Victor Hugo and Isaac Pitman
i
The next morning, Saturday, Hilda ran no risk in visiting Mr. Cannon1. Her mother’s cold, after a fictitious2 improvement, had assumed an aggravated3 form in order to prove that not with impunity4 may nature be flouted5 in unheated October drawing-rooms; and Hilda had been requested to go to market alone. She was free. And even supposing that the visit should be observed by the curious, nobody would attach any importance to it, because everybody would soon be aware that Mr. Cannon had assumed charge of the Calder Street property.
Past the brass6 plates of Mr. Q. Karkeek, out of the straw-littered hubbub7 of the market-place, she climbed the long flight of stairs leading to the offices on the first floor. In one worsted-gloved hand she held a market-basket of multi-coloured wicker, which dangled9 a little below the frilled and flounced edge of her blue jacket. Secure in the pocket of her valanced brown skirt—for at that time and in that place it had not yet occurred to any woman that pockets were a superfluity—a private half-sovereign lay in the inmost compartment10 of her purse; this coin was destined11 to recompense Mr. Cannon. Her free hand went up to the heavy chignon that hung uncertainly beneath her bonnet—a gesture of coquetry which she told herself she despised.
Her face was a prim12 and rather forbidding mask, assuredly a mysterious mask. She could not have explained her own feelings. She was still in the adventure, but the end of it was immediate13. She had nothing to hope from the future. Her essential infelicity was as profound and as enigmatic as ever. She might have said with deliberate and vehement15 sincerity16 that she was not happy. Wise, experienced observers, studying her as she walked her ways in the streets, might have said of her with sympathetically sad conviction, “That girl is not happy! What a pity!” It was so. And yet, in her unhappiness she was blest. She savoured her unhappiness. She drank it down passionately17, as though it were the very water of life—which it was. She lived to the utmost in every moment. The recondite18 romance of existence was not hidden from her. The sudden creation—her creation—of the link with Mr. Cannon seemed to her surpassingly strange and romantic; and in so regarding it she had no ulterior thought whatever: she looked on it with the single-mindedness of an artist looking on his work. And was it not indeed astounding19 that by a swift caprice and stroke of audacity20 she should have changed and tranquillized the ominous21 future for her unsuspecting mother and herself? Was it not absolutely disconcerting that she and this Mr. Cannon, whom she had never known before and in whom she had no other interest, should bear between them this singular secret, at once innocent and guilty, in the midst of the whole town so deaf and blind?
ii
A somewhat shabby-genteel, youngish man appeared at the head of the stairs; he was wearing a silk hat and a too ample frock-coat. And immediately, from the hidden corridor at the top, she heard the voice of Mr. Cannon, imperious:
“Karkeek!”
The shabby-genteel man stopped. Hilda wanted to escape, but she could not, chiefly because her pride would not allow. She had to go on. She went on, frowning.
The man vanished back into the corridor. She could hear that Mr. Cannon had joined him in conversation. She arrived at the corridor.
“How-d’ye-do, Miss Lessways?” Mr. Cannon greeted her with calm politeness, turning from Mr. Karkeek, who raised his hat. “Will you come this way? One moment, Mr. Karkeek.”
Through a door marked “Private” Mr. Cannon introduced Hilda straight into his own room; then shut the door on her. He held in one hand a large calf-bound volume, from which evidently he was expounding22 something to Mr. Karkeek. The contrast between the expensive informality of Mr. Cannon’s new suit and the battered23 ceremoniousness of Mr. Karkeek’s struck her just as much as the contrast between their demeanours; and she felt, vaguely24, the oddness of the fact that the name of the deferential25 Mr. Karkeek, and not the name of the commanding Mr. Cannon, should be upon the door-plates and the wire-blinds of the establishment. But of course she was not in a position to estimate the full significance of this remarkable26 phenomenon. Further, though she perfectly27 remembered her mother’s observations upon Mr. Cannon’s status, they did not in the slightest degree damage him in her eyes—when once those eyes had been set on him again. They seemed to her inessential. The essential, for her, was the incontestable natural authority and dignity of his bearing.
She sat down, self-consciously, in the chair—opposite the owner’s chair—which she had occupied at her first visit, and thus surveyed, across the large flat desk, all the ranged documents and bundles with the writing thereon upside down. There also was his blotting-pad, and his vast inkstand, and his pens, and his thick diary. The disposition28 of the things on the desk seemed to indicate, sharply and incontrovertibly, that orderliness, that inexorable efficiency, which more than aught else she admired in the external conduct of life. The spectacle satisfied her, soothed29 her, and seemed to explain the attractiveness of Mr. Cannon.
