ترجمۀ پیشرفته (۲) – متن شمارۀ ۱

ترجمۀ پیشرفته (۲) – متن شمارۀ ۱

یکشنبه، ۴ مهر ۹۵

Leslie Mason’s wife had been pretty and now, a middle‑aged woman, was still comely. She was nearly as tall as he, with blue eyes and soft brown hair only just streaked with grey. She was inclined to be stout, but her height enabled her to carry with dignity a corpulence which a strict attention to diet prevented from becoming uncomfortable. She had a broad brow, an open countenance and a diffident smile. Though she got her clothes in Paris, not from one of the fashionable dressmakers but from a little woman round the corner, she never succeeded in looking anything but thoroughly English. She naturalised whatever she wore, and though she occasionally went to the extravagance of getting a hat at Reboux’ she had not sooner put it on her head than it looked as if it had come from Army and Navy Stores. She always looked exactly what she was, an honest woman of the middle class in easy circumstances. She had loved her husband when she married him and she loved him still. With the community of interests that existed between them it was no wonder that they should live in harmony. They had agreed at the beginning of their married life that she knew more about painting than he and that he knew more about music than she, so that in this matters each bowed to the superior judgment of the other.