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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 5, Página 15
I
walked
out
the
back
way—just
as
Gatsby
had
when
he
had
made
his
nervous
circuit
of
the
house
half
an
hour
before—and
ran
for
a
huge
black
knotted
tree,
whose
massed
leaves
made
a
fabric
against
the
rain.
Once
more
it
was
pouring,
and
my
irregular
lawn,
well-shaved
by
Gatsby’s
gardener,
abounded
in
small
muddy
swamps
and
prehistoric
marshes.
There
was
nothing
to
look
at
from
under
the
tree
except
Gatsby’s
enormous
house,
so
I
stared
at
it,
like
Kant
at
his
church
steeple,
for
half
an
hour.
A
brewer
had
built
it
early
in
the
“period”
craze,
a
decade
before,
and
there
was
a
story
that
he’d
agreed
to
pay
five
years’
taxes
on
all
the
neighbouring
cottages
if
the
owners
would
have
their
roofs
thatched
with
straw.
Perhaps
their
refusal
took
the
heart
out
of
his
plan
to
Found
a
Family—he
went
into
an
immediate
decline.
His
children
sold
his
house
with
the
black
wreath
still
on
the
door.
Americans,
while
willing,
even
eager,
to
be
serfs,
have
always
been
obstinate
about
being
peasantry.
After
half
an
hour,
the
sun
shone
again,
and
the
grocer’s
automobile
rounded
Gatsby’s
drive
with
the
raw
material
for
his
servants’
dinner—I
felt
sure
he
wouldn’t
eat
a
spoonful.
A
maid
began
opening
the
upper
windows
of
his
house,
appeared
momentarily
in
each,
and,
leaning
from
the
large
central
bay,
spat
meditatively
into
the
garden.
It
was
time
I
went
back.
While
the
rain
continued
it
had
seemed
like
the
murmur
of
their
voices,
rising
and
swelling
a
little
now
and
then
with
gusts
of
emotion.
But
in
the
new
silence
I
felt
that
silence
had
fallen
within
the
house
too.
I
went
in—after
making
every
possible
noise
in
the
kitchen,
short
of
pushing
over
the
stove—but
I
don’t
believe
they
heard
a
sound.
They
were
sitting
at
either
end
of
the
couch,
looking
at
each
other
as
if
some
question
had
been
asked,
or
was
in
the
air,
and
every
vestige
of
embarrassment
was
gone.
Daisy’s
face
was
smeared
with
tears,
and
when
I
came
in
she
jumped
up
and
began
wiping
at
it
with
her
handkerchief
before
a
mirror.
But
there
was
a
change
in
Gatsby
that
was
simply
confounding.
He
literally
glowed;
without
a
word
or
a
gesture
of
exultation
a
new
well-being
radiated
from
him
and
filled
the
little
room.
“Oh,
hello,
old
sport,”
he
said,
as
if
he
hadn’t
seen
me
for
years.
I
thought
for
a
moment
he
was
going
to
shake
hands.
“It’s
stopped
raining.”
“Has
it?”
When
he
realized
what
I
was
talking
about,
that
there
were
twinkle-bells
of
sunshine
in
the
room,
he
smiled
like
a
weather
man,
like
an
ecstatic
patron
of
recurrent
light,
and
repeated
the
news
to
Daisy.
“What
do
you
think
of
that?
It’s
stopped
raining.”
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El Gran Gatsby — C1 Inglés | Cuentana