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春天迈着蹒跚的步子,懒懒散散地走来,可寒冷的风仍是依依不舍般呼呼地吹着。我独自走在街上,阵阵寒意使我瑟瑟发抖。这时,街头传来叫卖声:“卖炒米啦!卖炒米啦!”阵阵香甜的炒米味儿,让我觉得一种说不出的温暖。原来,是一个中年妇女在卖炒米。她皮肤黝黑黝黑的,脸上刻满了岁月的沧桑。衣服很旧,却一点儿也不脏,破的地方被整整齐齐地补好了。她手上戴了副手套,仔细看,右手那只还破了个洞。她坐在小板凳上,手脚利索地忙活着。很多人排着队等着买炒米,看起来,她的生意不错。寒风仍在呼呼地吹着,有的人冻得直跺脚,有的人缩了缩脖子,但没有任何人催促她。
Spring stumbles step, lazy and scattered walk, but the cold wind is still reluctantly whirring blowing. I walked alone in the street, bursts of cold so that I shiver. At this time, the street came the barking: “selling fried rice! Sell fried rice!” Bursting sweet rice flavor, I feel a kind of unspeakable warmth. The original is a middle-aged women selling fried rice. Her dark-skinned face was full of years of vicissitudes. Clothes are old, but not dirty at all, broken place is neatly filled up. She wore a pair of gloves on her hand. Looking closely, the right hand also broke a hole. She was sitting on the bench, busy with her hands and feet. A lot of people wait in line to buy fried rice, it looks like her business is good. The wind was still blowing, some were freezing and some shrinking, but nobody urged her.