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‘What?’ said Ford.
“什么？”福特问。
A thin, ill-looking man wearing something baggy and Italian was walking up the stairs past them, lighting a cigarette, and had stopped, suddenly.
说话的是个病恹恹的瘦子，他穿着身松松垮垮的意大利名牌，一边走路一边点着香烟，正巧楼梯上跟他俩擦肩而过，然后突然莫名其妙地停下来。
‘Not you,’ he said. ‘Him.’
“不是你。”他说，“他。”
He looked straight at Arthur, then seemed to become a little confused.
他直愣愣地盯着阿瑟，似乎有些糊涂了。
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I think I must have mistaken you for someone else.’ He started on up the stairs again, but almost immediately turned round once more, even more puzzled. He stared at Arthur.
“请原谅，”他说，“我想我肯定是认错人了。”他继续上楼梯，但几乎立刻就又转过身来，比刚才还要迷惑，他睁大眼睛盯着阿瑟。
‘Now what?’ said Ford.
“又怎么了？”福特问。
‘What did you say?’
“你说什么？”
‘I said, now what?’ repeated Ford irritably.
“我说，又怎么了？”福特好不耐烦的重复道。
‘Yes, I think so,’ said the man and swayed slightly and dropped the book of matches he’d been carrying. His mouth moved weakly. Then he put his hand to his forehead.
“没错，我想是的。”那人微微晃了晃，手里的火柴盒也掉到了地上，他的嘴唇虚弱无力的颤抖着，然后他伸出一只手抚摸自己的前额。
