1、popped up

popped up發(fā)音

英：　　美：

popped up中文意思翻譯

常用釋義：突然出現(xiàn)：指突然從隱藏的位置迅速出現(xiàn)或活動。

v.突然出現(xiàn)

popped up雙語使用場景

1、She was startled when Lisa popped up at the door all smiles.───莉薩滿面笑容地突然出現(xiàn)在門口時她吃了一驚。

2、Her peacocks popped up more than once in her work, including in this passage from her short story "The Displaced Person"───她的孔雀不止一次出人意料地出現(xiàn)在她的作品中，其中一次出現(xiàn)在短篇小說《背井離鄉(xiāng)的人》的下面這段文字中。

3、Well, it was a little bit funny because his head popped up behind the window sill about four times. . .───嗯，有點兒滑稽的是他的頭在窗臺后突然出現(xiàn)四次…

4、Neither of these are going to be available for a while, but images and specs for a couple of new HTC phones have popped up online.───以下兩款HTC新手機都得等上好一陣子才會發(fā)售，不過相關(guān)照片和規(guī)格都已上線，我們趕緊來瞧瞧吧！

5、He suddenly popped up an idea.───他突然想到了一個主意。

6、He made headlines in February this year when he popped up in Singapore on a trip to see Eric Clapton play.───金正哲今年2月份前往新加坡觀看歌手克萊普頓（EricClapton）表演，成為熱門新聞。

7、Sosuke's head popped up from the linoleum, as nonchalant as if he had never been assaulted.───宗介的頭從地毯下冒出來說，竭力顯出一副沒被攻擊過的平淡樣子。

8、menu has popped up you should left-click on one of the choices to make it operate.───菜單彈出以后，選擇一項并點擊鼠標(biāo)左鍵使之運行。

9、I've had an itching to get an Android phone for a while, and then the opportunity to get a Nexus One popped up last week, I jumped at it.───我曾經(jīng)渴望能暫時使用一部Android手機，然后，上周突然有機會我能擁有一部NexusOne手機，當(dāng)然我得把握機會。

popped up相似詞語短語

1、topped up───加滿；充值

2、sopped up───吸水

3、propped up───v.支撐；支持

4、cropped up───突然出現(xiàn)

5、chopped up───切細(xì)；割斷

6、pepped up───使振作；激勵

7、mopped up───擦；用拖把拖洗；結(jié)束

2、請給我一篇大概3000字左右,沒有翻譯過的英文小說或者英文游戲小說.

The Lovely Bones

by

Alice Sebold

Inside the snow globe on my father's desk, there was a penguin wearing a red and white striped scarf. When I was little my father would pull me into his lap and reach for the snow globe. He would turn it over, letting all the snow collect on the top, then quickly invert it. The two of us watched the snow fall gently around the penguin. The penguin was alone in there, I thought, and I worried for him. When I told my father this, he said, "Don't worry, Susie; he has a nice life. He's trapped in a perfect world."

ONE

My name was Salmon, like the fish; first name, Susie. I was fourteen when I was murdered on December 6, 1973. In newspaper photos of missing girls from the seventies, most looked like me: white girls with mousy brown hair. This was before kids of all races and genders started appearing on milk cartons or in the daily mail. It was still back when people believed things like that didn't happen.

In my junior high yearbook I had a quote from a Spanish poet my sister

had turned me on to, Juan Ramon Jimenez. It went like this: "If they

give you ruled paper, write the other way." I chose it both because it

expressed my contempt for my structured surroundings a la the classroom

and because, not being some dopey quote from a rock group, I thought it

marked me as literary. I was a member of the Chess Club and Chem Club

and burned everything I tried to make in Mrs. Delminico's home ec class.

My favorite teacher was Mr. Botte, who taught biology and liked to

animate the frogs and crawfish we had to dissect by making them dance in

their waxed pans.

I wasn't killed by Mr. Botte, by the way. Don't think every person

you're going to meet in here is suspect. That's the problem. You never

know. Mr. Botte came to my memorial (fas?), may I add, as did almost the

entire junior high school (I was never so popular) and cried quite a

bit. He had a sick kid. We all knew this, so when he laughed at his own

jokes, which were rusty way before I had him, we laughed too, forcing it

sometimes just to make him happy. His daughter died a year and a half

after I did. She had leukemia, but I never saw her in my heaven.

My murderer was a man from our neighborhood. My mother liked his

border flowers, and my father talked to him once about fertilizer. My

murderer believed in old-fashioned things like eggshells and coffee

grounds, which he said his own mother had used. My father came home

smiling, making jokes about how the man's garden might be beautiful but

it would stink to high heaven once a heat wave hit.

