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He unfolded a pair of zippicamiknicks, blushed, put them hastily away again;
他打开一件贴身拉链衫，不禁羞红了脸，赶快放到了一边。
but kissed a perfumed acetate handkerchief and wound a scarf round his neck.
但是亲吻了一下一条人造丝手绢，又把一条围巾围到了脖子上。
Opening a box, he spilt a cloud of scented powder. His hands were floury with the stuff.
他打开一个盒子，一股香粉喷了出来，喷在他手上。
He wiped them on his chest, on his shoulders, on his bare arms.
他把它擦在胸口、肩膀和光胳臂上。
Delicious perfume!
多好闻的香味！
He shut his eyes; he rubbed his cheek against his own powdered arm.
他闭上眼睛，用脸挨了挨擦了粉的胳臂。
Touch of smooth skin against his face, scent in his nostrils of musky dust–her real presence.
滑腻的皮肤挨紧他的脸，麝昧的粉香透进了他的鼻子——是活生生的她呀。
"Lenina," he whispered. "Lenina!"
“列宁娜，”他轻声说，“列宁娜！”
A noise made him start, made him guiltily turn. He crammed up his thieveries into the suit-case and shut the lid; then listened again, looked.
有什么响动吓了他一跳，他心虚地转过身子，把偷看着的东西塞回提箱，盖上盖，又听了听，看了看。
Not a sign of life, not a sound.
没有活动的迹象，也没有声音。
And yet he had certainly heard something–something like a sigh, something like the creak of a board.
可他确实听见过什么东西——好像是有人叹气，好像是木头的吱嘎声。
He tiptoed to the door and, cautiously opening it, found himself looking on to a broad landing. On the opposite side of the landing was another door, ajar.
他踮起脚，走到门边，小心翼翼地开了道缝，发现自己望着的是一片宽阔的梯口平台，平台对面是另一道虚掩着的门。
He stepped out, pushed, peeped.
他走过去推开门，偷看起来。
There, on a low bed, the sheet flung back,
列宁娜躺在矮床上，睡得正香。
dressed in a pair of pink one-piece zippyjamas, lay Lenina,
她穿着一件粉红拉链睡衣，床单掀开。
fast asleep and so beautiful in the midst of her curls, so touchingly childish with her pink toes and her grave sleeping face, so trustful in the helplessness of her limp hands and melted limbs, that the tears came to his eyes.
髦发衬着她的脸，多么美丽！那粉红的脚趾，那安详的熟睡的面庞，像孩子一样打动人心；那无力松垂的手，那柔软的胳臂，是那么坦然而无助。他的眼里不禁噙满了泪水。
With an infinity of quite unnecessary precautions–for nothing short of a pistol shot could have called Lenina back from her soma-holiday before the appointed time–he entered the room,
他采取了无穷的预防措施——其实很不必要，因为除非开枪，是无法把列宁娜从预定的唆麻假日提前惊醒的。
he knelt on the floor beside the bed.
他进了屋子。
He gazed, he clasped his hands, his lips moved.
跪在床边的地板上，双手指头交叉，注视着她。
"Her eyes," he murmured, "Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice; Handlest in thy discourse.
“她的眼睛。”他喃喃地说道。“你总在言谈里说起她的眼睛、头发、面颊、步态、声音；
Oh, that her hand.
啊，还有她那纤手！
In whose comparison all whites are ink,
在那双纤手面前，一切白色都只是污秽，
Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure the cygnet's down is harsh …
写下的全是自我谴责；连小天鹅的茸毛跟它柔腻的一握相比，也透着粗糙……
