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212
El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 7, Página 55
Myrtle
Wilson's
body,
wrapped
in
a
blanket,
and
then
another
blanket,
as
if
she
were
cold
on
the
hot
night,
lay
on
a
worktable
by
the
wall,
and
Tom,
with
his
back
to
us,
was
bending
over
it,
motionless.
Beside
him
stood
a
motorcycle
policeman
taking
down
names
with
much
sweat
and
correction
in
a
little
book.
At
first,
I
couldn't
find
the
source
of
the
high,
groaning
words
that
echoed
loudly
through
the
bare
garage—then
I
saw
Wilson
standing
on
the
raised
threshold
of
his
office,
swaying
back
and
forth
and
holding
to
the
doorposts
with
both
hands.
Some
man
was
talking
to
him
in
a
low
voice
and
occasionally
trying
to
lay
a
hand
on
his
shoulder,
but
Wilson
neither
heard
nor
saw.
His
eyes
would
drop
slowly
from
the
swinging
light
to
the
laden
table
by
the
wall,
and
then
jerk
back
to
the
light
again,
and
he
kept
giving
out
his
high,
horrible
call:
"Oh,
my
Ga-od!
Oh,
my
Ga-od!
Oh,
Ga-od!
Oh,
my
Ga-od!"
Presently
Tom
lifted
his
head
with
a
jerk
and,
after
staring
around
the
garage
with
glazed
eyes,
made
a
mumbled,
incoherent
remark
to
the
policeman.
"M-a-v—"
the
policeman
was
saying,
"—o—"
"No,
r—"
corrected
the
man,
"M-a-v-r-o—"
"Listen
to
me!"
muttered
Tom
fiercely.
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El Gran Gatsby — B2 Inglés | Cuentana