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35
El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 2, Página 9
We
continued,
going
back
over
the
Park
toward
the
West
Hundreds.
At
158th
Street,
the
cab
stopped
at
a
row
of
white
apartment
buildings.
Mrs.
Wilson
picked
up
her
dog
and
her
other
purchases
and
went
in
with
a
proud
look
around
the
neighborhood.
"I’m
going
to
invite
the
McKees
up,"
she
announced
as
we
rode
in
the
elevator.
"And,
of
course,
I
need
to
call
my
sister,
too."
The
apartment
was
on
the
top
floor.
It
had
a
small
living
room,
a
small
dining
room,
a
small
bedroom,
and
a
bathroom.
The
living
room
was
crowded
with
large
tapestried
furniture,
making
it
hard
to
move
without
bumping
into
scenes
of
ladies
swinging
in
the
gardens
of
Versailles.
The
only
picture
was
an
enlarged
photograph
that
looked
like
a
hen
sitting
on
a
rock.
From
a
distance,
it
became
a
bonnet,
and
the
face
of
an
old
lady
smiled
down
into
the
room.
Several
old
copies
of
Town
Tattle
lay
on
the
table
with
a
copy
of
Simon
Called
Peter
and
some
small
scandal
magazines
of
Broadway.
Mrs.
Wilson
first
took
care
of
the
dog.
A
reluctant
elevator
boy
went
for
a
box
of
straw
and
some
milk,
adding
a
tin
of
large,
hard
dog
biscuits.
One
biscuit
sat
in
the
milk
all
afternoon.
Meanwhile,
Tom
brought
out
a
bottle
of
whisky
from
a
locked
bureau
door.
I
have
been
drunk
just
twice
in
my
life,
and
the
second
time
was
that
afternoon.
So,
everything
that
happened
has
a
dim,
hazy
feel,
although
until
after
eight
o'clock,
the
apartment
was
full
of
cheerful
sun.
Sitting
on
Tom’s
lap,
Mrs.
Wilson
called
several
people
on
the
phone.
Then
there
were
no
cigarettes,
and
I
went
out
to
buy
some
at
the
drugstore
on
the
corner.
When
I
came
back,
they
had
both
disappeared,
so
I
sat
quietly
in
the
living
room
and
read
a
chapter
of
Simon
Called
Peter.
Either
it
was
terrible
writing,
or
the
whisky
made
it
confusing,
because
it
didn’t
make
sense
to
me.
Just
as
Tom
and
Myrtle
(after
the
first
drink,
Mrs.
Wilson
and
I
called
each
other
by
our
first
names)
reappeared,
guests
began
to
arrive
at
the
apartment
door.
The
sister,
Catherine,
was
a
slender,
worldly
woman
of
about
thirty,
with
a
solid,
sticky
bob
of
red
hair
and
a
complexion
powdered
milky
white.
Her
eyebrows
had
been
plucked
and
drawn
on
again
at
a
sharper
angle,
but
nature’s
efforts
to
restore
the
old
shape
gave
her
face
a
blurred
look.
When
she
moved,
there
was
a
constant
clicking
as
many
pottery
bracelets
jingled
on
her
arms.
She
entered
quickly,
looking
around
so
possessively
at
the
furniture
that
I
wondered
if
she
lived
here.
But
when
I
asked
her,
she
laughed
loudly,
repeated
my
question,
and
told
me
she
lived
with
a
friend
at
a
hotel.
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El Gran Gatsby — B1 Inglés | Cuentana