. The result was, of course, according to her, dreadful for the man. She created a great scene, broke some pottery46 over his head, and caused a general uproar47 in the house. It is an old trick. Your timid man hearing this and being possibly a new or infrequent adventurer in this world, becomes fearful of a scene. Many men are timid about bargaining with a woman beforehand. It smacks48 too much of the brutal and evil and after all there is a certain element of romance involved in these drabby liaisons49 for the average man, even if there is none—as there is none—for the woman. It is an old, sad, sickening, grim story to most of them and men are fools, dogs, idiots, with rarely anything fine or interesting in their eyes. When they see the least chance to betray one of them, to browbeat120 and rob or overcharge him in any way and by any trick, they are ready to do it. This girl, Lilly E——, had been schooled by perhaps a hundred experienced advisers50 of the street as to how this was done. I know this is so, for afterwards she told me of how other women did it.
But to continue: “He laid a sovereign on the table and I went for him,” she said.
I smiled, not so much in derision as amusement. The story did not fit her. Obviously it was not so.
“Oh, no, you didn’t,” I replied. “You are telling me one of the oldest stories of the trade. Now the truth is you are a silly little liar51 and you think you are going to frighten me, by telling me this, into giving you two or three pounds. You can save yourself the trouble. I don’t intend to do it.”
I had every intention of giving her two or three if it suited my mood later, but she was not to know this now.
My little Welsh girl was all at sea at once. Her powerless but really sweet eyes showed it. Something hurt—the pathos of her courage and endurance in the face of my contemptuous attitude. I had made fun of her obvious little lies and railed at her transparent52 tricks.
“I’m a new experience in men,” I suggested.
“Men! I don’t want to know anything more about them,” she returned with sudden fury. “I’m sick of them—the whole lot of them! If I could get out of this I would. I wish I need never see another man!”
“It’s true!” she insisted sullenly.
“You say that, but that’s talk. If you wanted to get out, you would. Why don’t you get a job at something? You can work.”
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“I don’t know any trade now and I’m too old to learn.”
“What nonsense! You’re not more than nineteen and you could do anything you pleased. You won’t, though. You are like all the others. This is the easy way. Come,” I said more gently, “put on your things and let’s get out of this.”
Obediently and without a word she put on her coat and her bedraggled hat and we turned to the door.
“Look here,” I said, “I haven’t meant to be unkind. And Heaven knows I’ve no right to throw stones at you. We are all in a bad mess in this world—you and I, and the rest. You don’t know what I’m talking about and it doesn’t matter. And now let’s find a good quiet restaurant where we can dine slowly and comfortably like two friends who have a lot to talk over.”
In a moment she was all animation54. The suggestion that I was going to act toward her as though she were a lady was, according to her standards, wildly unconventional.
“Well, you’re funny,” she replied, laughing; “you really are funny.” And I could see that for once, in a long time, perhaps, the faintest touch of romance had entered this sordid55 world for her.
As we came out, seeing that my attitude had changed so radically56, she asked, “Would you get me a box of cigarettes? I haven’t any change.”
“Surely,” I said, and we stepped into a tobacconist’s shop. From there we took a taxi to L.’s Corner House, which she seemed to regard as sufficiently57 luxurious58; and from there—but I’ll tell this in detail.
“Tell me,” I said, after she had given the order, picking something for herself and me; “you say you come from Wales. Tell me the name of a typical mining-town122 which is nearer London than some of the others—some place which is really poor and hard-worked.”
“Well, where I come from was pretty bad,” she ventured, giving me some unpronounceable name. “The people haven’t got much to live on there.”
“And how far is that?”
She gave me the hours from London and the railroad fare in shillings. I think it was about three hours at most.
“And Cardiff’s pretty bad,” she added. “There’s lots of mines there. Very deep ones, too. The people are poor there.”
“Have you ever been in a mine?”
“Yes, sir.”
I smiled at her civility, for in entering and leaving the room of the house of assignation, she had helped me on and off with my overcoat, quite as a servant might.
I learned a little about Wales through her—its ill-paid life—and then we came back to London. How much did the average street girl really make? I wanted to know. She couldn’t tell me and she was quite honest about it.
“Some make more than others,” she said. “I’m not very good at it,” she confessed. “I can’t make much. I don’t know how to get money out of men.”
“I know you don’t,” I replied with real sympathy. “You’re not brazen60 enough. Those eyes of yours are too soft. You shouldn’t lie though, Lilly. You’re better than that. You ought to be in some other work, worse luck.”
She didn’t answer, choosing to ignore my petty philosophic61 concern over something of which I knew so little.
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We talked of girls—the different kinds. Some were really very pretty, some were not. Some had really nice figures, she said, you could see it. Others were made up terribly and depended on their courage or their audacity62 to trick money out of men—dissatisfied men. There were regular places they haunted, Piccadilly being the best—the only profitable place for her kind—and there were no houses of ill repute—the police did not allow them.
“Yes, but that can’t be,” I said. “And the vice63 of London isn’t concentrated in just this single spot.” The restaurant we were in—a large but cheap affair—was quite a center, she said. “There must be other places. All the women who do this sort of thing don’t come here. Where do they go?”
“There’s another place along Cheapside.”
It appeared that there were certain places where the girls congregated64 in this district—saloons or quasi-restaurants, where they could go and wait for men to speak to them. They could wait twenty minutes at a time and then if no one spoke to them they had to get up and leave, but after twenty minutes or so they could come back again and try their luck, which meant that they would have to buy another drink. Meantime there were other places and they were always full of girls.
“You shall take me to that Cheapside place,” I suggested. “I will buy you more cigarettes and a box of candy afterwards. I will pay you for your time.”
