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62
El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 3, Página 13
“I’m
Gatsby,”
he
said
suddenly.
“What!”
I
exclaimed.
“Oh,
I
beg
your
pardon.”
“I
thought
you
knew,
old
sport.
I’m
afraid
I’m
not
a
very
good
host.”
He
smiled
understandingly—much
more
than
understandingly.
It
was
one
of
those
rare
smiles
with
a
quality
of
eternal
reassurance
in
it,
that
you
may
come
across
four
or
five
times
in
life.
It
faced—or
seemed
to
face—the
whole
eternal
world
for
an
instant,
and
then
concentrated
on
you
with
an
irresistible
prejudice
in
your
favour.
It
understood
you
just
so
far
as
you
wanted
to
be
understood,
believed
in
you
as
you
would
like
to
believe
in
yourself,
and
assured
you
that
it
had
precisely
the
impression
of
you
that,
at
your
best,
you
hoped
to
convey.
Precisely
at
that
point
it
vanished—and
I
was
looking
at
an
elegant
young
roughneck,
a
year
or
two
over
thirty,
whose
elaborate
formality
of
speech
just
missed
being
absurd.
Some
time
before
he
introduced
himself
I’d
got
a
strong
impression
that
he
was
picking
his
words
with
care.
Almost
at
the
moment
when
Mr.
Gatsby
identified
himself
a
butler
hurried
toward
him
with
the
information
that
Chicago
was
calling
him
on
the
wire.
He
excused
himself
with
a
small
bow
that
included
each
of
us
in
turn.
“If
you
want
anything
just
ask
for
it,
old
sport,”
he
urged
me.
“Excuse
me.
I
will
rejoin
you
later.”
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El Gran Gatsby — C1 Inglés | Cuentana