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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 4, Página 9
He
wouldn’t
say
another
word.
His
correctness
grew
on
him
as
we
neared
the
city.
We
passed
Port
Roosevelt,
where
there
was
a
glimpse
of
red-belted
oceangoing
ships,
and
sped
along
a
cobbled
slum
lined
with
the
dark,
undeserted
saloons
of
the
faded-gilt
nineteen-hundreds.
Then
the
valley
of
ashes
opened
out
on
both
sides
of
us,
and
I
had
a
glimpse
of
Mrs.
Wilson
straining
at
the
garage
pump
with
panting
vitality
as
we
went
by.
With
fenders
spread
like
wings
we
scattered
light
through
half
Astoria—only
half,
for
as
we
twisted
among
the
pillars
of
the
elevated
I
heard
the
familiar
“jug-jug-spat!”
of
a
motorcycle,
and
a
frantic
policeman
rode
alongside.
“All
right,
old
sport,”
called
Gatsby.
We
slowed
down.
Taking
a
white
card
from
his
wallet,
he
waved
it
before
the
man’s
eyes.
“Right
you
are,”
agreed
the
policeman,
tipping
his
cap.
“Know
you
next
time,
Mr.
Gatsby.
Excuse
me!”
“What
was
that?”
I
inquired.
“The
picture
of
Oxford?”
“I
was
able
to
do
the
commissioner
a
favour
once,
and
he
sends
me
a
Christmas
card
every
year.”
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El Gran Gatsby — C1 Inglés | Cuentana