She thought about her traveling companion whom she had agreed to meet at eleven, and finally promised. The companion was to be left to her fate.
While we dined we talked of men and the types they admired. Englishmen, she thought, were usually attracted toward French girls and Americans liked English girls, but the great trick was to get yourself up like124 an American girl and speak her patois—imitate her slang, because she was the most popular of all.
“Americans and English gentlemen”—she herself made that odd distinction—“like the American girl. I’m sometimes taken for one,” she informed me, “and this hat is like the American hats.”
It was. I smiled at the compliment, sordid as it may appear.
“Why do they like them?” I asked.
“Oh, the American girl is smarter. She walks quicker. She carries herself better. That’s what the men tell me.”
“And you are able to deceive them?”
“Yes.”
“That’s interesting. Let me hear you talk like an American. How do you do it?”
She pursed her lips for action. “Well, I guess I’ll have to go now,” she began. It was not a very good imitation. “All Americans say ‘I guess,’” she informed me.
“And what else?” I said.
“Oh, let me see.” She seemed lost for more. “You teach me some,” she said. “I knew some other words, but I forget.”
For half an hour I coached her in American slang. She sat there intensely interested while I drilled her simple memory and her lips in these odd American phrases, and I confess I took a real delight in teaching her. She seemed to think it would raise her market value. And so in a way I was aiding and abetting65 vice. Poor little Lilly E——! She will end soon enough.
At eleven we departed for the places where she said these women congregated and then I saw what the London underworld of this kind was like. I was told afterwards that it was fairly representative.
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This little girl took me to a place on a corner very close to a restaurant we were leaving—I should say two blocks. It was on the second floor and was reached by a wide stairway, which gave into a room like a circle surrounding the head of the stairs as a center. To the left, as we came up, was a bar attended by four or five pretty barmaids, and the room, quite small, was crowded with men and women. The women, or girls rather, for I should say all ranged somewhere between seventeen and twenty-six, were good looking in an ordinary way, but they lacked the “go” of their American sisters.
The tables at which they were seated were ranged around the walls and they were drinking solely66 to pay the house for allowing them to sit there. Men were coming in and going out, as were the other girls. Sometimes they came in or went out alone. At other times they came in or went out in pairs. Waiters strolled to and fro, and the etiquette67 of the situation seemed to demand that the women should buy port wine—why, I don’t know. It was vile68 stuff, tasting as though it were prepared of chemicals and I refused to touch it. I was shown local detectives, girls who worked in pairs, and those lowest of all creatures, the men who traffic in women. I learned now that London closes all its restaurants, saloons, hotel bars and institutions of this kind promptly69 at twelve-thirty, and then these women are turned out on the streets.
“You should see Piccadilly around one o’clock in the morning,” my guide had said to me a little while before, and now I understood. They were all forced out into Piccadilly from everywhere.
It was rather a dismal70 thing sitting here, I must confess. The room was lively enough, but this type of life is so vacant of soul. It is precisely71 as though one stirred in straw and sawdust, expecting it to be vigorous with the126 feel of growing life and freshness, such as one finds in a stalk or tree. It is a world of dead ideals I should say—or, better yet, a world in which ideals never had a chance to grow. The women were the veriest birds of prey72, cold, weary, disillusioned73, angry, dull, sad, perhaps; the men were victims of carnal desire without the ability to understand how weary and disgusted the women were who sought to satisfy them. No clear understanding of life on either side; no suggestion of delicacy74 or romance. No subtlety75 of lure76 or parade. Rather, coarse, hard bargaining in which robbery and abuse and bitter recrimination play a sodden77 part. I know of nothing so ghastly, so suggestive of a totally dead spirit, so bitter a comment on life and love and youth and hope as a street girl’s weary, speculative, commercial cry of—“Hello, sweetheart!”
From this first place we went to others—not so good, Lilly told me.
It is a poor world. I do not attempt to explain it. The man or woman of bridled passion is much better off. As for those others, how much are they themselves to blame? Circumstances have so large a part in it. I think, all in all, it is a deadly hell-hole; and yet I know that talking is not going to reform it. Life, in my judgment78, does not reform. The world is old. Passion in all classes is about the same. We think this shabby world is worst because it is shabby. But is it? Isn’t it merely that we are different—used to different things? I think so.
After buying her a large box of candy I hailed a taxi and took my little girl home to her shabby room and left her. She was very gay. She had been made quite a little of since we started from the region of rented rooms. Her purse was now the richer by three pounds. Her opinion had been asked, her advice taken, she had been127 allowed to order. I had tried to make her feel that I admired her a little and that I was sorry for her a little. At her door, in the rain, I told her I might use some of this experience in a book sometime. She said, “Send me a copy of your book. Will I be in it?”
“Yes.”
“Send it to me, will you?”
“If you’re here.”
“Oh, I’ll be here. I don’t move often.”
Poor little Welsh waif! I thought, how long, how long, will she be “here” before she goes down before the grim shapes that lurk79 in her dreary path—disease, despair, death?
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1
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| 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 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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conspire
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| v.密谋，（事件等）巧合，共同导致 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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pawns
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| n.（国际象棋中的）兵( pawn的名词复数 )；卒；被人利用的人；小卒v.典当，抵押( pawn的第三人称单数 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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bridled
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的过去式和过去分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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boorishness
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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pottery
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| n.陶器，陶器场 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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smacks
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| 掌掴（声）( smack的名词复数 )； 海洛因； （打的）一拳； 打巴掌 | |
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liaisons
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| n.联络( liaison的名词复数 )；联络人；（尤指一方或双方已婚的）私通；组织单位间的交流与合作 | |
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advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abetting
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| v.教唆（犯罪）( abet的现在分词 )；煽动；怂恿；支持 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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