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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 1, Página 2
The
practical
thing
was
to
find
rooms
in
the
city,
but
it
was
a
warm
season,
and
I
had
just
left
a
place
with
wide
lawns
and
friendly
trees,
so
when
a
young
man
at
the
office
suggested
we
share
a
house
in
a
commuting
town,
it
seemed
like
a
great
idea.
He
found
the
house,
a
weathered
cardboard
bungalow
for
eighty
a
month,
but
at
the
last
minute,
the
firm
sent
him
to
Washington,
and
I
went
to
the
country
alone.
I
had
a
dog—at
least
for
a
few
days
until
he
ran
away—and
an
old
Dodge
and
a
Finnish
woman
who
made
my
bed,
cooked
breakfast,
and
muttered
Finnish
wisdom
to
herself
over
the
electric
stove.
It
was
lonely
for
a
day
or
two
until
one
morning
a
man,
newer
to
the
area
than
I,
stopped
me
on
the
road.
“How
do
you
get
to
West
Egg
village?”
he
asked
helplessly.
I
told
him.
And
as
I
walked
on,
I
was
no
longer
lonely.
I
felt
like
a
guide,
a
pioneer,
an
original
settler.
He
had
casually
given
me
the
freedom
of
the
neighborhood.
And
so
with
the
sunshine
and
the
great
bursts
of
leaves
growing
on
the
trees,
just
like
in
fast
movies,
I
had
that
familiar
feeling
that
life
was
starting
over
again
with
the
summer.
There
was
so
much
to
read,
for
one
thing,
and
so
much
good
health
to
be
drawn
from
the
fresh,
young
air.
I
bought
a
dozen
books
on
banking,
credit,
and
investment
securities,
and
they
stood
on
my
shelf
in
red
and
gold
like
new
money
from
the
mint,
promising
to
reveal
the
shining
secrets
known
only
to
Midas
and
Morgan
and
Maecenas.
And
I
intended
to
read
many
other
books
too.
I
was
rather
literary
in
college—one
year
I
wrote
a
series
of
very
serious
and
obvious
editorials
for
the
Yale
News—and
now
I
was
going
to
bring
all
such
things
back
into
my
life
and
become
again
that
most
limited
of
specialists,
the
“well-rounded
man.”
This
isn’t
just
a
clever
saying—life
is
much
more
successfully
viewed
from
a
single
window,
after
all.
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El Gran Gatsby — B2 Inglés | Cuentana