时间：2020-09-29 11:04:24 作者：蔡徐坤 浏览量：11912
Those of my readers who never saw Miss Achurch in what theatrical writers call her “palmy” days can have only a very faint conception of her genius. She became ill: her beauty faded. Only rarely did one see her on the stage.
“O well” ses she, “theres hundreds of uther girls.”
Picture to yourself a Polish Jew, young, yellow-skinned, black-haired; he has luminous eyes, sensuous lips and damp hands, and he dresses well, but in an extravagant 98style. He is a megalomaniac, and he has all the megalomaniac’s consuming anxiety to discover precisely in what way other people react to his personality. One night my bitterest enemy brought him to the table at which I was sitting, introduced us to each other, and walked away.
Grabo did not at once return to his table—he could not have endured to sit still for the moment—but paced along the line of tables, snatching looks at the other games in progress. When he looked back at the big electric board, he saw that the Machine had made a move although he hadn't heard it punch the clock. He rushed back and studied the board without sitting down. Why, the Machine had made a stupid move, he saw with a rush of exaltation. At that moment the last screen being folded started to fall over, but one of the gray-smocked men caught it deftly. Grabo flinched and his hand darted out and moved a piece.
"Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; but we thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while."
2.I stared at him.>