那是一个雪花飘飞的日子。天色早已昏暗。我骑着自行车,两手被冻得僵硬,有些恐惧地往前蹬着。刚刚拐进熟悉的胡同口,就听见身后一个人喊着:“喂,东西掉了。”那急切的声音在神志早已被警戒充塞的我看来,却有如一种威胁在逼我拼命骑。声音越来越近,我慌了,一不留神便撞在一块石头上。我应声落地,刚起来,就被一双手拍了一下。我神经质地大叫:“你要干什么?”“我能干什么?你的杂志掉了。”一个很深沉的声音在挺寂静的小巷回响。我一 It was a snow drifting day. The sky is already dark. I was riding a bike, both hands were frozen stiff, some fearfully forward Deng Deng. Just turned into the familiar alley mouth, I heard a man behind shouted: “Hey, something lost.” That urgent voice in my mind has long been stuffed by alert, but it seems like a threat to force me hard to ride. As the sound got nearer and nearer, I panicked and crashed into a rock inadvertently. I should fall to the ground, just got up, it was a pair of hands patted. I shouted nervously, “What are you going to do?” “What can I do? Your magazine is gone.” A deep voice echoed in a very quiet alley. Me one