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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 3, Página 27
I
began
to
like
New
York,
the
lively,
adventurous
feel
of
it
at
night,
and
the
satisfaction
that
the
constant
movement
of
people
and
machines
gave
to
the
restless
eye.
I
liked
to
walk
up
Fifth
Avenue
and
pick
out
romantic
women
from
the
crowd,
imagining
that
in
a
few
minutes
I
was
going
to
enter
their
lives,
and
no
one
would
ever
know
or
disapprove.
Sometimes,
in
my
mind,
I
followed
them
to
their
apartments
on
hidden
street
corners,
and
they
turned
and
smiled
back
at
me
before
disappearing
through
a
door
into
warm
darkness.
At
the
magical
metropolitan
twilight,
I
sometimes
felt
a
haunting
loneliness
and
sensed
it
in
others—young
clerks
who
lingered
in
front
of
windows
until
it
was
time
for
a
solitary
dinner
in
a
restaurant—young
clerks
in
the
dusk,
wasting
the
most
poignant
moments
of
night
and
life.
Again
at
eight
o’clock,
when
the
dark
streets
of
the
Forties
were
lined
five
deep
with
throbbing
taxicabs
heading
to
the
theater
district,
I
felt
a
sinking
in
my
heart.
Forms
leaned
together
in
the
taxis
as
they
waited,
voices
sang,
and
there
was
laughter
from
unheard
jokes,
and
lighted
cigarettes
made
unintelligible
circles
inside.
Imagining
that
I,
too,
was
rushing
towards
excitement
and
sharing
their
intimate
joy,
I
wished
them
well.
For
a
while,
I
lost
sight
of
Jordan
Baker,
and
then
in
midsummer,
I
found
her
again.
At
first,
I
was
flattered
to
go
places
with
her
because
she
was
a
golf
champion,
and
everyone
knew
her
name.
Then
it
became
something
more.
I
wasn’t
actually
in
love,
but
I
felt
a
sort
of
tender
curiosity.
The
bored,
proud
face
she
showed
the
world
hid
something—most
pretenses
hide
something
eventually,
even
if
they
don’t
at
first—and
one
day
I
discovered
what
it
was.
When
we
were
at
a
house
party
in
Warwick,
she
left
a
borrowed
car
out
in
the
rain
with
the
top
down
and
then
lied
about
it—and
suddenly
I
remembered
the
story
that
had
eluded
me
that
night
at
Daisy’s.
At
her
first
big
golf
tournament,
there
was
an
incident
that
nearly
reached
the
newspapers—a
suggestion
that
she
had
moved
her
ball
from
a
bad
position
in
the
semifinal
round.
The
issue
almost
became
a
scandal—then
it
faded
away.
A
caddy
retracted
his
statement,
and
the
only
other
witness
admitted
he
might
have
been
mistaken.
The
incident
and
her
name
had
stayed
linked
in
my
mind.
Jordan
Baker
instinctively
avoided
clever,
shrewd
men,
and
now
I
saw
it
was
because
she
felt
safer
in
a
world
where
any
deviation
from
the
norm
would
be
considered
impossible.
She
was
incurably
dishonest.
She
couldn’t
stand
being
at
a
disadvantage,
and
because
of
this
reluctance,
I
suppose
she
started
using
tricks
when
she
was
very
young
to
keep
that
cool,
insolent
smile
for
the
world
while
satisfying
the
demands
of
her
bold,
lively
body.
It
didn’t
matter
to
me.
Dishonesty
in
a
woman
is
something
you
never
blame
deeply—I
was
mildly
sorry,
and
then
I
forgot.
It
was
at
that
same
house
party
that
we
had
an
unusual
conversation
about
driving
a
car.
It
began
because
she
drove
so
close
to
some
workmen
that
our
fender
grazed
a
button
on
one
man’s
coat.
"You’re
a
terrible
driver,"
I
protested.
"Either
you
should
be
more
careful,
or
you
shouldn’t
drive
at
all."
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El Gran Gatsby — B2 Inglés | Cuentana