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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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Amory
shook
his
head
indignantly
.
"
None
that
stuff
!
"
"
But
listen
,
Amory
,
you
're
making
yourself
sick
.
You
're
white
as
a
ghost
.
"
Amory
considered
the
question
.
He
tried
to
look
at
himself
in
the
mirror
but
even
by
squinting
up
one
eye
could
only
see
as
far
as
the
row
of
bottles
behind
the
bar
.
"
Like
som
'n
solid
.
We
go
get
some
--
some
salad
.
"
He
settled
his
coat
with
an
attempt
at
nonchalance
,
but
letting
go
of
the
bar
was
too
much
for
him
,
and
he
slumped
against
a
chair
.
"
We
'll
go
over
to
Shanley
's
,
"
suggested
Carling
,
offering
an
elbow
.
With
this
assistance
Amory
managed
to
get
his
legs
in
motion
enough
to
propel
him
across
Forty-second
Street
.
Shanley
's
was
very
dim
.
He
was
conscious
that
he
was
talking
in
a
loud
voice
,
very
succinctly
and
convincingly
,
he
thought
,
about
a
desire
to
crush
people
under
his
heel
.
He
consumed
three
club
sandwiches
,
devouring
each
as
though
it
were
no
larger
than
a
chocolate-drop
.
Then
Rosalind
began
popping
into
his
mind
again
,
and
he
found
his
lips
forming
her
name
over
and
over
.
Next
he
was
sleepy
,
and
he
had
a
hazy
,
listless
sense
of
people
in
dress
suits
,
probably
waiters
,
gathering
around
the
table
...
...
He
was
in
a
room
and
Carling
was
saying
something
about
a
knot
in
his
shoe-lace
.
