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Sample input:_

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Sample output:

见我心驰神 态依旧,

Sample input:_

1  O liver’s early life


O liver Twist was born in a workhouse,and when he arrived in this hard world,it was very doubtful whether he would live beyond the first three minutes.He lay on a hard little bed and struggled to start breathing.

O liver fought his first battle without much assistance from the two people present at his birth.One was an old woman,who was nearly always drunk, and the other was a busy local doctor,who was not paid enough to be very interested in O liver’s survival. After all,death was a common event in the workhouse,where only the poor and homeless lived.

However,O liver managed to draw his first breath,and the n announced his arrival to the rest of the workhouse by crying loudly.His mother raised her pale young face from the pillow and whispered, ‘Let me see the child, and die.’

The doctor turned away from the fire, where he had been warming his hands. ‘You must not talk about dying yet,’he said to her kindly.He gave her the child to hold.Lovingly,she kissed the baby on its forehead with her cold white lips,the n stared wildly around the room,fell back-and died. ‘Poor dear!’said the nurse,hurriedly putting a green glass bottle back in the pocket of her long skirt.

The doctor began to put on his coat. ‘The baby is weak and will probably have difficulties,’ he said. ‘If so, give it a little milk to keep it quiet.’The n he looked at the dead woman.  ‘The mother was a good-looking girl.Where did she come from?’

 ‘She was brought here last  night,’replied the old woman. ‘She was found lying in the street. She’d walked some distance,judging by her shoes,which were worn to pieces.Where she came from,where she was going to,or what her name was,nobody knows.’

The  doctor lifted  the  girl’s  left  hand. ‘The old story,’he said sadly,shaking his  head. ‘No wedding ring, I see.Ah!Good night.’

And so O liver was left with only the drunken nurse.Without clothe s,under his first blanket, he could have been the child of a king or a beggar.But when the woman dressed him later in rough cotton clothe s, yellow with age,he looked exactly what he was - an orphan in a workhouse, ready for a life of misery,hunger, and neglect.

O liver cried loudly.If he could have known that he was a workhouse orphan, perhaps he would have cried even more loudly.

The re was no one to look after the baby in the workhouse,so O liver was sent  to a special  ‘baby farm’ nearby. The re,he and thirty other children rolled around the floor all day,without the inconvenience of too much food or too much clothing. Mrs Mann,the old  woman who  ‘looked  after’ them, was very experienced.She knew what was good for children,and a full stomach was very dangerous to their health. She also knew what was good for herself, so she kept for her own use the money that she was given for the children’s food.The board responsible for the orphans sometimes checked on the health of the children, but They always sent the beadle,a kind of local policeman,to announce their visit the day before.So whenever the board arrived, of course,the children were always neat and clean.

This was the way O liver was brought up. Consequently, at the age of nine he was a pale,thin child and short for his age.But despite frequent beatings by Mrs Mann, his spirit was strong, which was probably the reason why he managed to reach the age of nine at all.

On O liver’s ninth birthday, Mr Bumble the beadle came to the house to see Mrs Mann.Through the front window Mrs Mann saw him at the gate, and turned quickly to the girl who worked with her.

 ‘Quick!Take O liver and those others upstairs to be washed!’she said.The n she ran out  to unlock the gate.(It was always kept locked to prevent official visitors walking in unexpectedly.)

 ‘I have business to talk about,’Mr Bumble told Mrs Mann as he entered the house.He was a big fat man, often bad-tempered, and was full of self-importance. He did not like to be kept waiting at a locked gate.

Mrs Mann took his hat and coat, placed a chair for him,and expressed great concern for his comfort. ‘You’ve had a long walk,Mr Bumble’ she said, ‘and you must be thirsty.’She took out a bottle from the cupboard.

 ‘No, thank you, Mrs Mann. Not a drop.’He waved the bottle away.

 ‘Just a little drop, Mr Bumble, with cold water,’ said Mrs Mann persuasively.

