“什么？”福特问。
‘What?’ said Ford.
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。
A thin, ill-looking man wearing something baggy and Italian was walking up the stairs past them, lighting a cigarette, and had stopped, suddenly.
“不是你。”他说，“他。”
‘Not you,’ he said. ‘Him.’
他直愣愣地盯着阿瑟，似乎有些糊涂了。
He looked straight at Arthur, then seemed to become a little confused.
“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。
‘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.
“又怎么了？”福特问。
‘Now what?’ said Ford.
“你说什么？”
‘What did you say?’
“我说，又怎么了？”福特好不耐烦的重复道。
‘I said, now what?’ repeated Ford irritably.
“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。
‘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.