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35
El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 2, Página 9
We
went
on,
cutting
back
again
over
the
Park
toward
the
West
Hundreds.
At
158th
Street
the
cab
stopped
at
one
slice
in
a
long
white
cake
of
apartment-houses.
Throwing
a
regal
homecoming
glance
around
the
neighbourhood,
Mrs.
Wilson
gathered
up
her
dog
and
her
other
purchases,
and
went
haughtily
in.
“I’m
going
to
have
the
McKees
come
up,”
she
announced
as
we
rose
in
the
elevator.
“And,
of
course,
I
got
to
call
up
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
to
the
doors
with
a
set
of
tapestried
furniture
entirely
too
large
for
it,
so
that
to
move
about
was
to
stumble
continually
over
scenes
of
ladies
swinging
in
the
gardens
of
Versailles.
The
only
picture
was
an
over-enlarged
photograph,
apparently
a
hen
sitting
on
a
blurred
rock.
Looked
at
from
a
distance,
however,
the
hen
resolved
itself
into
a
bonnet,
and
the
countenance
of
a
stout
old
lady
beamed
down
into
the
room.
Several
old
copies
of
Town
Tattle
lay
on
the
table
together
with
a
copy
of
Simon
Called
Peter,
and
some
of
the
small
scandal
magazines
of
Broadway.
Mrs.
Wilson
was
first
concerned
with
the
dog.
A
reluctant
elevator
boy
went
for
a
box
full
of
straw
and
some
milk,
to
which
he
added
on
his
own
initiative
a
tin
of
large,
hard
dog
biscuits—one
of
which
decomposed
apathetically
in
the
saucer
of
milk
all
afternoon.
Meanwhile
Tom
brought
out
a
bottle
of
whisky
from
a
locked
bureau
door.
I
have
been
drunk
just
twice
in
my
life,
and
the
second
time
was
that
afternoon;
so
everything
that
happened
has
a
dim,
hazy
cast
over
it,
although
until
after
eight
o’clock
the
apartment
was
full
of
cheerful
sun.
Sitting
on
Tom’s
lap
Mrs.
Wilson
called
up
several
people
on
the
telephone;
then
there
were
no
cigarettes,
and
I
went
out
to
buy
some
at
the
drugstore
on
the
corner.
When
I
came
back
they
had
both
disappeared,
so
I
sat
down
discreetly
in
the
living-room
and
read
a
chapter
of
Simon
Called
Peter—either
it
was
terrible
stuff
or
the
whisky
distorted
things,
because
it
didn’t
make
any
sense
to
me.
Just
as
Tom
and
Myrtle
(after
the
first
drink
Mrs.
Wilson
and
I
called
each
other
by
our
first
names)
reappeared,
company
commenced
to
arrive
at
the
apartment
door.
The
sister,
Catherine,
was
a
slender,
worldly
girl
of
about
thirty,
with
a
solid,
sticky
bob
of
red
hair,
and
a
complexion
powdered
milky
white.
Her
eyebrows
had
been
plucked
and
then
drawn
on
again
at
a
more
rakish
angle,
but
the
efforts
of
nature
toward
the
restoration
of
the
old
alignment
gave
a
blurred
air
to
her
face.
When
she
moved
about
there
was
an
incessant
clicking
as
innumerable
pottery
bracelets
jingled
up
and
down
upon
her
arms.
She
came
in
with
such
a
proprietary
haste,
and
looked
around
so
possessively
at
the
furniture
that
I
wondered
if
she
lived
here.
But
when
I
asked
her
she
laughed
immoderately,
repeated
my
question
aloud,
and
told
me
she
lived
with
a
girl
friend
at
a
hotel.
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El Gran Gatsby — C1 Inglés | Cuentana