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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 7, Página 52
It
was
seven
o’clock
when
we
got
into
the
coupé
with
him
and
started
for
Long
Island.
Tom
talked
incessantly,
exulting
and
laughing,
but
his
voice
was
as
remote
from
Jordan
and
me
as
the
foreign
clamour
on
the
sidewalk
or
the
tumult
of
the
elevated
overhead.
Human
sympathy
has
its
limits,
and
we
were
content
to
let
all
their
tragic
arguments
fade
with
the
city
lights
behind.
Thirty—the
promise
of
a
decade
of
loneliness,
a
thinning
list
of
single
men
to
know,
a
thinning
briefcase
of
enthusiasm,
thinning
hair.
But
there
was
Jordan
beside
me,
who,
unlike
Daisy,
was
too
wise
ever
to
carry
well-forgotten
dreams
from
age
to
age.
As
we
passed
over
the
dark
bridge
her
wan
face
fell
lazily
against
my
coat’s
shoulder
and
the
formidable
stroke
of
thirty
died
away
with
the
reassuring
pressure
of
her
hand.
So
we
drove
on
toward
death
through
the
cooling
twilight.
The
young
Greek,
Michaelis,
who
ran
the
coffee
joint
beside
the
ash-heaps
was
the
principal
witness
at
the
inquest.
He
had
slept
through
the
heat
until
after
five,
when
he
strolled
over
to
the
garage,
and
found
George
Wilson
sick
in
his
office—really
sick,
pale
as
his
own
pale
hair
and
shaking
all
over.
Michaelis
advised
him
to
go
to
bed,
but
Wilson
refused,
saying
that
he’d
miss
a
lot
of
business
if
he
did.
While
his
neighbour
was
trying
to
persuade
him
a
violent
racket
broke
out
overhead.
“I’ve
got
my
wife
locked
in
up
there,”
explained
Wilson
calmly.
“She’s
going
to
stay
there
till
the
day
after
tomorrow,
and
then
we’re
going
to
move
away.”
Michaelis
was
astonished;
they
had
been
neighbours
for
four
years,
and
Wilson
had
never
seemed
faintly
capable
of
such
a
statement.
Generally
he
was
one
of
these
worn-out
men:
when
he
wasn’t
working,
he
sat
on
a
chair
in
the
doorway
and
stared
at
the
people
and
the
cars
that
passed
along
the
road.
When
anyone
spoke
to
him
he
invariably
laughed
in
an
agreeable,
colourless
way.
He
was
his
wife’s
man
and
not
his
own.
So
naturally
Michaelis
tried
to
find
out
what
had
happened,
but
Wilson
wouldn’t
say
a
word—instead
he
began
to
throw
curious,
suspicious
glances
at
his
visitor
and
ask
him
what
he’d
been
doing
at
certain
times
on
certain
days.
Just
as
the
latter
was
getting
uneasy,
some
workmen
came
past
the
door
bound
for
his
restaurant,
and
Michaelis
took
the
opportunity
to
get
away,
intending
to
come
back
later.
But
he
didn’t.
He
supposed
he
forgot
to,
that’s
all.
When
he
came
outside
again,
a
little
after
seven,
he
was
reminded
of
the
conversation
because
he
heard
Mrs.
Wilson’s
voice,
loud
and
scolding,
downstairs
in
the
garage.
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El Gran Gatsby — C1 Inglés | Cuentana