关于黄丝带的一个英语爱情短文，求文件

she is learning that her desires and yours can differ,and that sometime those difference ..~

她正在了解到她的欲望和你的（欲望）可以是不同的，有些时候这些差异是重要的，另一些时候则不。
She is learning that（引导了一个名词性从句：Her desire and yours can differ.），and （并列连接词）that （引导了另一个名词性从句：sometimes those difference is important and sometimes they are not [important].）

20Mils等于0.02英寸。
密耳是一个长度的单位，代表千分之一英寸，可被写做mil或thou。
1、这个单位较常被使用在工程及科学上，如：用来表示像相片、金属薄片、线、纤维的厚度。工业上用来标示尺寸及其容许的误差。目前倾向于用国际单位制的长度单位来代替，如毫米。
1mil（密尔）=25.39999918μm（微米）
2、在化学研究上是用于计算腐蚀速率的单位。腐蚀速率的计算是根据mm/a（毫米/年） =39.37* MPY（密耳/年）（注：39.37仅仅是密耳和毫米的换算系数，无量纲！）
3、电路实验中常用的洞洞板上的孔间距是2.54mm,即100mil [1] .常用的PCB制版长度单位转换：
inch：英寸 mil：密耳 mm:毫米 cm:厘米
1mil=0.0254mm=25.4μm
1mm=39.37mil
1inch=1000mil=25.4mm

扩展资料：
在建筑材料中，对管材的称法用英寸这个单位，为2.54cm，而不是用市寸。
在液晶显示器中，规格一般有17寸、19寸、22寸等。在手机中，屏幕尺寸现在一般有4.0寸、4.2寸、4.5寸、4.7寸、4.8寸、5.0寸、5.2寸、5.5寸、5.7寸、6.44寸等。在平板电脑中，屏幕尺寸一般有7.9寸、9.7寸、12.9寸。显示屏的大小通常以对角线的长度来衡量，以英寸单位。
英寸的分数：1/64 3/64 5/64 7/64 9/64
英寸的小数：0.015625 0.03125 0.046875
我国习惯称呼：一厘二毫半 二厘半 三厘七毫半
1mil=1/1000inch=0.00254cm=0.0254mm
1inch=1000mil=2.54cm=25.4mm
在英制里，12英寸（吋）为1英尺（呎），36英寸为1码。
1英寸=25.4mm（数码感应器）
参考资料来源：百度百科——密耳
参考资料来源：百度百科——英寸

　　The Yellow Ribbon
　　by Pete Hamill

　　They were going to Fort Lauderdale, the girl remembered later. There were six of them, three boys and three girls, and they picked up the bus at the old terminal on 34th Street, carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, dreaming of golden beaches and the tides of the sea as the gray cold spring of New York vanished behind them. Vingo was on board from the beginning.
　　As the bus passed through Jersey and into Philly, they began to notice that Vingo never moved. He sat in front of the young people, his dusty face masking his age, dressed in a plain brown ill-fitting suit. His fingers were stained from cigarettes and he chewed the inside of his lip a lot, frozen into some personal cocoon of silence.
　　Somewhere outside of Washington, deep into the night, the bus pulled into a Howard Johnson's, and everybody got off except Vingo. He sat rooted in his seat, and the young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his life: Perhaps he was a sea captain, maybe he had run away from his wife, he could be an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, the girl sat beside him and introduced herself.
　　"We're going to Florida," the girl said brightly. "You going that far?"
　　"I don't know," Vingo said.
　　"I've never been there," she said. "I hear it's beautiful."
　　"It is," he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.
　　"You live there?"
　　"I did some time there in the Navy. Jacksonville."
　　"Want some wine?" she said. He smiled and took the bottle of Chianti and took a swig. He thanked her and retreated again into silence. After a while, she went back to the others, as Vingo nodded into sleep.
　　In the morning they awoke outside another Howard Johnson's, and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously, as the young people chattered about sleeping on the beaches. When they went back on the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again, and after a while, slowly and painfully and with great hesitation, he began to tell his story. He had been in jail in New York for the last four years, and now he was going home.
　　"Four years!" the girl said. "What did you do?"
　　"It doesn't matter," he said with quiet bluntness. "I did it and I went to jail. If you can't do the time, don't do the crime. That's what they say and they're right."
　　"Are you married?"
　　"I don't know."
　　"You don't know?" she said.
　　"Well, when I was in the can I wrote to my wife," he said. "I told her, I said, Martha, I understand if you can't stay married to me. I told her that. I said I was gonna be away a long time, and that if she couldn't stand it, if the kids kept askin' questions, if it hurt her too much, well, she could just forget me. Get a new guy—she's a wonderful woman, really something— and forget about me. I told her she didn't have to write me or nothing. And she didn't. Not for three and a half years."
　　"And you're going home now, not knowing?"
　　"Yeah," he said shyly. "Well, last week, when I was sure the parole was coming through I wrote her. I told her that if she had a new guy, I understood. But if she didn't, if she would take me back she should let me know. We used to live in this town, Brunswick, just before Jacksonville, and there's a great big oak tree just as you come into town, a very famous tree, huge. I told her if she would take me back, she should put a yellow handkerchief on the tree, and I would get off and come home. If she didn't want me, forget it, no handkerchief, and I'd keep going on through."
　　"Wow," the girl said. "Wow."
　　She told the others, and soon all of them were in it, caught up in the approach of Brunswick, looking at the pictures Vingo showed them of his wife and three children, the woman handsome in a plain way, the children still unformed in a cracked, much-handled snapshot. Now they were twenty miles from Brunswick and the young people took over window seats on the right side, waiting for the approach of the great oak tree. Vingo stopped looking, tightening his face into the ex-con's mask, as if fortifying himself against still another disappointment. Then it was ten miles, and then five and the bus acquired a dark hushed mood, full of silence, of absence, of lost years, of the woman's plain face, of the sudden letter on the breakfast table, of the wonder of children, of the iron bars of solitude.
　　Then suddenly all of the young people were up out of their seats, screaming and shouting and crying, doing small dances, shaking clenched fists in triumph and exaltation. All except Vingo.
　　Vingo sat there stunned, looking at the oak tree. It was covered with yellow handkerchiefs, twenty of them, thirty of them, maybe hundreds, a tree that stood like a banner of welcome blowing and billowing in the wind, turned into a gorgeous yellow blur by the passing bus. As the young people shouted, the old con slowly rose from his seat, holding himself tightly, and made his way to the front of the bus to go home.

