那辆草绿色的运货马车,车身上歪歪扭扭地油漆着“丁·琼斯,高斯山”,在“野兔脚”和“纯酿”酒店中间的鹅卵石小道上停住了。这是一个四月的傍晚,天色不早了。吉姆姨父,身上穿着他那套赶集的黑衣服,一件浆硬的白衬衣,没领子,脚上穿着一双花哨的新皮靴,头上戴着一顶方格呢的便帽。他吱吱嘎嘎地从车上爬了下来。 The grassy green wagon, crookedly painted on the car body, “Ding Jones, Gauss Hill,” stopped at a cobblestone path in the middle of the “Rabbit Feet” and “Pure Brew”. It was a late April evening when it was late. Uncle Jim, dressed in his black suit, a hard white shirt, without a collar, a pair of fancy new leather boots on his head and a checkered hat on his head. He crept out of the car.