Immediately to her left was an open bookcase almost filled with heavy volumes. The last of a uniform row of Law Reports was absent from its place—being at that moment in the corridor, in the hands of Mr. Cannon. The next book, a thin one, had toppled over sideways and was bridging the vacancy30 at an angle; several other similar thin books filled up the remainder of the shelf. She stared, with the factitious interest of one who is very nervously31 awaiting an encounter, at the titles, and presently deciphered the words, ‘Victor Hugo,’ on each of the thin volumes. Her interest instantly became real. Characteristically abrupt32 and unreflecting, she deposited her basket on the floor and, going to the bookcase, took out the slanting33 volume. Its title was Les Rayons et Les Ombres. She opened it by hazard at the following poem, which had no heading and which stood, a small triptych of print, rather solitary34 in the lower half of a large white page:
Dieu qui sourit et qui donne
Et qui vient vers qui l’attend
Pourvu que vous soyez bonne,
Sera content.
Le monde où tout35 étincelle,
Mais ou rien n’est enflammé,
Pourvu que vous soyez belle36,
Sera charmé.
Mon coeur, dans l’ombre amoureuse,
Où l’énivrent deux beaux yeux,
Pourvu que tu sois heureuse,
Sera joyeux.
That was all. But she shook as though a miracle had been enacted37. Hilda, owing partly to the fondness of an otherwise stern grandfather and partly to the vanity of her unimportant father, had finally been sent to a school attended by girls who on the average were a little above herself in station—Chetwynd’s, in the valley between Turnhill and Bursley. (It was still called Chetwynd’s though it had changed hands.) Among the staff was a mistress who was known as Miss Miranda—she seemed to have no surname. One of Miss Miranda’s duties had been to teach optional French, and one of Miss Miranda’s delights had been to dictate38 this very poem of Victor Hugo’s to her pupils for learning by heart. It was Miss Miranda’s sole French poem, and she imposed it with unfading delight on the successive generations whom she ‘grounded’ in French. Hilda had apparently39 forgotten most of her French, but as she now read the poem (for the first time in print), it reestablished itself in her memory as the most lovely verse that she had ever known, and the recitations of it in Miss Miranda’s small classroom came back to her with an effect beautiful and tragic40. And also there was the name of Victor Hugo, which Miss Miranda’s insistent41 enthusiasm had rendered sublime42 and legendary43 to a sensitive child! Hilda now saw the sacred name stamped in gold on a whole set of elegant volumes! It was marvellous that she should have turned the page containing just that poem! It was equally marvellous that she should have discovered the works of Victor Hugo in the matter-of-fact office of Mr. Cannon! But was it? Was he not half-French, and were not these books precisely44 a corroboration45 of what her mother had told her? Mr. Cannon’s origin at once assumed for her the strange seductive hues46 of romance; he shared the glory of Victor Hugo. Then the voices in the corridor ceased, and with a decisive movement he unlatched the door. She relinquished47 the book and calmly sat down as he entered.
iii
“Of course, your mother’s told you?”
“Yes.”
“I had no difficulty at all. I just asked her what she was going to do about the rent-collecting.”
Standing48 up in front of Hilda, but on his own side of the desk, Mr. Cannon smiled as a conqueror49 who can recount a triumph with pride, but without conceit50. She looked at him with na?ve admiration51. To admire him was agreeable to her; and she liked also to feel unimportant in his presence. But she fought, unsuccessfully, against the humiliating idea that his personal smartness convicted her of being shabby—of being even inefficient52 in one department of her existence; and she could have wished to be magnificently dressed.
“Mrs. Lessways is a very shrewd lady—very shrewd indeed!” said Mr. Cannon, with a smile, this time, to indicate humorously that Mrs. Lessways was not so easy to handle as might be imagined, and that even the cleverest must mind their p’s and q’s with such a lady.
“Oh yes, she is!” Hilda agreed, with an exaggerated emphasis that showed a lack of conviction. Indeed, she had never thought of her mother as a very shrewd lady.
Mr. Cannon continued to smile in silence upon the shrewdness of Mrs. Lessways, giving little appreciative53 movements of the diaphragm, drawing in his lips and by consequence pushing out his cheeks like a child’s; and his eyes were all the time saying lightly: “Still, I managed her!” And while this pleasant intimate silence persisted, the noises of the market-place made themselves prominent, quite agreeably—in particular the hard metallic54 stamping and slipping, on the bricked pavement under the window, of a team of cart-horses that were being turned in a space too small for their grand, free movements, and the good-humoured cracking of a whip. Again Hilda was impressed, mystically, by the strangeness of the secret relation between herself and this splendid effective man. There they were, safe within the room, almost on a footing of familiar friendship! The atmosphere was different from that of the first interview. And none knew! And she alone had brought it all about by a simple caprice!
“I was fine and startled when I saw you at our door, Mr. Cannon!” she said.
