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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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"
Nemmine
,
"
he
managed
to
articulate
drowsily
.
"
Sleep
in
'em
...
"
STILL
ALCOHOLIC
He
awoke
laughing
and
his
eyes
lazily
roamed
his
surroundings
,
evidently
a
bedroom
and
bath
in
a
good
hotel
.
His
head
was
whirring
and
picture
after
picture
was
forming
and
blurring
and
melting
before
his
eyes
,
but
beyond
the
desire
to
laugh
he
had
no
entirely
conscious
reaction
.
He
reached
for
the
'
phone
beside
his
bed
.
"
Hello
--
what
hotel
is
this
--
?
"
Knickerbocker
?
All
right
,
send
up
two
rye
high-balls
--
"
He
lay
for
a
moment
and
wondered
idly
whether
they
'd
send
up
a
bottle
or
just
two
of
those
little
glass
containers
.
Then
,
with
an
effort
,
he
struggled
out
of
bed
and
ambled
into
the
bathroom
.
When
he
emerged
,
rubbing
himself
lazily
with
a
towel
,
he
found
the
bar
boy
with
the
drinks
and
had
a
sudden
desire
to
kid
him
.
On
reflection
he
decided
that
this
would
be
undignified
,
so
he
waved
him
away
.
As
the
new
alcohol
tumbled
into
his
stomach
and
warmed
him
,
the
isolated
pictures
began
slowly
to
form
a
cinema
reel
of
the
day
before
.
Again
he
saw
Rosalind
curled
weeping
among
the
pillows
,
again
he
felt
her
tears
against
his
cheek
.
Her
words
began
ringing
in
his
ears
:
"
Do
n't
ever
forget
me
,
Amory
--
do
n't
ever
forget
me
--
"
"
Hell
!
"
he
faltered
aloud
,
and
then
he
choked
and
collapsed
on
the
bed
in
a
shaken
spasm
of
grief
.
After
a
minute
he
opened
his
eyes
and
regarded
the
ceiling
.
"
Damned
fool
!
"
he
exclaimed
in
disgust
,
and
with
a
voluminous
sigh
rose
and
approached
the
bottle
.
After
another
glass
he
gave
way
loosely
to
the
luxury
of
tears
.
