-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
-
- Ночь нежна
-
- Стр. 169/351
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
"
This
wasn
’
t
incidental
,
"
Mrs
.
Speers
insisted
.
"
You
were
the
first
man
—
you
’
re
an
ideal
to
her
.
In
every
letter
she
says
that
.
"
"
She
’
s
so
polite
.
"
"
You
and
Rosemary
are
the
politest
people
I
’
ve
ever
known
,
but
she
means
this
.
"
"
My
politeness
is
a
trick
of
the
heart
.
"
This
was
partly
true
.
From
his
father
Dick
had
learned
the
somewhat
conscious
good
manners
of
the
young
Southerner
coming
north
after
the
Civil
War
.
Often
he
used
them
and
just
as
often
he
despised
them
because
they
were
not
a
protest
against
how
unpleasant
selfishness
was
but
against
how
unpleasant
it
looked
.
"
I
’
m
in
love
with
Rosemary
,
"
he
told
her
suddenly
.
"
It
’
s
a
kind
of
self
-
indulgence
saying
that
to
you
.
"
It
seemed
very
strange
and
official
to
him
,
as
if
the
very
tables
and
chairs
in
the
Café
des
Alliées
would
remember
it
forever
.
Already
he
felt
her
absence
from
these
skies
:
on
the
beach
he
could
only
remember
the
sun
-
torn
flesh
of
her
shoulder
;
at
Tarmes
he
crushed
out
her
footprints
as
he
crossed
the
garden
;
and
now
the
orchestra
launching
into
the
Nice
Carnival
Song
,
an
echo
of
last
year
’
s
vanished
gaieties
,
started
the
little
dance
that
went
on
all
about
her
.
In
a
hundred
hours
she
had
come
to
possess
all
the
world
’
s
dark
magic
;
the
blinding
belladonna
,
the
caffein
converting
physical
into
nervous
energy
,
the
mandragora
that
imposes
harmony
.
With
an
effort
he
once
more
accepted
the
fiction
that
he
shared
Mrs
.
Speers
’
detachment
.
"
You
and
Rosemary
aren
’
t
really
alike
,
"
he
said
.
"
The
wisdom
she
got
from
you
is
all
molded
up
into
her
persona
,
into
the
mask
she
faces
the
world
with
.
She
doesn
’
t
think
;
her
real
depths
are
Irish
and
romantic
and
illogical
.
"
