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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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- Великий Гэтсби
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- Стр. 18/165
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"
I
ca
n't
complain
,
"
answered
Wilson
unconvincingly
.
"
When
are
you
going
to
sell
me
that
car
?
"
"
Next
week
;
I
've
got
my
man
working
on
it
now
.
"
"
Works
pretty
slow
,
do
n't
he
?
"
"
No
,
he
does
n't
,
"
said
Tom
coldly
.
"
And
if
you
feel
that
way
about
it
,
maybe
I
'd
better
sell
it
somewhere
else
after
all
.
"
"
I
do
n't
mean
that
,
"
explained
Wilson
quickly
.
"
I
just
meant
--
--
"
His
voice
faded
off
and
Tom
glanced
impatiently
around
the
garage
.
Then
I
heard
footsteps
on
a
stairs
,
and
in
a
moment
the
thickish
figure
of
a
woman
blocked
out
the
light
from
the
office
door
.
She
was
in
the
middle
thirties
,
and
faintly
stout
,
but
she
carried
her
surplus
flesh
sensuously
as
some
women
can
.
Her
face
,
above
a
spotted
dress
of
dark
blue
crepe-de-chine
,
contained
no
facet
or
gleam
of
beauty
,
but
there
was
an
immediately
perceptible
vitality
about
her
as
if
the
nerves
of
her
body
were
continually
smouldering
.
She
smiled
slowly
and
,
walking
through
her
husband
as
if
he
were
a
ghost
,
shook
hands
with
Tom
,
looking
him
flush
in
the
eye
.
Then
she
wet
her
lips
,
and
without
turning
around
spoke
to
her
husband
in
a
soft
,
coarse
voice
:
"
Get
some
chairs
,
why
do
n't
you
,
so
somebody
can
sit
down
.
"
"
Oh
,
sure
,
"
agreed
Wilson
hurriedly
,
and
went
toward
the
little
office
,
mingling
immediately
with
the
cement
color
of
the
walls
.
A
white
ashen
dust
veiled
his
dark
suit
and
his
pale
hair
as
it
veiled
everything
in
the
vicinity
--
except
his
wife
,
who
moved
close
to
Tom
.
"
I
want
to
see
you
,
"
said
Tom
intently
.
"
Get
on
the
next
train
.
"
"
All
right
.
"
