《罗尔德·达尔短篇故事品读及汉译探索（第5卷）》：
ce—nez and carries a black briefcase in her hand—a first—rate accountant， I should say， or possibly an executive in the textile industry.When I cross over Thread—needle Street by the traffic lights， nine times out of ten I pass a gentleman who wears a different garden flower in his buttonhole each day.He dresses in black trousers and grey spats and is clearly a punctual and meticulous person， probably a banker， or perhaps a solicitor like myself； and several times in the last twenty—five years， as we have hurried past one another across the street， our eyes have met in a fleeting glance of mutual approval and respect.
At least half the faces I pass on this little walk are now familiar to me.And good faces they are too， my kind of faces， my kind of people—sound， sedulous， businesslike folk with none of that restlessness and glittering eye about them that you see in all these so—called clever types who want to tip the world upside—down with their Labour Governments and socialized medicines and all the rest of it.
So you can see that I am， in every sense of the words， a contented commuter.
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