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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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- Стр. 271/351
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Wanting
a
drink
,
for
the
chase
had
occupied
the
dinner
hour
,
he
led
her
,
puzzled
,
toward
the
grill
,
and
continued
as
they
occupied
two
leather
easy
-
chairs
and
ordered
a
high
-
ball
and
a
glass
of
beer
:
"
The
man
who
was
taking
care
of
him
made
a
wrong
prognosis
or
something
—
wait
a
minute
,
I
’
ve
hardly
had
time
to
think
the
thing
out
myself
.
"
"
He
’
s
GONE
?
"
"
He
got
the
evening
train
for
Paris
.
"
They
sat
silent
.
From
Nicole
flowed
a
vast
tragic
apathy
.
"
It
was
instinct
,
"
Dick
said
,
finally
.
"
He
was
really
dying
,
but
he
tried
to
get
a
resumption
of
rhythm
—
he
’
s
not
the
first
person
that
ever
walked
off
his
death
-
bed
—
like
an
old
clock
—
you
know
,
you
shake
it
and
somehow
from
sheer
habit
it
gets
going
again
.
Now
your
father
—
"
"
Oh
,
don
’
t
tell
me
,
"
she
said
.
"
His
principal
fuel
was
fear
,
"
he
continued
.
"
He
got
afraid
,
and
off
he
went
.
He
’
ll
probably
live
till
ninety
—
"
"
Please
don
’
t
tell
me
any
more
,
"
she
said
.
"
Please
don
’
t
—
I
couldn
’
t
stand
any
more
.
"
"
All
right
.
The
little
devil
I
came
down
to
see
is
hopeless
.
We
may
as
well
go
back
to
-
morrow
.
"
"
I
don
’
t
see
why
you
have
to
—
come
in
contact
with
all
this
,
"
she
burst
forth
.