He might have said, “Were you? You didn’t show it.” She was half expecting him to say some such thing. But he became reflective, and began: “Well, you see—” and then hesitated.
“You didn’t tell me you thought of calling.”
“Well,” he proceeded at last—and she could not be sure whether he was replying to her or not—“I was pretty nearly ready to buy that Calder Street property. And I thought I’d talk that over with your mother first! It just happened to make a good beginning, you see.” He spoke55 with all the flattering charm of the confidential56.
Hilda flushed. Under her mother’s suggestion, she had been misjudging him. He had not been guilty of mere57 scheming. She was profoundly glad. The act of apology to him, performed in her own mind, gave her a curious delight.
“I wish she would sell,” said Hilda, to whom the ownership of a slum was obnoxious58.
“Very soon your consent would be necessary to any sale.”
“Really!” she exclaimed, agreeably flattered, but scarcely surprised by this information. “I should consent quick enough! I can’t bear to walk down the street!”
He laughed condescendingly. “Well, I don’t think your mother would care to sell, if you ask me.” He sat down.
Hilda frowned, regretting her confession59 and resenting his laughter.
“What will your charges be, please, Mr. Cannon?” she demanded abruptly60, and yet girlishly timid. And at the same moment she drew forth61 her purse, which she had been holding ready in her hand.
For a second he thought she was referring to the price of rent-collecting, but the appearance of the purse explained her meaning. “Oh! There’s no charge!” he said, in a low voice, seizing a penholder.
“But I must pay you something! I can’t—”
“No, you mustn’t!”
Their glances met in conflict across the table. She had known that he would say exactly that. And she had been determined62 to insist on paying a fee—utterly determined! But she could not, now, withstand the force of his will. Her glance failed her. She was disconcerted by the sudden demonstration63 of her inferiority. She was distressed64. And then a feeling of faintness, and the gathering65 of a mist in the air, positively66 frightened her. The mist cleared. His glance seemed to say, with kindness: “You see how much stronger I am than you! But you can trust me!” The sense of adventure grew even more acute in her. She marvelled67 at what life was, and hid the purse like a shame.
“It’s very kind of you,” she murmured.
“Not a bit!” he said. “I’ve got a job through this. Don’t forget that. We don’t collect rents for nothing, you know—especially Calder Street sort of rents!”
She picked up her basket and rose. He also rose.
“So you’ve been looking at my Victor Hugo,” he remarked, putting his right hand negligently68 into his pocket instead of holding it forth in adieu.
iv
So overset was she by the dramatic surprise of his challenging remark, and so enlightened by the sudden perception of it being perfectly characteristic of him, that her manner changed in an instant to a delicate, startled timidity. All the complex sensitiveness of her nature was expressed simultaneously69 in the changing tints70 of her face, the confusion of her eyes and her gestures, and the exquisite71 hesitations72 of her voice as she told him about the coincidence which had brought back to her in his office the poem of her schooldays.
He came to the bookcase and, taking out the volume, handled it carelessly.
“I only brought these things here because they’re nicely bound and fill up the shelf,” he said. “Not much use in a lawyer’s office, you know!” He glanced from the volume to her, and from her to the volume. “Ah! Miss Miranda! Yes! Well! It isn’t so wonderful as all that. My father used to give her lessons in French. This Hugo was his. He thought a great deal of it.” Mr. Cannon’s pose exhibited pride, but it was obvious that he did not share his father’s taste. His tone rather patronized his father, and Hugo too. As he let the pages of the book slip by under his thumb, he stopped, and with a very good French accent, quite different from Hilda’s memory of Miss Miranda’s, murmured in a sort of chanting—“Dieu qui sourit et qui donne.”
“That’s the very one!” cried Hilda.
“Ah! There you are then! You see—the bookmark was at that page.” Hilda had not noticed the thin ribbon almost concealed73 in the jointure of the pages. “I wouldn’t be a bit astonished if my father had lent her this very book! Curious, isn’t it?”
It was. Nevertheless, Hilda felt that his sense of the miraculousness74 of life was not so keen as her own; and she was disappointed.
“I suppose you’re very fond of reading?” he said.
“No, I’m not,” she replied. Her spirit lifted a little courageously75, to meet his with defiance76, like a ship lifting its prow77 above the threatening billow. Her eyes wavered, but did not fall before his.
“Really! Now, I should have said you were a great reader. What do you do with yourself?” He now spoke like a brother, confident of a trustful response.
“I just waste my time,” she answered coldly. She saw that he was puzzled, interested, and piqued78, and that he was examining her quite afresh.
“Well,” he said shortly, after a pause, adopting the benevolent79 tone of an uncle or even a great-uncle, “you’ll be getting married one of these days.”
“I don’t want to get married,” she retorted obstinately80, and with a harder glance.
