姓名__張健東___ 班級__師英5班_____ 學號_____201302010519_____
Please translate the following novel into Chinese.
BY Mary Galvin and Roy Erickson
Louise's passing made the father and his son like strangers. Only her memory and the thought of her laughter could bring them together.
\the table. The boy was a brown and healthy-looking six-year-old, with an independent sturdiness that pleased his father. But looking into the child's eyes caused him pain. They were so reminiscent of Louise's. And it was too soon. It would pass after a while, of course, but right now he couldn't help remembering the number of weeks and days since death had silenced her laughter. \suggestion several times before, but never before had Peter questioned the wisdom of it. \
\they taste better that way,\Clinton said. \besides—\Then he stopped and frowned. \
\face. He finished his milk and started on his pikelets. \with finality.
He waited for something to happen, but Clinton, braced to settle the issue, saw the absurd white rim of milk around the defiant mouth, and his heart softened. He wanted to take his napkin and wipe it off. But he felt awkward with his son, as though the sudden departure of Louise's loving from the house had made them strangers. He folded his napkin on his lap.
\He went into the living room and sat down. He stretched his legs in an effort of composure and picked up his newspaper. But he was unable to concentrate …
Louise, he thought. If she were here they'd all be laughing now, the three of them. Louise would see to that. He suddenly realised that he resented his son for forgetting so soon. But that was absurd! To a child a day was like a year, and sorrow was the business of yesterday.
Peter came into the room. Clinton watched him, pretending to read the paper. The boy went to the bookcase and took down a large book. He carried it to the centre of the floor and lay down in front of it. It was an art book with full-page colour illustrations. He started with the front of the book, as he always did, and studied each picture carefully, His chin was resting on his hands and the circle of milk was still around his small mouth, giving him a pathetic, clown-like look.
When he finished the book he turned back to the front page. Down in the corner, in her own handwriting, was Louise's name.
Clearly and carefully, Peter traced each letter with his finger, the first name and the last. Then he turned and looked intently at his father, and Clinton knew there was something he wanted to say, something that had to be said delicately and subtly.
\\Clinton said. \gave it to her myself. As a matter of fact, she rather cherished that book.\
Peter's youthful gravity filled the room. He looked very small and alone. And then Peter said, using his father's phrasing, so foreign to his own vocabulary, \cherish this book, too.\loneliness sound irrelevant, as if it had no connection with the conversation.
Clinton swallowed to release the sudden tightness in his throat; the newspaper slid to the floor and he held his arms open to his son. \
But Peter hadn't finished yet. \you don't want me to drink my milk without my pikelets, I won't do it. I mean if-\
\of them. Now come here and let me wipe your mouth.\
Peter bounced across the room and in one second he was on the chair and in his father's arms. And they were laughing, both of them, just as they used to laugh when Louise was there.
“是的，”彼得說。沉默一會兒，然后他說：“這是我媽媽的，對嗎？” “是的，”克林頓說。我親自給了她。事實上，她很珍惜這本書。” 彼得的青春的力量充滿了房間。他看起來渺小而又孤單。然后彼得說，用他父親的話，但對他自己如此陌生的詞匯，“事實上，我也很珍惜這本書。”他在嘗試，克林頓猜測，他呼吁親情，孤獨的哭泣聽起來毫不相干，好像與談話沒有聯系。