But on December 6, 1973, it was snowing, and I took a shortcut through

the cornfield back from the junior high. It was dark out because the

days were shorter in winter, and I remember how the broken cornstalks

made my walk more difficult. The snow was falling lightly, like a flurry

of small hands, and I was breathing through my nose until it was running

so much that I had to open my mouth. Six feet from where Mr. Harvey

stood, I stuck my tongue out to taste a snowflake.

"Don't let me startle you," Mr. Harvey said.

Of course, in a cornfield, in the dark, I was startled. After I was

dead I thought about how there had been the light scent of cologne in

the air but that I had not been paying attention, or thought it was

coming from one of the houses up ahead

"Mr. Harvey, "I said.

"You're the older Salmon girl, right?"

"Yes."

"How are your folks?"

Although the eldest in my family and good at acing a science quiz, I

had never felt comfortable with adults.

"Fine," I said. I was cold, but the natural authority of his age, and

the added fact that he was a neighbor and had talked to my father about

fertilizer, rooted me to the spot.

"I've built something back here," he said. "Would you like to see?”

"I'm sort of cold, Mr. Harvey," I said, "and my mom likes me

home before dark."

"Its after dark, Susie," he said.

I wish now that I had known this was weird. I had never told him my

name. I guess I thought my father had told him one of the embarrassing

anecdotes he saw merely as loving testaments to his children. My father

was the kind of dad who kept a nude photo of you when you were three in

the downstairs bathroom, the one that guests would use. He did this to

my little sister, Lindsey, thank God. At least I was spared that

indignity. But he liked to tell a story about how, once Lindsey was

born, I was so jealous that one day while he was on the phone in the

other room, I moved down the couch - he could see me from where he stood

- and tried to pee on top of Lindsey in her carrier. This story

humiliated me every time he told it, to the pastor of our church, to our

neighbor Mrs. Stead, who was a therapist and whose take on it he wanted

to hear, and to everyone who ever said "Susie has a lot of spunk!"

"Spunk!" my father would say. "Let me tell you about spunk," and he

would launch immediately into his Susie-peed-on-Lindsey story.

But as it turned out, my father had not mentioned us to Mr. Harvey or

told him the Susie-peed-on-Lindsey story.

Mr. Harvey would later say these words to my mother when he ran into her

on the street: "I heard about the horrible, horrible tragedy. What was

your daughter's name, again?"

"Susie," my mother said, bracing up under the weight of it, a weight

that she naively hoped might lighten someday, not knowing that it would

only go on to hurt in new and varied ways for the rest of her life.

Mr. Harvey told her the usual: "I hope they get the bastard. I'm sorry

for your loss."

I was in my heaven by that time, fitting my limbs together, and

couldn't believe his audacity. "The man has no shame," I said to Franny,

my intake counselor. "Exactly," she said, and made her point as simply

as that. There wasn't a lot of bullshit in my heaven.

Mr. Harvey said it would only take a minute, so I followed him a

little farther into the cornfield, where fewer stalks were broken off

because no one used it as a shortcut to the junior high. My mom had told

my baby brother, Buckley, that the corn in the field was inedible when

he asked why no one from the neighborhood ate it. "The corn is for

horses, not humans," she said. "Not dogs?" Buckley asked. "No," my

mother answered. "Not dinosaurs?" Buckley asked. And it went like that.

"I've made a little hiding place," said Mr. Harvey.

He stopped and turned to me.

"I don't see anything," I said. I was aware that Mr. Harvey was

looking at me strangely. I'd had older men look at me that way since I'd

lost my baby fat, but they usually didn't lose their marbles over me

when I was wearing my royal blue parka and yellow elephant bell-bottoms.

His glasses were small and round with gold frames, and his eyes looked

out over them and at me.

"You should be more observant, Susie," he said.

I felt like observing my way out of there, but I didn't. Why didn't I?

Franny said these questions were fruitless: "You didn't and that's that.

Don't mull it over. It does no good. You're dead and you have to accept

it."

"Try again," Mr. Harvey said, and he squatted down and knocked against

the ground.

"What's that?” I asked.

My ears were freezing. I wouldn't wear the multicolored cap with the

pompom and jingle bells that my mother had made me one Christmas. I had

shoved it in the pocket of my parka instead.

I remember that I went over and stomped on the ground near him. It

felt harder even than frozen earth, which was pretty hard.

"It's wood," Mr. Harvey said. "It keeps the entrance from collapsing.

Other than that it's all made out of earth."

