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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 8, Página 1
I
couldn’t
sleep
all
night;
a
foghorn
was
groaning
incessantly
on
the
Sound,
and
I
tossed
half-sick
between
grotesque
reality
and
savage,
frightening
dreams.
Toward
dawn
I
heard
a
taxi
go
up
Gatsby’s
drive,
and
immediately
I
jumped
out
of
bed
and
began
to
dress—I
felt
that
I
had
something
to
tell
him,
something
to
warn
him
about,
and
morning
would
be
too
late.
Crossing
his
lawn,
I
saw
that
his
front
door
was
still
open
and
he
was
leaning
against
a
table
in
the
hall,
heavy
with
dejection
or
sleep.
“Nothing
happened,”
he
said
wanly.
“I
waited,
and
about
four
o’clock
she
came
to
the
window
and
stood
there
for
a
minute
and
then
turned
out
the
light.”
His
house
had
never
seemed
so
enormous
to
me
as
it
did
that
night
when
we
hunted
through
the
great
rooms
for
cigarettes.
We
pushed
aside
curtains
that
were
like
pavilions,
and
felt
over
innumerable
feet
of
dark
wall
for
electric
light
switches—once
I
tumbled
with
a
sort
of
splash
upon
the
keys
of
a
ghostly
piano.
There
was
an
inexplicable
amount
of
dust
everywhere,
and
the
rooms
were
musty,
as
though
they
hadn’t
been
aired
for
many
days.
I
found
the
humidor
on
an
unfamiliar
table,
with
two
stale,
dry
cigarettes
inside.
Throwing
open
the
French
windows
of
the
drawing-room,
we
sat
smoking
out
into
the
darkness.
“You
ought
to
go
away,”
I
said.
“It’s
pretty
certain
they’ll
trace
your
car.”
“Go
away
now,
old
sport?”
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El Gran Gatsby — C1 Inglés | Cuentana