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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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- Великий Гэтсби
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- Стр. 136/165
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As
I
tiptoed
from
the
porch
I
heard
my
taxi
feeling
its
way
along
the
dark
road
toward
the
house
.
Gatsby
was
waiting
where
I
had
left
him
in
the
drive
.
"
Is
it
all
quiet
up
there
?
"
he
asked
anxiously
.
"
Yes
,
it
's
all
quiet
.
"
I
hesitated
.
"
You
'd
better
come
home
and
get
some
sleep
.
"
He
shook
his
head
.
"
I
want
to
wait
here
till
Daisy
goes
to
bed
.
Good
night
,
old
sport
.
"
He
put
his
hands
in
his
coat
pockets
and
turned
back
eagerly
to
his
scrutiny
of
the
house
,
as
though
my
presence
marred
the
sacredness
of
the
vigil
.
So
I
walked
away
and
left
him
standing
there
in
the
moonlight
--
watching
over
nothing
.
I
could
n't
sleep
all
night
;
a
fog-horn
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
had
n'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
.
