Dear Spence, 亲爱的斯宾塞： Who ever thought that I'd be writing you a letter. You died on the 10th of June in 1967. My golly, Spence, that's twenty-four years ago. That's a long time. Are you happy finally?
And there was my father, standing with me outside, admiring a day's work, 而我的父亲和我一起站在外面，欣赏着一天的工作， hair on his head, fully in remission, when he turned to me and he said, "You know, Michael, this house
