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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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That
was
the
last
Sunday
they
had
,
for
he
spoiled
it
all
that
night
.
He
could
n't
help
it
.
They
were
walking
through
the
March
twilight
where
it
was
as
warm
as
June
,
and
the
joy
of
youth
filled
his
soul
so
that
he
felt
he
must
speak
.
"
I
think
,
"
he
said
and
his
voice
trembled
,
"
that
if
I
lost
faith
in
you
I
'd
lose
faith
in
God
.
"
She
looked
at
him
with
such
a
startled
face
that
he
asked
her
the
matter
.
"
Nothing
,
"
she
said
slowly
,
"
only
this
:
five
men
have
said
that
to
me
before
,
and
it
frightens
me
.
"
"
Oh
,
Clara
,
is
that
your
fate
!
"
She
did
not
answer
.
"
I
suppose
love
to
you
is
--
"
he
began
.
She
turned
like
a
flash
.
"
I
have
never
been
in
love
.
"
