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“Under his master’s watchful eye, the boy crossed to the door, which was made of a dark, unpainted wood with many whorls and grains. He had to struggle to turn the heavy brass knob, but the coolness of its touch pleased him. The door swung open soundlessly on oiled hinges and the boy stepped through to find himself at the top of a carpeted staircase. The walls were elegantly papered with a flowery pattern. A small window halfway down let in a friendly stream of sunlight. The boy descended carefully, one step at a time. The silence and sunlight reassured him and quelled some of his fears. Never having been beyond this point before, he had nothing but nursery stories to furnish his ideas of what might be waiting in his master’s study. Terrible images of stuffed crocodiles and bottled eyeballs sprang garishly into his mind. Furiously he drove them out again. He would not be afraid. At the foot of the staircase was another door, similar to the first, but smaller and decorated, in its center, with a five-sided star painted in red. The boy turned the knob and pushed: the door opened reluctantly, sticking on the thick carpet. When the gap was wide enough the boy passed through into the study. Unconsciously he had held his breath as he entered; now he let it out again, almost with a sense of disappointment. It was all so ordinary. A long room lined with books on either side. At the far end a great wooden desk with a padded leather chair set behind it. Pens on the table, a few papers, an old computer, a small metal box. The window beyond looked out toward a horse chestnut tree adorned with the full splendor of summer. The light in the room had a sweet greenish tint. The boy made for the table. Halfway there, he stopped and looked behind him.”
― Jonathan Stroud, The Amulet of Samarkand

“的使用要像对”
― James Martin, 2012来临,我们如何自救

“懷”
― null1366198256710null14, B00CE8XTTU

“Nothing. Yet he’d had the strangest feeling…. For some reason the slightly open door, through which he had entered only a moment before, now gave him an unsettled sensation. He wished that he had thought to close it after him. He shook his head. No need. He was going back through it in a matter of seconds. Four hasty steps took him to the edge of the table. He looked round again. Surely there had been a noise…. The room was empty. The boy listened as intently as a rabbit in a covert. No, there was nothing to hear except faint sounds of distant traffic. Wide-eyed, breathing hard, the boy turned to the table. The metal box glinted in the sun. He reached for it across the leather surface of the desk. This was not strictly necessary—he could have walked round to the other side of the desk and picked the box up easily—but somehow he wanted to save time, grab what he’d come for, and get out. He leaned over the table and stretched out his hand, but the box remained obstinately just out of reach. The boy rocked forward, swung his fingertips out wildly. They missed the box, but his flailing arm knocked over a small pot of pens. The pens sprayed across the leather. The boy felt a bead of sweat trickle under his arm. Frantically, he began to collect up the pens and stuff them back into the pot. There was a throaty chuckle, right behind him, in the room. He wheeled round, stifling his yell. But there was nothing there. For a moment the boy remained leaning with his back against the desk, paralyzed with fear. Then something reasserted itself in him. Forget the pens, it seemed to say. The box is what you came for. Slowly,”
― Jonathan Stroud, The Amulet of Samarkand