"What is it?" I asked. I was no longer cold or weirded out by the look

he had given me. I was like I was in science class: I was curious.

"Come and see,"

It was awkward to get into, that much he admitted once we were both

inside the hole. But I was so amazed by how he had made a chimney that

would draw smoke out if he ever chose to build a fire that the

awkwardness of getting in and out of the hole wasn't even on my mind.

You could add to that that escape wasn't a concept I had any real

experience with. The worst I'd had to escape was Artie, a strangelooking

kid at school whose father was a mortician. He liked to pretend

he was carrying a needle full of embalming fluid around with him. On his

notebooks he would draw needles spilling dark drips.

"This is neato!" I said to Mr. Harvey. He could have been the

hunchback of Notre Dame, whom we had read about in French class. I

didn't care. I completely reverted. I was my brother Buckley on our daytrip

to the Museum of Natural History in New York, where he'd fallen in

love with the huge skeletons on display. I hadn't used the word neato in

public since elementary school.

"Like taking candy from a baby," Franny said.

I can still see the hole like it was yesterday, and it was. Life is a

perpetual yesterday for us. It was the size of a small room, the mud

room in our house, say, where we kept our boots and slickers and where

Mom had managed to fit a washer and dryer, one on top of the other. I

could almost stand up in it, but Mr. Harvey had to stoop. He'd created a

bench along the sides of it by the way he'd dug it out. He immediately

sat down.

"Look around," he said.

I stared at it in amazement, the dug-out shelf above him where he had

placed matches, a row of batteries, and a battery-powered fluorescent

lamp that cast the only light in the room, an eerie light that would

make his features hard to see when he was on top of me.

There was a mirror on the shelf, and a razor and shaving cream. I

thought that was odd. Wouldn't he do that at home? But I guess I figured

that a man who had a perfectly good split-level and then built an

underground room only half a mile away had to be kind of loo-loo. My

father had a nice way of describing people like him: "The man's a

character, that's all."

So I guess I was thinking that Mr. Harvey was a character, and I liked

the room, and it was warm, and I wanted to know how he had built it,

what the mechanics of the thing were and where he'd learned to do

something like that.

But by the time the Gilberts' dog found my elbow three days later and

brought it home with a telling corn husk attached to it, Mr. Harvey had

closed it up. I was in transit during this. I didn't get to see him

sweat it out, remove the wood reinforcement, bag any evidence along with

my body parts, except that elbow. By the time I popped up with enough

wherewithal to look down at the goings-on on Earth, I was more concerned

with my family than anything else.

My mother sat on a hard chair by the front door with her mouth open.

Her pale face paler than I had ever seen it. Her blue eyes staring. My

father was driven into motion. He wanted to know details and to comb the

cornfield along with the cops. I still thank God for a small detective

named Len Fenerman. He assigned two uniforms to take my dad into town

and have him point out all the places I'd hung out with my friends. The

uniforms kept my dad busy in one mall for the whole first day. No one

had told Lindsey, who was thirteen and would have been old enough, or

Buckley, who was four and would, to be honest, never fully understand.

Mr. Harvey asked me if I would like a refreshment. That was how he put

it. I said I had to go home.

"Be polite and have a Coke," he said. I’m sure the other kids would."

"What other kids?"

"I built this for the kids in the neighborhood. I thought it could be

some sort of clubhouse."

I don't think I believed this even then. I thought he was lying but I

thought it was a pitiful lie. I imagined he was lonely. We had read

about men like him in health class. Men who never married and ate frozen

meals every night and were so afraid of rejection that they didn't even

own pets. I felt sorry for him.

"Okay," I said, "I'll have a Coke."

In a little while he said, "Aren't you warm, Susie? Why don't you take

off your parka,"

I did.

After this he said, "You're very pretty, Susie."

"Thanks," I said, even though he gave me what my friend Clarissa and I

had dubbed the skeevies.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No, Mr. Harvey," I said. I swallowed the rest of my Coke, which was a

lot, and said, "I got to go, Mr. Harvey. This is a cool place, but I

have to go."

He stood up and did his hunchback number by the six dug-in steps that

led to the world. "I don't know why you think you're leaving."

I talked so that I would not have to take in this knowledge: Mr.

Harvey was no character. He made me feel skeevy and icky now that he was

blocking the door.

"Mr. Harvey, I really have to get home."

"Take off your clothes."

"What?"

"Take your clothes off," Mr. Harvey said. "I want to check that you're

still a virgin."

"I am, Mr. Harvey," T said.

"I want to make sure. Your parents will thank me."

