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by Tennessee Williams
The wine-drinkers sit on the porte cochère in the sun. Their lack of success in love has made them torpid1. They move their fans with a motion that stirs no feather, the glare of the sun has darkened their complexions2. Let us commend them on their conversations. One says "oh" and the other says "indeed." The afternoon must be prolonged forever, because the night will be impossible for them. They know that the bright and very delicate needles inserted beneath the surfaces of their skins will work after dark—at present are drugged, are dormant3. Nobody dares to make any sudden disturbance4. One says "no," the other one murmurs5 "why?" The cousins pause: tumescent. What do they dream of? Murder? They dream of lust6 and they long for violent action but none occurs. Their quarrels perpetually die from a lack of momentum7 The light is empty: the sun forestalls8 reflection. 点击收听单词发音
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