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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 3, Página 27
I
began
to
like
New
York,
the
racy,
adventurous
feel
of
it
at
night,
and
the
satisfaction
that
the
constant
flicker
of
men
and
women
and
machines
gives
to
the
restless
eye.
I
liked
to
walk
up
Fifth
Avenue
and
pick
out
romantic
women
from
the
crowd
and
imagine
that
in
a
few
minutes
I
was
going
to
enter
into
their
lives,
and
no
one
would
ever
know
or
disapprove.
Sometimes,
in
my
mind,
I
followed
them
to
their
apartments
on
the
corners
of
hidden
streets,
and
they
turned
and
smiled
back
at
me
before
they
faded
through
a
door
into
warm
darkness.
At
the
enchanted
metropolitan
twilight
I
felt
a
haunting
loneliness
sometimes,
and
felt
it
in
others—poor
young
clerks
who
loitered
in
front
of
windows
waiting
until
it
was
time
for
a
solitary
restaurant
dinner—young
clerks
in
the
dusk,
wasting
the
most
poignant
moments
of
night
and
life.
Again
at
eight
o’clock,
when
the
dark
lanes
of
the
Forties
were
lined
five
deep
with
throbbing
taxicabs,
bound
for
the
theatre
district,
I
felt
a
sinking
in
my
heart.
Forms
leaned
together
in
the
taxis
as
they
waited,
and
voices
sang,
and
there
was
laughter
from
unheard
jokes,
and
lighted
cigarettes
made
unintelligible
circles
inside.
Imagining
that
I,
too,
was
hurrying
towards
gaiety
and
sharing
their
intimate
excitement,
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
was
something
more.
I
wasn’t
actually
in
love,
but
I
felt
a
sort
of
tender
curiosity.
The
bored
haughty
face
that
she
turned
to
the
world
concealed
something—most
affectations
conceal
something
eventually,
even
though
they
don’t
in
the
beginning—and
one
day
I
found
what
it
was.
When
we
were
on
a
house-party
together
up
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
about
her
that
had
eluded
me
that
night
at
Daisy’s.
At
her
first
big
golf
tournament
there
was
a
row
that
nearly
reached
the
newspapers—a
suggestion
that
she
had
moved
her
ball
from
a
bad
lie
in
the
semifinal
round.
The
thing
approached
the
proportions
of
a
scandal—then
died
away.
A
caddy
retracted
his
statement,
and
the
only
other
witness
admitted
that
he
might
have
been
mistaken.
The
incident
and
the
name
had
remained
together
in
my
mind.
Jordan
Baker
instinctively
avoided
clever,
shrewd
men,
and
now
I
saw
that
this
was
because
she
felt
safer
on
a
plane
where
any
divergence
from
a
code
would
be
thought
impossible.
She
was
incurably
dishonest.
She
wasn’t
able
to
endure
being
at
a
disadvantage
and,
given
this
unwillingness,
I
suppose
she
had
begun
dealing
in
subterfuges
when
she
was
very
young
in
order
to
keep
that
cool,
insolent
smile
turned
to
the
world
and
yet
satisfy
the
demands
of
her
hard,
jaunty
body.
It
made
no
difference
to
me.
Dishonesty
in
a
woman
is
a
thing
you
never
blame
deeply—I
was
casually
sorry,
and
then
I
forgot.
It
was
on
that
same
house-party
that
we
had
a
curious
conversation
about
driving
a
car.
It
started
because
she
passed
so
close
to
some
workmen
that
our
fender
flicked
a
button
on
one
man’s
coat.
“You’re
a
rotten
driver,”
I
protested.
“Either
you
ought
to
be
more
careful,
or
you
oughtn’t
to
drive
at
all.”
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El Gran Gatsby — C1 Inglés | Cuentana