"My parents?"

"They only want good girls," he said.

"Mr. Harvey," I said, "please let me leave."

"You aren't leaving, Susie. You're mine now."

Fitness was not a big thing back then; aerobics was barely a word.

Girls were supposed to be soft, and only the girls we suspected were

butch could climb the ropes at school.

I fought hard. I fought as hard as I could not to let Mr. Harvey hurt

me, but my hard-as-I-could was not hard enough, not even close, and I

was soon lying down on the ground, in the ground, with him on top of me

panting and sweating, having lost his glasses in the struggle.

I was so alive then. I thought it was the worst thing in the world to

be lying flat on my back with a sweating man on top of me. To be trapped

inside the earth and have no one know where I was.

I thought of my mother.

My mother would be checking the dial of the clock on her oven. It was

a new oven and she loved that it had a clock on it. "I can time things

to the minute," she told her own mother, a mother who couldn't care less

about ovens.

She would be worried, but more angry than worried, at my lateness. As my

father pulled into the garage, she would rush about, fixing him a

cocktail, a dry sherry, and put on an exasperated face: "You know junior

high," she would say. "Maybe it's Spring Fling." "Abigail," my father

would say, "how can it be Spring Fling when it's snowing?" Having failed

with this, my mother might rush Buckley into the room and say, "Play

with your father” while she ducked into the kitchen and took a nip of

sherry for herself.

Mr. Harvey started to press his lips against mine. They were blubbery

and wet and I wanted to scream but I was too afraid and too exhausted

from the fight. I had been kissed once by someone I liked. His name was

Ray and he was Indian. He had an accent and was dark. I wasn't supposed

to like him. Clarissa called his large eyes, with their half-closed

lids, "freak-a-delic," but he was nice and smart and helped me cheat on

my algebra exam while pretending he hadn't. He kissed me by my locker

the day before we turned in our photos for the yearbook. When the

yearbook came out at the end of the summer, I saw that under his picture

he had answered the standard "My heart belongs to" with "Susie Salmon."

I guess he had had plans. I remember that his lips were chapped.

"Don't, Mr. Harvey," I managed, and I kept saying that one word a lot.

Don't. And I said please a lot too. Franny told me that almost everyone

begged "please" before dying.

"I want you, Susie," he said.

"Please," I said. "Don't," I said. Sometimes I combined them. "Please

don't" or "Don't please." It was like insisting that a key works when it

doesn't or yelling "I've got it, I've got it, I've got it" as a softball

goes sailing over you into the stands.

"Please don't."

But he grew tired of hearing me plead. He reached into the pocket of

my parka and balled up the hat my mother had made me, smashing it into

my mouth. The only sound I made after that was the weak tinkling of

bells.

As he kissed his wet lips down my face and neck and then began to

shove his hands up under my shirt, I wept. I began to leave my body; I

began to inhabit the air and the silence. I wept and struggled so I

would not feel. He ripped open my pants, not having found the invisible

zipper my mother had artfully sewn into their side.

"Big white panties," he said.

I felt huge and bloated. I felt like a sea in which he stood and

pissed and shat. I felt the corners of my body were turning in on

themselves and out, like in cats cradle, which I played with Lindsey

just to make her happy. He started working himself over me.

"Susie! Susie!" I heard my mother calling. "Dinner is ready."

He was inside me. He was grunting.

"We're having string beans and lamb."

I was the mortar, he was the pestle.

"Your brother has a new finger painting, and I made apple crumb cake."

"Why don't you get up?" Mr. Harvey said as he rolled to the side and

then crouched over me,

His voice was gentle, encouraging, a lover's voice on a late morning.

A suggestion, not a command.

I could not move. I could not get up.

When I would not - was it only that, only that I would not follow his

suggestion?-he leaned to the side and felt, over his head, across the

ledge where his razor and shaving cream sat. He brought back a knife.

Unsheathed, it smiled at me, curving up in a grin.

He took the hat from my mouth.

"Tell me you love me," he said.

Gently, I did.

The end came anyway.

Mr. Harvey made me lie still underneath him and listen to the beating of

his heart and the beating of mine. How mine skipped like a rabbit, and

how his thudded, a hammer against cloth. We lay there with our bodies

touching, and, as I shook, a powerful knowledge took hold. He had done

this thing to me and I had lived. That was all. I was still breathing. I

heard his heart. I smelled his breath. The dark earth surrounding us

smelled like what it was, moist dirt where worms and animals lived their

daily lives. I could have yelled for hours.

I knew he was going to kill me. I did not realize then that I was an

animal already dying.