Mr Bumble coughed. ‘What is it?’ he asked, looking at the bottle with interest.

 ‘Gin.I keep it for the children’s medicine drink.’

 ‘You give the children gin,Mrs Mann?’asked Mr Bumble,watching as she mixed his drink.

 ‘Only with medicine, sir. I don’t like to see the m suffer.’

 ‘You’re a good woman, Mrs Mann.’ Mr Bumble drank half his glass immediately. ‘I’ll tell the board about you.Now - the reason why I’m here. O liver Twist is nine years old today. We’ve never been able to discover anything about his parents.’

 ‘The n how did he get his name?’

 ‘I gave it to him,’said Mr Bumble proudly. ‘We follow the  alphabet.The  last  one  was  an S-Swubble. The n it  was T, so this one is Twist. The next one will be Unwin.Anyway,Oliver Twist is now old enough to return to the workhouse. Bring him here, please.’ While Mrs Mann went to get him,  Mr Bumble finished the rest of his gin.

Oliver, his face and hands now almost clean, was led into the room.

 ‘Will you come along with me,Oliver?’asked Mr Bumble in a loud voice.

Oliver was very glad to be free of Mrs Mann’s violence, but he said nothing because she was angrily shaking her finger at him.However,as the gate closed behind O liver,he burst into tears. He was leaving behind the other children, the only friends he had,and he realized at that moment how lonely he was in the world.

Mr Bumble walked on with long steps,with O liver on his short little legs running beside him.The feeling of contentment produced by gin-and-water had now disappeared,and the beadle was in a bad mood once more.

Back at the workhouse, O liver was taken to see the board. He stood in front of ten fat men who were sitting around a table.

 ‘What’s your name, boy?’ asked a particularly fat man with a very round, red face.

O liver was frightened at the sight of so many people, and started to cry.

 ‘Why are you crying?’

The beadle hit him on the back,and so naturally O liver cried even more.

 ‘The boy is a fool,’one member of the board announced.

 ‘You know you have no father or mother,’said the first man, ‘and that you have been brought up with other orphans?’

 ‘Yes, sir,’replied O liver, crying bitterly.

 ‘Why is the boy crying?’repeated the other man, puzzled.

 ‘You have come here to be educated,’continued the fat man,  ‘so you will start working here tomorrow at six o’clock.’

O liver was led away to a large room, where,on a rough hard bed,he cried himself to sleep.

The room in the workhouse where the boys were fed was a large stone hall,and at one end the master and two women served the food.This consisted of a bowl of thin soup three times a day, with a piece of bread on Sundays.The boys ate everything and were always hungry.The bowls never needed washing.The boys polished the m with their spoons until They shone.After three months of this slow starvation,one of the boys told the others he was so hungry that one night he might eat the boy who slept next to him.He had a wild hungry eye,and  the  other  boys  believed  him.After a long  discussion,They decided that one of the m should ask for more food after supper that evening,and O liver was chosen.

The evening arrived;the soup was served,and the bowls were empty again in a few seconds.O liver went up to the master,with his bowl in his hand.He felt very frightened,but also desperate with hunger.

 ‘Please,sir,I want some more.’

The master was a fat,healthy man, but he turned very pale. He looked at the little boy in front of him with amazement.Nobody else spoke.

 ‘What?’ he asked at last, in a faint voice.

 ‘Please, sir,’ replied  O liver, ‘I want  some  more.’

The master hit him with the serving spoon,the n seized O liver’s arms and shouted for the beadle.The beadle came quickly,heard the dreadful news,and immediately ran to tell the board.

 ‘He  asked  for more?’ Mr Limbkins,the  fattest  board member, asked in horror. ‘Bumble - is this really true?’

 ‘That boy  will  be hanged!’ said  the  man who  earlier had called O liver a fool. ‘You see if I’m not right.’

O liver was led away to be locked up,and a reward was offered to anybody who would take him away and use him for work.

Sample output:



















































Perl _

1whio67260.09692018/07/13 10:57:174178B / 1595B / 869B

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