“莫尔夫拉!莫尔夫拉!……你在哪儿?……我的心肝,今天,我们吃什么呀?” 拉丝卡鲁老太太扯着哑嘶的嗓子,呼叫着自己的猫。猫不在家,刚刚离开,屋子里空荡荡的,冷得象冰窖一样。这间房子在底层,里面除了一些家什杂物以外,什么也没有。拉丝卡鲁弯腰驼背,穿一身破旧的衣服;干瘪的脸上,两只无神的眼睛直勾勾地望着熄灭了的壁炉。头上裹着一块三角巾。在灰蒙蒙的晨光中,她简直象个幽灵。 “Maufra! Maufra! ... where are you? ... my heart, what are we eating today?” Mrs. Lashakalu called his own cat with a muffled throat. Cats are not at home, just left, the house empty, cold as icehouse. The house is on the ground floor, with nothing but housekeeping. Drawing khaki hunched back, wearing a shabby clothes; wizened face, two atheistic eyes looking straight at the extinguished fireplace. Wrap a triangular scarf on his head. She was almost like a ghost in the gray morning light.