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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 7, Página 52
It
was
seven
o'clock
when
we
got
into
the
car
with
him
and
started
for
Long
Island.
Tom
talked
all
the
time,
happy
and
laughing,
but
his
voice
felt
far
away
from
Jordan
and
me.
Human
sympathy
has
limits,
and
we
let
their
sad
arguments
fade
with
the
city
lights
behind
us.
Thirty—a
promise
of
lonely
years,
fewer
single
men
to
meet,
less
excitement,
less
hair.
But
Jordan
was
beside
me,
who,
unlike
Daisy,
was
too
smart
to
hold
on
to
old
dreams.
As
we
crossed
the
dark
bridge,
her
tired
face
leaned
against
my
shoulder,
and
the
big
worry
of
turning
thirty
went
away
with
the
comfort
of
her
hand.
So
we
drove
on
toward
death
through
the
cooling
evening.
The
young
Greek,
Michaelis,
who
ran
the
coffee
place
by
the
ash-heaps,
was
the
main
witness
at
the
inquest.
He
had
slept
through
the
heat
until
after
five,
then
went
to
the
garage
and
found
George
Wilson
sick
in
his
office—really
sick,
pale
and
shaking.
Michaelis
told
him
to
go
to
bed,
but
Wilson
refused,
saying
he’d
miss
business.
While
his
neighbor
tried
to
persuade
him,
a
loud
noise
started
upstairs.
"I’ve
got
my
wife
locked
up
there,"
Wilson
said
calmly.
"She’ll
stay
until
the
day
after
tomorrow,
then
we’re
moving
away."
Michaelis
was
surprised;
they
had
been
neighbors
for
four
years,
and
Wilson
had
never
talked
like
this.
Usually,
he
was
tired-looking:
when
not
working,
he
sat
in
a
chair,
watching
people
and
cars
pass
by.
When
someone
talked
to
him,
he
always
laughed
in
a
simple,
colorless
way.
He
was
his
wife's
man,
not
his
own.
So
naturally,
Michaelis
tried
to
find
out
what
happened,
but
Wilson
wouldn’t
say
anything—instead,
he
looked
at
him
with
suspicion
and
asked
where
he
was
at
certain
times.
Just
as
Michaelis
felt
uneasy,
some
workers
passed
by,
and
he
took
the
chance
to
leave,
planning
to
return
later.
But
he
didn’t.
He
guessed
he
forgot.
When
he
came
out
again,
a
little
after
seven,
he
remembered
the
talk
because
he
heard
Mrs.
Wilson's
voice,
loud
and
angry,
downstairs
in
the
garage.
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El Gran Gatsby — A2 Inglés | Cuentana