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62
El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 3, Página 13
"I'm
Gatsby,"
he
said
suddenly.
"What!"
I
exclaimed.
"Oh,
I
beg
your
pardon."
"I
thought
you
knew,
old
sport.
I'm
afraid
I'm
not
a
very
good
host."
He
smiled
understandingly—more
than
just
understandingly.
It
was
one
of
those
rare
smiles
with
a
quality
of
eternal
reassurance,
which
you
might
see
four
or
five
times
in
life.
It
seemed
to
face
the
whole
world
for
a
moment,
then
focused
on
you
with
an
irresistible
favor.
It
understood
you
just
as
much
as
you
wanted
to
be
understood,
believed
in
you
as
you
would
like
to
believe
in
yourself,
and
assured
you
that
it
had
the
exact
impression
of
you
that,
at
your
best,
you
hoped
to
convey.
Then,
it
vanished—and
I
was
looking
at
an
elegant
young
man,
a
year
or
two
over
thirty,
whose
formal
speech
just
missed
being
absurd.
Before
he
introduced
himself,
I
had
the
strong
impression
that
he
chose
his
words
carefully.
Almost
as
Mr.
Gatsby
identified
himself,
a
butler
hurried
toward
him
to
say
that
Chicago
was
calling
on
the
phone.
He
excused
himself
with
a
small
bow
that
included
each
of
us
in
turn.
"If
you
want
anything,
just
ask
for
it,
old
sport,"
he
urged
me.
"Excuse
me.
I
will
join
you
later."
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El Gran Gatsby — B1 Inglés | Cuentana