“Then what do you want?”
“I don’t know.” She discovered great relief, even pleasure, in thus callously81 exposing her mind to a stranger.
Tapping his teeth with one thumb, he gazed at her, apparently in meditation82 upon her peculiar83 case. At last he said:
“I tell you what you ought to do. You ought to go in for phonography.”
“Phonography?” She was at a loss.
“Yes; Pitman’s shorthand, you know.”
“Oh! shorthand—yes. I’ve heard of it. But why?”
“Why? It’s going to be the great thing of the future. There never was anything like it!” His voice grew warm and his glance scintillated84. And now Hilda understood her mother’s account of his persuasiveness85; she felt the truth of that odd remark that he could talk the hind86 leg off a horse.
“But does it lead to anything?” she inquired, with her strong sense of intrinsic values.
“I should say it did!” he answered. “It leads to everything! There’s nothing it won’t lead to! It’s the key of the future. You’ll see. Look at Dayson. He’s taken it up, and now he’s giving lessons in it. He’s got a room over his aunt’s. I can tell you he staggered me. He wrote in shorthand as fast as ever I could read to him, and then he read out what he’d written, without a single slip. I’m having one of my chaps taught. I’m paying for the lessons. I thought of learning myself—yes, really! Oh! It’s a thing that’ll revolutionize all business and secretarial work and so on—revolutionize it! And it’s spreading. It’ll be the Open Sesame to everything. Anybody that can write a hundred and twenty words a minute’ll be able to walk into any situation he wants—straight into it! There’s never been anything like it. Look! Here it is!”
He snatched up a pale-green booklet from the desk and opened it before her. She saw the cryptic87 characters for the first time. And she saw them with his glowing eyes. In their mysterious strokes and curves and dots she saw romance, and the key of the future; she saw the philosopher’s stone. She saw a new religion that had already begun to work like leaven88 in the town. The revelation was deliciously intoxicating89. She was converted, as by lightning. She yielded to the ecstasy90 of discipleship91. Here—somehow, inexplicably92, incomprehensively—here was the answer to the enigma14 of her long desire. And it was an answer original, strange, distinguished93, unexpected, unique; yes, and divine! How lovely, how beatific94, to be the master of this enchanted95 key!
“It must be very interesting!” she said, low, with the venturesome shyness of a deer that is reassured96.
“I don’t mind telling you this,” Mr. Cannon went on, with the fire of the prophet. “I’ve got something coming along pretty soon”—he repeated more slowly—“I’ve got something coming along pretty soon, where there’ll be scope for a young lady that can write shorthand well. I can’t tell you what it is, but it’s something different from anything there’s ever been in this town; and better.”
His eyes masterfully held hers, seeming to say: “I’m vague. But I was vague when I told you I’d see what could be done about your mother—and look at what I did, and how quickly and easily I did it! When I’m vague, it means a lot.” And she entirely97 understood that his vagueness was calculated—out of pride.
They talked about Mr. Dayson a little.
“I must go now,” said Hilda awkwardly.
“I’d like you to take that Hugo,” he said. “I dare say it would interest you.... Remind you of old times.”
“Oh no!”
“You can return it, when you like.”
Her features became apologetic. She had too hastily assumed that he wished to force a gift on her.
“Please!” he ejaculated. No abuse this time of moral authority! But an appeal, boyish, wistful, supplicating98. It was irresistible99, completely irresistible. It gave her an extraordinary sense of personal power.
He wrapped up the book for her in a sheet of blue “draft” paper that noisily crackled. While he was doing so, a tiny part of her brain was, as it were, automatically exploring a box of old books in the attic100 at home and searching therein for a Gasc’s French–English Dictionary which she had used at school and never thought of since.
“My compliments to your mother,” he said at parting.
She gazed at him questioningly.
“Oh! I was forgetting,” he corrected himself, with an avuncular101, ironic102 smile. “You’re not supposed to have seen me, are you?”
Then she was outside in the din8; and from thrilling altitudes she had to bring her mind to marketing103. She hid under apples the flat blue parcel in the basket.
收听单词发音 |
1
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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2
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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3
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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8
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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9
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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10
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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11
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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12
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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19
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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29
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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30
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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31
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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corroboration
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| n.进一步的证实，进一步的证据 | |
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46
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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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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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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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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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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negligently
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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miraculousness
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| 神” | |
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courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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callously
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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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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scintillated
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| v.（言谈举止中）焕发才智( scintillate的过去式和过去分词 )；谈笑洒脱；闪耀；闪烁 | |
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persuasiveness
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| 说服力 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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discipleship
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| n.做弟子的身份（期间） | |
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inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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beatific
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| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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avuncular
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| adj.叔伯般的，慈祥的 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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