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62
El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 3, Página 13
“I’m
Gatsby,”
he
said
suddenly.
“What!”
I
exclaimed.
“Oh,
I’m
sorry.”
“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
in
it,
that
you
encounter
four
or
five
times
in
life.
It
faced—or
seemed
to
face—the
whole
eternal
world
for
an
instant,
and
then
focused
on
you
with
an
irresistible
bias
in
your
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
it
had
precisely
the
impression
of
you
that,
at
your
best,
you
hoped
to
convey.
At
that
moment,
it
disappeared—and
I
was
looking
at
an
elegant
young
roughneck,
a
year
or
two
over
thirty,
whose
elaborate
speech
almost
seemed
absurd.
Even
before
he
introduced
himself,
I
had
a
strong
feeling
he
was
choosing
his
words
carefully.
Almost
immediately
after
Mr.
Gatsby
identified
himself,
a
butler
hurried
over
to
inform
him
that
Chicago
was
calling
on
the
phone.
He
excused
himself
with
a
small
bow
that
included
each
of
us.
“If
you
need
anything,
just
ask
for
it,
old
sport,”
he
urged
me.
“Excuse
me.
I’ll
join
you
again
later.”
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El Gran Gatsby — B2 Inglés | Cuentana