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35
El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 2, Página 9
We
continued,
heading
back
over
the
Park
toward
the
West
Hundreds.
At
158th
Street,
the
cab
stopped
at
a
section
of
a
long
row
of
apartment
buildings.
With
a
regal
glance
around
the
neighborhood,
Mrs.
Wilson
gathered
up
her
dog
and
other
purchases
and
went
in
proudly.
"I'm
going
to
have
the
McKees
come
up,"
she
announced
as
we
rose
in
the
elevator.
"And,
of
course,
I
need
to
call
my
sister,
too."
The
apartment
was
on
the
top
floor—a
small
living
room,
a
small
dining
room,
a
small
bedroom,
and
a
bath.
The
living
room
was
crowded
with
tapestried
furniture
that
was
too
large
for
the
space,
so
moving
around
meant
constantly
stumbling
over
scenes
of
ladies
swinging
in
Versailles
gardens.
The
only
picture
was
an
oversized
photograph,
seemingly
of
a
hen
on
a
blurry
rock.
From
a
distance,
though,
it
turned
into
a
bonnet,
and
the
face
of
a
stout
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
Broadway
scandal
magazines.
Mrs.
Wilson
first
focused
on
the
dog.
A
reluctant
elevator
boy
fetched
a
box
of
straw
and
some
milk,
adding
a
tin
of
large
dog
biscuits
on
his
own.
One
biscuit
dissolved
slowly
in
the
milk
all
afternoon.
Meanwhile,
Tom
took
out
a
bottle
of
whisky
from
a
locked
bureau.
I've
only
been
drunk
twice
in
my
life,
and
the
second
time
was
that
afternoon;
so
everything
that
happened
seems
dim
and
hazy,
although
the
apartment
stayed
full
of
cheerful
sunlight
until
after
eight
o'clock.
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
corner
drugstore.
When
I
returned,
they
had
both
vanished,
so
I
sat
in
the
living
room
and
read
a
chapter
of
Simon
Called
Peter—either
it
was
terrible
or
the
whisky
distorted
it,
because
it
made
no
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
arriving
at
the
apartment
door.
The
sister,
Catherine,
was
a
slender,
worldly
woman
of
about
thirty,
with
a
solid
bob
of
red
hair
and
a
complexion
powdered
milky
white.
Her
eyebrows
had
been
plucked
and
redrawn
at
a
more
daring
angle,
but
nature's
efforts
to
restore
the
old
alignment
gave
her
face
a
blurred
look.
When
she
moved,
there
was
a
constant
clicking
as
countless
pottery
bracelets
jingled
on
her
arms.
She
entered
with
such
a
sense
of
ownership
and
looked
around
so
possessively
that
I
wondered
if
she
lived
there.
But
when
I
asked,
she
laughed
loudly,
repeated
my
question,
and
told
me
she
lived
with
a
friend
at
a
hotel.
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El Gran Gatsby — B2 Inglés | Cuentana