沉重地呼出一口气,浊重的气息在稀薄的空气中凝结成水雾,继而化成冰凌,挂在他花白的胡子上。他搓了搓早已冻僵的手,掌心厚重的老茧互相刮蹭着,每一下,都像是要刮下血肉来。手背上也满是冻伤,指节红肿粗大,显出诡异的紫色。只有被他常常修剪的指甲,一分不长,一分不短,干干净净,暗示着曾经养尊处优的生活。 Heavy exhaled breath, turbid air in the thin air condensed into a mist, and then turned into ice, hanging on his gray beard. He rubbed the already frozen hands, palms thick calluses scraping each other, are like to be bloody. Full of frostbite on the back of the hand, knuckles bulky, showing a strange purple. Only by the nails he often pruning, a little not long, a minute not short, clean, suggesting that once pampered life.