2 . When it came to concealing his troubles, Tommy Wilhelm was not less capable than the next fellow. So at least he thought, and there was a certain amount of evidence to back him up. He had once been an actor—no, not quite, an extra—and he knew what acting should be. Also, he was smoking a cigar, and when a man is smoking a cigar, wearing a hat, he has an advantage: it is harder to find out how he feels. He came from the twenty-third floor down to the lobby on the mezzanine to collect his mail before breakfast, and he believed — he hoped — that he looked passably well: doing all right. It was a matter of sheer hope, because there was not much that he could add to his present effort. On the fourteenth floor he looked for his father to enter the elevator; they often met at this hour, on the way to breakfast. If he worried about his appearance it was mainly for his old father's sake. But there was no stop on the fourteenth, and the elevator sank and sank. Then the smooth door opened and the great dark-red uneven carpet that covered the lobby billowed toward Wilhelm's feet. In the foreground the lobby was dark, sleepy. French drapes like sails kept out the sun, but three high, narrow windows were open, and in the blue air Wilhelm saw a pigeon about to light on the great chain that supported the marquee of the movie house directly underneath the lobby. For one moment he heard the wings beating strongly.
Most of the guests at the Hotel Gloriana were past the age of retirement. Along Broadway in the Seventies, Eighties, and Nineties, a great part of New York's vast population of old men and women lives. Unless the weather is too cold or wet they fill the benches about the tiny railed parks and along the subway gratings from Verdi Square to Columbia University, they crowd the shops and cafeterias, the dime stores, the tearooms, the bakeries, the beauty parlors, the reading rooms and club rooms. Among these old people at the Gloriana, Wilhelm felt out of place. He was comparatively young, in his middle forties, large and blond, with big shoulders; his back was heavy and strong, if already a little stooped or thickened. After breakfast the old guests sat down on the green leather armchairs and sofas in the lobby and began to gossip and look into the papers: they had nothing to do but wait out the day. But Wilhelm was used to an active life and liked to go out energetically in the morning. And for several months, because he had no position, he had kept up his morale by rising early: he was shaved and in the lobby by eight o'clock. He bought the paper and some cigars and drank a Coca-Cola or two before he went in to breakfast with his father. After breakfast—out, out, out to attend to business. The getting out had in itself become the chief business. But he had realized that he could not keep this up much longer, and today he was afraid. He was aware that his routine was about to break up and he sensed that a huge trouble long presaged(预感)but till now formless was due. Before evening, he'd know.
Nevertheless he followed his daily course and crossed the lobby.
Rubin, the man at the newsstand, had poor eyes. They may not have been actually weak but they were poor in expression, with lacy lids that furled down at the corners. He dressed well. It didn't seem necessary—he was behind the counter most of the time—but he dressed very well. He had on a rich brown suit; the cuffs embarrassed the hairs on his small hands. He wore a Countess Mara painted necktie. As Wilhelm approached, Rubin did not see him; he was looking out dreamily at the Hotel Ansonia, which was visible from his corner, several blocks away. The Ansonia, the neighborhood's great landmark, was built by Stanford White. It looks like a baroque palace from Prague or Munich enlarged a hundred times, with towers, domes, huge swells and bubbles of metal gone green from exposure, iron fretwork and festoons. Black television antennae are densely planted on its round summits. Under the changes of weather it may look like marble or like sea water, black as slate in the fog, white as tufa in sunlight. This morning it looked like the image of itself reflected in deep water, white and cumulous above, with cavernous distortions underneath. Together, the two men gazed at it.
Then Rubin said, “Your dad is in to breakfast already, the old gentleman.”
“Oh, yes？Ahead of me today？”
“That's a real knocked-out shirt you got on,” said Rubin.“Where’s it from, Saks？”
“No, it’s a Jack Fagman—Chicago.”
