Please translate the following excerpt into Chinese: He would stand before us, put his hands on his waist and take a tremendous breath. You could hear the wind, trapped in the cavern of his chest and struggling with all the unnatural impediments. His body would reel with shock and his face go white at the unaccustomed visitation. He would stagger back to his desk and collapse there, useless for the rest of the morning. Mr. Houghton was given to high-minded monologues about the good life, sexless and full of duty. Yet in the middle of one of these monologues, if a girl passed the window , tapping along on her neat little feet, he would interrupt his discourse , his neck would turn of itself and he would watch her out of sight. In this instance , he seemed to me ruled not by thought but by an invisible and irresistible spring in his neck. His neck was an object of great interest to me. Normally it bulged a bit over his collar. But Mr. Houghton had fought in the First World War alongside both Americans and French, and had come to a settled detestation of both countries. If either happened to be prominent in current affairs, no argument could make Mr. Houghton think well of it. He would bang the desk, his neck would bulge still further and go red. “You can say what you like,” he would cry, “but I’ve thought about this – and I know what I think!” Mr. Houghton thought with his neck.