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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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"
Do
n't
make
me
out
such
a
light-weight
,
Clara
;
you
are
depressing
sometimes
.
"
"
You
're
not
a
light-weight
,
of
all
things
,
"
she
said
intently
,
taking
his
arm
and
opening
wide
her
eyes
--
he
could
see
their
kindliness
in
the
fading
dusk
.
"
A
light-weight
is
an
eternal
nay
.
"
"
There
's
so
much
spring
in
the
air
--
there
's
so
much
lazy
sweetness
in
your
heart
.
"
She
dropped
his
arm
.
"
You
're
all
fine
now
,
and
I
feel
glorious
.
Give
me
a
cigarette
.
You
've
never
seen
me
smoke
,
have
you
?
Well
,
I
do
,
about
once
a
month
.
"
And
then
that
wonderful
girl
and
Amory
raced
to
the
corner
like
two
mad
children
gone
wild
with
pale-blue
twilight
.
"
I
'm
going
to
the
country
for
to-morrow
,
"
she
announced
,
as
she
stood
panting
,
safe
beyond
the
flare
of
the
corner
lamp-post
.
"
These
days
are
too
magnificent
to
miss
,
though
perhaps
I
feel
them
more
in
the
city
.
"
"
Oh
,
Clara
!
"
Amory
said
;
"
what
a
devil
you
could
have
been
if
the
Lord
had
just
bent
your
soul
a
little
the
other
way
!
"
"
Maybe
,
"
she
answered
;
"
but
I
think
not
.
I
'm
never
really
wild
and
never
have
been
.
That
little
outburst
was
pure
spring
.
"
"
And
you
are
,
too
,
"
said
he
.
