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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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"
I
thought
so
,
Juan
,
I
feared
so
--
you
're
sentimental
.
You
're
not
like
me
.
I
'm
a
romantic
little
materialist
.
"
"
I
'm
not
sentimental
--
I
'm
as
romantic
as
you
are
.
The
idea
,
you
know
,
is
that
the
sentimental
person
thinks
things
will
last
--
the
romantic
person
has
a
desperate
confidence
that
they
wo
n't
.
"
(
This
was
an
ancient
distinction
of
Amory
's
.
)
"
Epigrams
.
I
'm
going
home
,
"
she
said
sadly
.
"
Let
's
get
off
the
haystack
and
walk
to
the
cross-roads
.
"
They
slowly
descended
from
their
perch
.
She
would
not
let
him
help
her
down
and
motioning
him
away
arrived
in
a
graceful
lump
in
the
soft
mud
where
she
sat
for
an
instant
,
laughing
at
herself
.
Then
she
jumped
to
her
feet
and
slipped
her
hand
into
his
,
and
they
tiptoed
across
the
fields
,
jumping
and
swinging
from
dry
spot
to
dry
spot
.
A
transcendent
delight
seemed
to
sparkle
in
every
pool
of
water
,
for
the
moon
had
risen
and
the
storm
had
scurried
away
into
western
Maryland
.
When
Eleanor
's
arm
touched
his
he
felt
his
hands
grow
cold
with
deadly
fear
lest
he
should
lose
the
shadow
brush
with
which
his
imagination
was
painting
wonders
of
her
.
He
watched
her
from
the
corners
of
his
eyes
as
ever
he
did
when
he
walked
with
her
--
she
was
a
feast
and
a
folly
and
he
wished
it
had
been
his
destiny
to
sit
forever
on
a
haystack
and
see
life
through
her
green
eyes
.
His
paganism
soared
that
night
and
when
she
faded
out
like
a
gray
ghost
down
the
road
,
a
deep
singing
came
out
of
the
fields
and
filled
his
way
homeward
.
All
night
the
summer
moths
flitted
in
and
out
of
Amory
's
window
;
all
night
large
looming
sounds
swayed
in
mystic
revery
through
the
silver
grain
--
and
he
lay
awake
in
the
clear
darkness
.
SEPTEMBER
Amory
selected
a
blade
of
grass
and
nibbled
at
it
scientifically
.
"
I
never
fall
in
love
in
August
or
September
,
"
he
proffered
.
"
When
then
?
"
"
Christmas
or
Easter
.
I
'm
a
liturgist
.
"
