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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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"
You
are
mine
--
you
know
you
're
mine
!
"
he
cried
wildly
...
the
moonlight
twisted
in
through
the
vines
and
listened
...
the
fireflies
hung
upon
their
whispers
as
if
to
win
his
glance
from
the
glory
of
their
eyes
.
THE
END
OF
SUMMER
"
No
wind
is
stirring
in
the
grass
;
not
one
wind
stirs
...
the
water
in
the
hidden
pools
,
as
glass
,
fronts
the
full
moon
and
so
inters
the
golden
token
in
its
icy
mass
,
"
chanted
Eleanor
to
the
trees
that
skeletoned
the
body
of
the
night
.
"
Is
n't
it
ghostly
here
?
If
you
can
hold
your
horse
's
feet
up
,
let
's
cut
through
the
woods
and
find
the
hidden
pools
.
"
"
It
's
after
one
,
and
you
'll
get
the
devil
,
"
he
objected
,
"
and
I
do
n't
know
enough
about
horses
to
put
one
away
in
the
pitch
dark
.
"
"
Shut
up
,
you
old
fool
,
"
she
whispered
irrelevantly
,
and
,
leaning
over
,
she
patted
him
lazily
with
her
riding-crop
.
"
You
can
leave
your
old
plug
in
our
stable
and
I
'll
send
him
over
to-morrow
.
"
"
But
my
uncle
has
got
to
drive
me
to
the
station
with
this
old
plug
at
seven
o'clock
.
"
"
Do
n't
be
a
spoil-sport
--
remember
,
you
have
a
tendency
toward
wavering
that
prevents
you
from
being
the
entire
light
of
my
life
.
"
Amory
drew
his
horse
up
close
beside
,
and
,
leaning
toward
her
,
grasped
her
hand
.
"
Say
I
am
--
quick
,
or
I
'll
pull
you
over
and
make
you
ride
behind
me
.
"
