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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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"
Sure
.
Get
anybody
.
I
'll
leave
it
to
you
,
Tom
.
"
Amory
walked
into
his
bedroom
.
The
first
thing
that
met
his
glance
was
a
photograph
of
Rosalind
that
he
had
intended
to
have
framed
,
propped
up
against
a
mirror
on
his
dresser
.
He
looked
at
it
unmoved
.
After
the
vivid
mental
pictures
of
her
that
were
his
portion
at
present
,
the
portrait
was
curiously
unreal
.
He
went
back
into
the
study
.
"
Got
a
cardboard
box
?
"
"
No
,
"
answered
Tom
,
puzzled
.
"
Why
should
I
have
?
Oh
,
yes
--
there
may
be
one
in
Alec
's
room
.
"
Eventually
Amory
found
what
he
was
looking
for
and
,
returning
to
his
dresser
,
opened
a
drawer
full
of
letters
,
notes
,
part
of
a
chain
,
two
little
handkerchiefs
,
and
some
snap-shots
.
As
he
transferred
them
carefully
to
the
box
his
mind
wandered
to
some
place
in
a
book
where
the
hero
,
after
preserving
for
a
year
a
cake
of
his
lost
love
's
soap
,
finally
washed
his
hands
with
it
.
He
laughed
and
began
to
hum
"
After
you
've
gone
"
...
ceased
abruptly
...
The
string
broke
twice
,
and
then
he
managed
to
secure
it
,
dropped
the
package
into
the
bottom
of
his
trunk
,
and
having
slammed
the
lid
returned
to
the
study
.
"
Going
out
?
"
Tom
's
voice
held
an
undertone
of
anxiety
.
"
Uh-huh
.
"
"
Where
?
"
