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212
El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 7, Página 55
Myrtle
Wilson’s
body
was
wrapped
in
blankets,
as
if
she
was
cold
on
this
hot
night,
lying
on
a
worktable
by
the
wall.
Tom,
with
his
back
to
us,
was
bending
over
it,
not
moving.
Next
to
him
stood
a
motorcycle
policeman,
writing
down
names
in
a
sweaty,
messy
notebook.
At
first,
I
couldn’t
find
the
source
of
the
high,
groaning
words
echoing
through
the
garage—then
I
saw
Wilson
standing
on
the
office
threshold,
swaying
and
holding
the
doorposts
with
both
hands.
Someone
was
talking
to
him
quietly,
trying
to
touch
his
shoulder,
but
Wilson
didn’t
hear
or
see.
His
eyes
moved
slowly
from
the
light
to
the
table
and
back
to
the
light,
and
he
kept
calling
out:
"Oh,
my
God!
Oh,
my
God!
Oh,
God!
Oh,
my
God!"
Soon
Tom
lifted
his
head
and,
after
looking
around
the
garage
with
empty
eyes,
mumbled
something
to
the
policeman.
"M-a-v—"
the
policeman
was
saying,
"—o—"
"No,
r—"
corrected
the
man,
"M-a-v-r-o—"
"Listen
to
me!"
muttered
Tom
fiercely.
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El Gran Gatsby — A2 Inglés | Cuentana