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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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Nicole
began
to
run
very
suddenly
,
so
suddenly
that
for
a
moment
Dick
did
not
miss
her
.
Far
ahead
he
saw
her
yellow
dress
twisting
through
the
crowd
,
an
ochre
stitch
along
the
edge
of
reality
and
unreality
,
and
started
after
her
.
Secretly
she
ran
and
secretly
he
followed
.
As
the
hot
afternoon
went
shrill
and
terrible
with
her
flight
he
had
forgotten
the
children
;
then
he
wheeled
and
ran
back
to
them
,
drawing
them
this
way
and
that
by
their
arms
,
his
eyes
jumping
from
booth
to
booth
.
"
Madame
,
"
he
cried
to
a
young
woman
behind
a
white
lottery
wheel
,
"
Est
-
ce
que
je
peux
laisser
ces
petits
avec
vous
deux
minutes
?
C
’
est
très
urgent
—
je
vous
donnerai
dix
francs
.
"
"
Mais
oui
.
"
He
headed
the
children
into
the
booth
.
"
Alors
—
restez
avec
cette
gentille
dame
.
"
"
Oui
,
Dick
.
"
He
darted
off
again
but
he
had
lost
her
;
he
circled
the
merry
-
go
-
round
keeping
up
with
it
till
he
realized
he
was
running
beside
it
,
staring
always
at
the
same
horse
.
He
elbowed
through
the
crowd
in
the
buvette
;
then
remembering
a
predilection
of
Nicole
’
s
he
snatched
up
an
edge
of
a
fortuneteller
’
s
tent
and
peered
within
.
A
droning
voice
greeted
him
:
"
La
septième
fille
d
’
une
septième
fille
née
sur
les
rives
du
Nil
—
entrez
,
Monsieur
—
"
Dropping
the
flap
he
ran
along
toward
where
the
plaisance
terminated
at
the
lake
and
a
small
ferris
wheel
revolved
slowly
against
the
sky
.
There
he
found
her
.
She
was
alone
in
what
was
momentarily
the
top
boat
of
the
wheel
,
and
as
it
descended
he
saw
that
she
was
laughing
hilariously
;
he
slunk
back
in
the
crowd
,
a
crowd
which
,
at
the
wheel
’
s
next
revolution
,
spotted
the
intensity
of
Nicole
’
s
hysteria
.
"
Regardez
-
moi
ça
!
"
