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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 8, Página 3
But
he
didn’t
despise
himself
and
it
didn’t
turn
out
as
he
had
imagined.
He
had
intended,
probably,
to
take
what
he
could
and
go—but
now
he
found
that
he
had
committed
himself
to
the
following
of
a
grail.
He
knew
that
Daisy
was
extraordinary,
but
he
didn’t
realize
just
how
extraordinary
a
“nice”
girl
could
be.
She
vanished
into
her
rich
house,
into
her
rich,
full
life,
leaving
Gatsby—nothing.
He
felt
married
to
her,
that
was
all.
When
they
met
again,
two
days
later,
it
was
Gatsby
who
was
breathless,
who
was,
somehow,
betrayed.
Her
porch
was
bright
with
the
bought
luxury
of
star-shine;
the
wicker
of
the
settee
squeaked
fashionably
as
she
turned
toward
him
and
he
kissed
her
curious
and
lovely
mouth.
She
had
caught
a
cold,
and
it
made
her
voice
huskier
and
more
charming
than
ever,
and
Gatsby
was
overwhelmingly
aware
of
the
youth
and
mystery
that
wealth
imprisons
and
preserves,
of
the
freshness
of
many
clothes,
and
of
Daisy,
gleaming
like
silver,
safe
and
proud
above
the
hot
struggles
of
the
poor.
“I
can’t
describe
to
you
how
surprised
I
was
to
find
out
I
loved
her,
old
sport.
I
even
hoped
for
a
while
that
she’d
throw
me
over,
but
she
didn’t,
because
she
was
in
love
with
me
too.
She
thought
I
knew
a
lot
because
I
knew
different
things
from
her…
Well,
there
I
was,
way
off
my
ambitions,
getting
deeper
in
love
every
minute,
and
all
of
a
sudden
I
didn’t
care.
What
was
the
use
of
doing
great
things
if
I
could
have
a
better
time
telling
her
what
I
was
going
to
do?”
On
the
last
afternoon
before
he
went
abroad,
he
sat
with
Daisy
in
his
arms
for
a
long,
silent
time.
It
was
a
cold
fall
day,
with
fire
in
the
room
and
her
cheeks
flushed.
Now
and
then
she
moved
and
he
changed
his
arm
a
little,
and
once
he
kissed
her
dark
shining
hair.
The
afternoon
had
made
them
tranquil
for
a
while,
as
if
to
give
them
a
deep
memory
for
the
long
parting
the
next
day
promised.
They
had
never
been
closer
in
their
month
of
love,
nor
communicated
more
profoundly
one
with
another,
than
when
she
brushed
silent
lips
against
his
coat’s
shoulder
or
when
he
touched
the
end
of
her
fingers,
gently,
as
though
she
were
asleep.
He
did
extraordinarily
well
in
the
war.
He
was
a
captain
before
he
went
to
the
front,
and
following
the
Argonne
battles
he
got
his
majority
and
the
command
of
the
divisional
machine-guns.
After
the
armistice
he
tried
frantically
to
get
home,
but
some
complication
or
misunderstanding
sent
him
to
Oxford
instead.
He
was
worried
now—there
was
a
quality
of
nervous
despair
in
Daisy’s
letters.
She
didn’t
see
why
he
couldn’t
come.
She
was
feeling
the
pressure
of
the
world
outside,
and
she
wanted
to
see
him
and
feel
his
presence
beside
her
and
be
reassured
that
she
was
doing
the
right
thing
after
all.
For
Daisy
was
young
and
her
artificial
world
was
redolent
of
orchids
and
pleasant,
cheerful
snobbery
and
orchestras
which
set
the
rhythm
of
the
year,
summing
up
the
sadness
and
suggestiveness
of
life
in
new
tunes.
All
night
the
saxophones
wailed
the
hopeless
comment
of
the
“Beale
Street
Blues”
while
a
hundred
pairs
of
golden
and
silver
slippers
shuffled
the
shining
dust.
At
the
grey
tea
hour
there
were
always
rooms
that
throbbed
incessantly
with
this
low,
sweet
fever,
while
fresh
faces
drifted
here
and
there
like
rose
petals
blown
by
the
sad
horns
around
the
floor.
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El Gran Gatsby — C1 Inglés | Cuentana