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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 7, Página 4
The
next
day
was
scorching,
almost
the
last,
certainly
the
hottest,
of
the
summer.
As
my
train
emerged
from
the
tunnel
into
sunlight,
only
the
hot
whistles
of
the
National
Biscuit
Company
broke
the
simmering
silence
at
noon.
The
straw
seats
of
the
car
were
almost
on
fire;
the
woman
next
to
me
perspired
delicately
for
a
while
into
her
white
shirtwaist,
and
then,
as
her
newspaper
dampened
under
her
fingers,
she
gave
in
to
the
heat
with
a
desolate
cry.
Her
purse
fell
to
the
floor.
“Oh,
my!”
she
gasped.
I
picked
it
up
with
a
weary
bend
and
handed
it
back
to
her,
holding
it
at
arm’s
length
by
the
extreme
tips
to
show
I
had
no
intention
of
taking
it—but
everyone
nearby,
including
the
woman,
suspected
me
anyway.
“Hot!”
said
the
conductor
to
familiar
faces.
“Some
weather!…
Hot!…
Hot!…
Hot!…
Is
it
hot
enough
for
you?
Is
it
hot?
Is
it…?”
My
commutation
ticket
came
back
to
me
with
a
dark
stain
from
his
hand.
In
this
heat,
who
cared
whose
flushed
lips
he
kissed,
whose
head
made
the
pajama
pocket
over
his
heart
damp!
…
A
faint
breeze
blew
through
the
hall
of
the
Buchanans’
house,
carrying
the
sound
of
the
telephone
bell
out
to
Gatsby
and
me
as
we
waited
at
the
door.
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El Gran Gatsby — B2 Inglés | Cuentana