Even when his spirits were low, Wilhelm could still wrinkle his forehead in a pleasing way. Some of the slow, silent movements of his face were very attractive. He went back a step, as if to stand away from himself and get a better look at his shirt. His glance was comic, a comment upon his untidiness. He liked to wear good clothes, but once he had put it on each article appeared to go its own way. Wilhelm, laughing, panted a little; his teeth were small; his cheeks when he laughed and puffed grew round, and he looked much younger than his years. In the old days when he was a college freshman and wore a beanie(无檐小帽)on his large blonde head his father used to say that, big as he was, he could charm a bird out of a tree. Wilhelm had great charm still.
“I like this dove-gray color,” he said in his sociable, good-natured way. “It isn’t washable. You have to send it to the cleaner. It never smells as good as washed. But it’s a nice shirt. It cost sixteen, eighteen bucks.”
1. Wilhelm hoped he looked all right on his way to the lobby because he wanted to________.| A．leave a good impression | B．give his father a surprise |
| C．show his acting potential | D．disguise his low spirit |
| A．lived a luxurious life | B．liked to swap gossips |
| C．idled their time away | D．liked to get up early |
| A．He felt something ominous was coming. | B．He was worried that his father was late. |
| C．He was feeling at ease among the old. | D．He was excited about a possible job offer. |
| A．His shirt made him look better. | B．He cared much about his clothes. |
| C．He looked like a comedian in his shirt. | D．The clothes he wore never quite matched. |
3 . Once, Mama had read about geraniums in a magazine -- versatile, pretty, easy to grow - and, she became possessed with a vision of a house flooded with flowers. The notion inspired her into motion. She spent a small fortune on elegant plant stands, imported flowerpots and armies of fully grown geraniums. She could be like that: my mother always had sudden sprints of creativity.
She also asked for my help, and we squatted in the backyard together, arranging roots in their elegant containers. Mama wore long gardening gloves over her manicured hands, and her finger pressed soil into place with fastidiousness and even passion. She had bought me gloves too, but I refused to wear them.
“You’ll get so dirty, Perla.”
“I want to get dirty.”
“Ay, Perla,” she said, shaking her head. She said no more but beamed with irritation. My refusal disturbed the plan for how the geranium days should go, mother and daughter tending flowers and don’t they look picture perfect in their matching gloves? For half an hour she would not talk to me, but then she thawed, so absorbed in her project that she forgot my fault, or perhaps for fear that I might abandon the project altogether.
She needn’t have worried. I didn’t want to leave. It was a rare chance to spend time with my mother. I could scent her perfume and feel breaths without having to find anything to say. We often struggle to communicate with each other, beyond the essential good morning and good night, as though we were strangers or beginners of a language. I wanted to learn my mother’s language, if only to better understand her and to increase the chances of her understanding me. There is so much I longed to tell her as I squatted beside her, but I also feared that, If I started, other matters might leap out that were not meant to be spoken. Better not to risk the opening. Better not to attempt too much speech with my mother.
When all the flowers were ready in their pots, mama spent another day distributing them through the house. There were more flowers than any other house in our Buenos Aires -- so that when you entered, you felt as though you’re swimming through petals.
1. Based on paragraph 1, Perla viewed her mother’s decision to plant the geraniums as _________.| A．creative | B．amusing | C．unsurprising | D．worthwhile |
| A．agreed | B．complained | C．softened | D．denied |
| A．She volunteered to assist her mother in repotting the geraniums. |
| B．She exchanged her opinions on essential matters with her mother. |
| C．She was eager to learn a foreign language to better understand her mother. |
| D．She wanted to stay with her mother even without verbal communication. |
| A．apologize for her misconduct in her childhood |
| B．praise her mother for her gardening skills |
| C．provide useful information for geraniums lovers |
| D．express her mixed emotions towards her mother |
| A．sophisticated | B．controversial | C．homogeneous | D．solitary |
| A．off | B．aside | C．out | D．down |
| A．wrong | B．trouble | C．fault | D．difficulty |
| A．thrived | B．swelled | C．prospered | D．flourished |
| A．make out | B．make sure | C．make clear | D．make up |
| A．diplomatic | B．heroic | C．dynamic | D．specific |
| A．compensate | B．compromise | C．commence | D．compliment |
