在交叉路口转弯的时候，我的脚踏车把一位陌生先生的右脚踝压伤了。这位先生一手牵扯着一个刚会走路模样的小男孩，一手牵着一个步履蹒跚的老中风病患者。本来我可以安全避闪。在我惊魂未定，讷讷不知所措的时候，那位先生已牵着小男孩和老者慢慢离去，我愣愣地目送他们，三个脚步迟缓的背景构成一幅感人的画面。我有搁下车子跟上去帮助那位先生的冲动。可是，我一直没有做；我发觉小孩和老者好像那位先生肩上的两头担子，再艰苦他也不肯放下任何一边的。
But all this would count nothing had not the orange such delightful qualities of taste. I dare not let myself go upon this subject. I am a slave to its sweetness. I grudge every marriage in that it means a fresh supply of orange blossom, the promise of so much golden fruit cut short. However, the world must go on.
With the orange we do live year in and year out. That speaks well for the orange. The fact is that there is honesty about the orange which appeals to all of us. If it is going to be bad-for the best of us are bad sometimes—it begins to be bad from the outside, not from the inside. How many a pear which presents a blooming face to the world is rotten at the core. How many an innocent-looking apple is harboring a worm in the bud. But the orange has no secret faults. Its outside is a mirror of its inside, and if you are quick you can tell the shopman so before he slips it into the bag.
