本書由達(dá)芙妮·杜穆里埃原著，本音頻僅供英語(yǔ)和配音愛好者學(xué)習(xí)，請(qǐng)勿二改二傳。
She glanced at me curiously as I opened the door. ‘What a time you’ve been.you can’t afford to dream this morning, you know, there’s too much to be done.’
He would go back to Manderley, of course, in a few weeks; I felt certain of that. There would be a great pile of letters waiting for him in the hall, and mine among them, scribbled on the boat. A forced letter, trying to amuse, describing me fellow passengers. It would lie about inside his blotter, and he would answer it weeks later, one Sunday morning in a hurry, before lunch, having come across it when he paid some bills. And then no more. Nothing until the final degradation of the Christmas card. Manderley itself perhaps, against a frostedbackground. The massage printed, saying ‘A happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year from Maximilian de Winter.’ Gold lettering. But to be kind he would have run his pen through the printed name and written it in ink underneath‘from Maxim’, as a sort of sop, and if there was a space, a message, ‘I hope you are enjoying New York.’ A lick of the envelope, a stamp, and tossed in a pile of a hundred others.
‘It’s too bad you are leaving tomorrow,’ said the reception clerk, telephone in hand;‘the Ballet starts next week, you know. Does Mrs Van Hopper know?’ I dragged myself back form Christmas at Manderley to the realities of the wagon-lit.
Mrs Van Hopper lunched in the restaurant for the first time since her influenza, and I had a pain in the pit of my stomach as I followed her into the room. He had gone to Cannes for the day, that much I know, for he had warned me the day before, but I kept thinking the waiter might commit an indiscretion and say:’Will mademoiselle be dining with Monsieur tonight as usual?’ I felt a little sick whenever he came near the table, but he said nothing.
The day was spent in packing, and in the evening people came to say good-bye. We dined in the sitting-room, and she went to bed directly afterwards. Still I had not seen him. I went down to the lounge about half past nine on the pretext of getting luggage labels and he was not there. The odious reception clerk smiled when he saw me.‘If you are looking for Mr de Winter, we had a message from Cannes to say he would not be back before midnight.’
‘I want a packet of luggage labels,’ I said, but I saw by his eye that he was not deceived. So there would be no last evening after all. The hour I had looked forward to all day must be spent by myself alone, in my own bedroom, gazing at my Revolution suit-case and stout hold-all. Perhaps it was just as well, for I should have made a poor companion, and he must have read my face.
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