Their broad, ugly, kindly faces watch in the sunlight as I write, and their breathing is quiet under the hill.

他们那丑陋的宽脸膛，亲切地看着阳光中书写的我，他们的呼吸在山丘下是那么的安静。

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If you ignore the swollen protrusions on their chests and the general swelling of their bodies, if you ignore their tendency to twist their faces wildly, with some experience you can distinguish between the ugly ones and the pretty ones, and this one would definitely have been considered pretty.

NEWYORKER: The Slows