I first heard this story a few years ago from a girl I had met in New York's Greenwich Village. Probably the story is one of those mysterious bits of folklore that reappear every few year, to be told anew in one form or another. However, I still like to think that it really did happen, somewhere, sometime.

Going Home

They were going to Fort Lauderdale -- three boys and three girls -- and when they boarded the bus, they were carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, dreaming of golden beaches and sea tides as the gray, cold spring of Now York vanished behind them.
As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to notice Vingo. He sat in front of them, dressed in a plain, ill-fitting suit, never moving, his dusty face masking his age. He kept chewing the inside of his lip a lot, frozen into complete silence.
Deep into the night, outside Washington, the bus pulled into Howard Johnson's, and everybody got off except Vingo. He sat rooted in his seat, and the young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his life: perhaps he was a sea captain, a runaway from his wife, an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls sat beside him and introduced herself.
"We're going to Florida," she said brightly. "I hear it's really beautiful."
"It is," he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.
"Want some wine?" she said. He smiled and took a swig from the bottle. He thanked her and retreated again into his silence. After a while, she went back to the others, and Vingo nodded in sleep.
In the morning, they awoke outside another Howard Johnson's, and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy, and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously as the young people chattered about sleeping on beaches. When they returned to the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again, and after a while, slowly and painfully, he began go tell his story. He had been in jail in New York for the past four years, and now he was going home.
"Are you married?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?" she said.
"Well, when I was in jail I wrote to my wife," he said. "I told her that I was going to be away a long time, and that if she couldn't stand it, if the kids kept askin' questions, if it hurt her too much, well, she could jus forget me. I'd understand. Get a new guy , I said -- she's a wonderful woman, really something -- and forget about me. I told her she didn't have to write me. And she didn't. Not for three and a half years."
"And you're going home now, not knowing?"
"Yeah," he said shyly. "Well, last week, when I was sure the parole was coming through, I wrote the again. We used to live in Brunswick, just Before Jacksonville, and there's a big oak tree just as you come into town, I told her that if she didn't have a new guy and if she'd take me back, she should put a yellow handkerchief on the tree, and I'd get off and come home. If she didn't want me, forget it -- no handkerchief, and I'd go on through."
"Wow," the girl exclaimed. "Wow."
She told the others, and soon all of them were in it, caught up in the approach of Brunswick, looking at the pictures Vingo showed them of his wife and three children -- the woman handsome in a plain way, the children still unformed in the much-handled snapshots.
Now they were 20 miles from Brunswick, and the young people took over window seats on the right side, waiting for the approach of the great oak tree. Vingo stopped looking, tightening his face, as id fortifying himself against still another disappointment.
Then Brunswick was 10 miles, and then five. Then, suddenly, all of the young people were up out of their seats, screaming and shouting and crying, doing small dances of joy. All except Vingo.
Vingo sat there stunned, looking at the oak tree. It was covered with yellow handkerchiefs -- 20 of them, 30 of them, maybe hundreds, a tree that stood like a banner of welcome billowing in the wind. As the young people shouted, the old con slowly rose from his seat and made his way to the front of the bus to go home.

---

理县19164621458： 关于黄丝带的一个英语爱情短文,求文件？
许震杜密： I first heard this story a few years ago from a girl I had met in New York's Greenwich Village. Probably the story is one of those mysterious bits of folklore that reappear every few year, to be told anew in one form or another. However, I still like to think ...

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