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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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- Стр. 137/351
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"
I
’
m
not
under
any
restraint
at
all
,
"
she
said
.
"
I
’
ll
play
you
two
good
tunes
called
‘
Wait
Till
the
Cows
Come
Home
’
and
‘
Good
-
by
,
Alexander
.
’
"
He
was
late
the
next
time
,
a
week
later
,
and
Nicole
was
waiting
for
him
at
a
point
in
the
path
which
he
would
pass
walking
from
Franz
’
s
house
.
Her
hair
drawn
back
of
her
ears
brushed
her
shoulders
in
such
a
way
that
the
face
seemed
to
have
just
emerged
from
it
,
as
if
this
were
the
exact
moment
when
she
was
coming
from
a
wood
into
clear
moonlight
.
The
unknown
yielded
her
up
;
Dick
wished
she
had
no
background
,
that
she
was
just
a
girl
lost
with
no
address
save
the
night
from
which
she
had
come
.
They
went
to
the
cache
where
she
had
left
the
phonograph
,
turned
a
corner
by
the
workshop
,
climbed
a
rock
,
and
sat
down
behind
a
low
wall
,
facing
miles
and
miles
of
rolling
night
.
They
were
in
America
now
,
even
Franz
with
his
conception
of
Dick
as
an
irresistible
Lothario
would
never
have
guessed
that
they
had
gone
so
far
away
.
They
were
so
sorry
,
dear
;
they
went
down
to
meet
each
other
in
a
taxi
,
honey
;
they
had
preferences
in
smiles
and
had
met
in
Hindustan
,
and
shortly
afterward
they
must
have
quarrelled
,
for
nobody
knew
and
nobody
seemed
to
care
—
yet
finally
one
of
them
had
gone
and
left
the
other
crying
,
only
to
feel
blue
,
to
feel
sad
.
The
thin
tunes
,
holding
lost
times
and
future
hopes
in
liaison
,
twisted
upon
the
Valais
night
.
In
the
lulls
of
the
phonograph
a
cricket
held
the
scene
together
with
a
single
note
.
By
and
by
Nicole
stopped
playing
the
machine
and
sang
to
him
.
"
Lay
a
silver
dollar
On
the
ground
And
watch
it
roll
Because
it
’
s
round
—
"
On
the
pure
parting
of
her
lips
no
breath
hovered
.
Dick
stood
up
suddenly
.
"
What
’
s
the
matter
,
you
don
’
t
like
it
?
"
