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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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- Стр. 226/351
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She
had
caught
something
facetious
in
his
eye
and
she
changed
the
subject
.
It
seemed
impossible
for
them
to
hold
anything
in
common
.
But
he
admired
something
in
her
,
and
he
deposited
her
at
the
Excelsior
with
a
series
of
compliments
that
left
her
shimmering
.
Rosemary
insisted
on
treating
Dick
to
lunch
next
day
.
They
went
to
a
little
trattoria
kept
by
an
Italian
who
had
worked
in
America
,
and
ate
ham
and
eggs
and
waffles
.
Afterward
,
they
went
to
the
hotel
.
Dick
’
s
discovery
that
he
was
not
in
love
with
her
,
nor
she
with
him
,
had
added
to
rather
than
diminished
his
passion
for
her
.
Now
that
he
knew
he
would
not
enter
further
into
her
life
,
she
became
the
strange
woman
for
him
.
He
supposed
many
men
meant
no
more
than
that
when
they
said
they
were
in
love
—
not
a
wild
submergence
of
soul
,
a
dipping
of
all
colors
into
an
obscuring
dye
,
such
as
his
love
for
Nicole
had
been
.
Certain
thoughts
about
Nicole
,
that
she
should
die
,
sink
into
mental
darkness
,
love
another
man
,
made
him
physically
sick
.
Nicotera
was
in
Rosemary
’
s
sitting
-
room
,
chattering
about
a
professional
matter
.
When
Rosemary
gave
him
his
cue
to
go
,
he
left
with
humorous
protests
and
a
rather
insolent
wink
at
Dick
.
As
usual
the
phone
clamored
and
Rosemary
was
engaged
at
it
for
ten
minutes
,
to
Dick
’
s
increasing
impatience
.
"
Let
’
s
go
up
to
my
room
,
"
he
suggested
,
and
she
agreed
.
She
lay
across
his
knees
on
a
big
sofa
;
he
ran
his
fingers
through
the
lovely
forelocks
of
her
hair
.
"
Let
me
be
curious
about
you
again
?
"
he
asked
.
"
What
do
you
want
to
know
?
"
"
About
men
.
I
’
m
curious
,
not
to
say
prurient
.
"
"
You
mean
how
long
after
I
met
you
?
"
