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Then, suddenly, as he rested there, the room was filled with the strong, sweet odour of mignonette.
他就这样歇在那儿，突然，房间里充满木犀草浓烈的芬芳。
It came as upon a single buffet of wind with such sureness and fragrance and emphasis that it almost seemed a living visitant.
它乘风而至，鲜明无误，香馥沁人，栩栩如生，活脱脱几乎如来访的佳宾。
And the man cried aloud: "What, dear?" as if he had been called, and sprang up and faced about.
年轻人忍不住大叫：“什么？亲爱的？”好像有人在喊他似地。他然后一跃而起，四下张望。
The rich odour clung to him and wrapped him around.
浓香扑鼻而来，把他包裹其中。
He reached out his arms for it, all his senses for the time confused and commingled.
他伸出手臂拥抱香气。刹那间，他的全部感觉都给搅混在一起。
How could one be peremptorily called by an odour?
人怎么可能被香味断然唤起呢？
Surely it must have been a sound. But, was it not the sound that had touched, that had caressed him?
唤起他的肯定是声音。难道这就是曾抚摸、安慰过他的声音？
"She has been in this room," he cried, and he sprang to wrest from it a token,
“她在这个房间住过，”他大声说，扭身寻找起来，硬想搜出什么征迹，
for he knew he would recognize the smallest thing that had belonged to her or that she had touched.
因为他确信能辨认出属于她的或是她触摸过的任何微小的东西。
This enveloping scent of mignonette, the odour that she had loved and made her own--whence came it?
这沁人肺腑的木犀花香，她所喜爱、唯她独有的芬芳，究竟是从哪儿来的？
The room had been but carelessly set in order.
房间只马马虎虎收拾过。
Scattered upon the flimsy dresser scarf were half a dozen hairpins—
薄薄的梳妆台桌布上有稀稀拉拉五六个发夹——
those discreet, indistinguishable friends of womankind, feminine of gender, infinite of mood and uncommunicative of tense.
都是些女性朋友用的那类东西，悄声无息，具有女性特征，但不标明任何心境或时间。
These he ignored, conscious of their triumphant lack of identity.
他没去仔细琢磨，因为这些东西显然缺乏个性。
Ransacking the drawers of the dresser he came upon a discarded, tiny, ragged handkerchief.
他把梳妆台抽屉搜了个底朝天，发现一条丢弃的破旧小手绢。
He pressed it to his face. It was racy and insolent with heliotrope; he hurled it to the floor.
他把它蒙在脸上，天芥菜花的怪味刺鼻而来。他顺手把手绢甩在地上。
In another drawer he found odd buttons, a theatre programme, a pawnbroker's card, two lost marshmallows, a book on the divination of dreams.
在另一个抽屉，他发现几颗零星纽扣，一张剧目表，一张当铺老板的名片，两颗吃剩的果汁软糖，一本梦释书。
