SHE WAS SICK for a long time. When

SHE WAS SICK for a long time. When we saw her again, her hair was cut short, making her look like a girl, with a vague resemblance to those angels in colored church windows--sort of tragic and serene.

The town had just let the contracts for paving the sidewalks, and in the summer after her father's death they began the work. The construction company came with niggers and mules and machinery, and a foreman named Homer Barron, a Yankee--a big, dark, ready man, with a big voice and eyes lighter than his face. The little boys would follow in groups to hear him cuss the niggers, and the niggers singing in time to the rise and fall of picks. Pretty soon he knew everybody in town. Whenever you heard a lot of laughing anywhere about the square, Homer Barron would be in the center of the group. Presently we began to see him and Miss Emily on Sunday afternoons driving in the yellow-wheeled buggy and the matched team of bays from the livery stable.

At first we were glad that Miss Emily would have an interest, because the ladies all said, "Of course a Grierson would not think seriously of a Northerner, a day laborer." But there were still others, older people, who said that even grief could not cause a real lady to forget noblesse oblige- -

without calling it noblesse oblige. They just said, "Poor Emily. Her kinsfolk should come to her." She had some kin in Alabama; but years ago her father had fallen out with them over the estate of old lady Wyatt, the crazy woman, and there was no communication between the two families. They had not even been represented at the funeral.
And as soon as the old people said, "Poor Emily," the whispering began. "Do you suppose it's really so?" they said to one another. "Of course it is. What else could . . ." This behind their hands; rustling of craned silk and satin behind jalousies closed upon the sun of Sunday afternoon as the thin, swift clop-clop-clop of the matched team passed: "Poor Emily."

She carried her head high enough--even when we believed that she was fallen. It was as if she demanded more than ever the recognition of her dignity as the last Grierson; as if it had wanted that touch of earthiness to reaffirm her imperviousness. Like when she bought the rat poison, the arsenic. That was over a year after they had begun to say "Poor Emily," and while the two female cousins were visiting her.

"I want some poison," she said to the druggist. She was over thirty then, still a slight woman, though thinner than usual, with cold, haughty black eyes in a face the flesh of which was strained across the temples and about the eyesockets as you imagine a lighthouse-keeper's face ought to look. "I want some poison," she said.

"Yes, Miss Emily. What kind? For rats and such? I'd recom--"

"I want the best you have. I don't care what kind."

The druggist named several. "They'll kill anything up to an elephant. But what you want is--"

"Arsenic," Miss Emily said. "Is that a good one?"

"Is . . . arsenic? Yes, ma'am. But what you want--"

"I want arsenic."

The druggist looked down at her. She looked back at him, erect, her face like a strained flag. "Why, of course," the druggist said. "If that's what you want. But the law requires you to tell what you are going to use it for."

Miss Emily just stared at him, her head tilted back in order to look him eye for eye, until he looked away and went and got the arsenic and wrapped it up. The Negro delivery boy brought her the package; the druggist didn't come back. When she opened the package at home there was written on the box, under the skull and bones: "For rats.

Kết quả (Việt) 1:

CÔ đã bị bệnh một thời gian dài. Khi chúng tôi thấy cô ấy một lần nữa, cô đã cắt tóc ngắn, làm cho cô ấy trông như một cô gái với một giống mơ hồ đến những thiên thần trong cửa sổ nhà thờ màu--sắp xếp bi thảm và thanh thản.Thị trấn đã chỉ để cho các hợp đồng cho lát vỉa hè, và trong mùa hè sau cái chết của cha cô, họ đã bắt đầu công việc. Công ty xây dựng đến với niggers mules và máy móc thiết bị, và đặt tên một foreman Homer Barron, Yankee - một người đàn ông lớn, tối tăm, sẵn sàng, với một giọng nói lớn và đôi mắt nhẹ hơn so với khuôn mặt của mình. Các chàng trai nhỏ sẽ làm theo nhóm để nghe anh ta không đáng gì cả các niggers, và niggers hát trong thời gian tới sự nổi lên và sụp đổ của picks. Khá sớm ông biết tất cả mọi người trong thị trấn. Bất cứ khi nào bạn nghe rất nhiều cười bất cứ nơi nào về hình vuông, Homer Barron sẽ ở trung tâm của nhóm. Hiện nay, chúng tôi bắt đầu để xem anh ta và cô Emily vào buổi chiều chủ nhật lái xe trong bánh vàng buggy và đội vịnh, phù hợp từ ổn định livery.Lúc đầu chúng tôi đã vui mừng Hoa hậu Emily sẽ có quan tâm, bởi vì tất cả phụ nữ nói, "tất nhiên một Grierson sẽ không nghĩ nghiêm túc của XIII, một người lao động ngày." Nhưng vẫn còn những người khác, người lớn tuổi, người đã nói đau buồn thậm chí có thể gây ra một phụ nữ thực sự quên noblesse oblige-mà không gọi nó noblesse oblige. Họ chỉ nói rằng, "người nghèo Emily. Kinsfolk của cô nên đến với cô ấy." Cô đã có một số thân ở Alabama; nhưng năm trước cha cô đã rơi với họ qua bất động sản của bà già Wyatt, người phụ nữ điên, và không có thông tin liên lạc giữa hai gia đình. Họ đã không thậm chí được đại diện tại lễ tang.And as soon as the old people said, "Poor Emily," the whispering began. "Do you suppose it's really so?" they said to one another. "Of course it is. What else could . . ." This behind their hands; rustling of craned silk and satin behind jalousies closed upon the sun of Sunday afternoon as the thin, swift clop-clop-clop of the matched team passed: "Poor Emily."She carried her head high enough--even when we believed that she was fallen. It was as if she demanded more than ever the recognition of her dignity as the last Grierson; as if it had wanted that touch of earthiness to reaffirm her imperviousness. Like when she bought the rat poison, the arsenic. That was over a year after they had begun to say "Poor Emily," and while the two female cousins were visiting her."I want some poison," she said to the druggist. She was over thirty then, still a slight woman, though thinner than usual, with cold, haughty black eyes in a face the flesh of which was strained across the temples and about the eyesockets as you imagine a lighthouse-keeper's face ought to look. "I want some poison," she said."Yes, Miss Emily. What kind? For rats and such? I'd recom--""I want the best you have. I don't care what kind."The druggist named several. "They'll kill anything up to an elephant. But what you want is--""Arsenic," Miss Emily said. "Is that a good one?""Is . . . arsenic? Yes, ma'am. But what you want--""I want arsenic."The druggist looked down at her. She looked back at him, erect, her face like a strained flag. "Why, of course," the druggist said. "If that's what you want. But the law requires you to tell what you are going to use it for."Miss Emily just stared at him, her head tilted back in order to look him eye for eye, until he looked away and went and got the arsenic and wrapped it up. The Negro delivery boy brought her the package; the druggist didn't come back. When she opened the package at home there was written on the box, under the skull and bones: "For rats.