The Father父亲

He was a piano-tuner. Snow was falling as he went from house to house， his little blue hands tucked up his sleeves. Already during that morning he had tuned three instruments in rooms where no fires burned and now through bleak streets was making his way to another， walking solemnly， staring with screwed-up eyes at the passing hats， letting the snow cover his fat face as it would.

他是一名钢琴调音师。（剩余11426字）