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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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"
What
is
?
"
she
fired
up
.
"
The
Catholic
Church
or
the
maxims
of
Confucius
?
"
Amory
looked
up
,
rather
taken
aback
.
"
That
's
your
panacea
,
is
n't
it
?
"
she
cried
.
"
Oh
,
you
're
just
an
old
hypocrite
,
too
.
Thousands
of
scowling
priests
keeping
the
degenerate
Italians
and
illiterate
Irish
repentant
with
gabble-gabble
about
the
sixth
and
ninth
commandments
.
It
's
just
all
cloaks
,
sentiment
and
spiritual
rouge
and
panaceas
.
I
'll
tell
you
there
is
no
God
,
not
even
a
definite
abstract
goodness
;
so
it
's
all
got
to
be
worked
out
for
the
individual
by
the
individual
here
in
high
white
foreheads
like
mine
,
and
you
're
too
much
the
prig
to
admit
it
.
"
She
let
go
her
reins
and
shook
her
little
fists
at
the
stars
.
"
If
there
's
a
God
let
him
strike
me
--
strike
me
!
"
"
Talking
about
God
again
after
the
manner
of
atheists
,
"
Amory
said
sharply
.
His
materialism
,
always
a
thin
cloak
,
was
torn
to
shreds
by
Eleanor
's
blasphemy
...
She
knew
it
and
it
angered
him
that
she
knew
it
.
"
And
like
most
intellectuals
who
do
n't
find
faith
convenient
,
"
he
continued
coldly
,
"
like
Napoleon
and
Oscar
Wilde
and
the
rest
of
your
type
,
you
'll
yell
loudly
for
a
priest
on
your
death-bed
.
"
Eleanor
drew
her
horse
up
sharply
and
he
reined
in
beside
her
.
"
Will
I
?
"
she
said
in
a
queer
voice
that
scared
him
.
"
Will
I
?
Watch
!
I
'm
going
over
the
cliff
!
"
And
before
he
could
interfere
she
had
turned
and
was
riding
breakneck
for
the
end
of
the
plateau
.
He
wheeled
and
started
after
her
,
his
body
like
ice
,
his
nerves
in
a
vast
clangor
.
There
was
no
chance
of
stopping
her
.
The
moon
was
under
a
cloud
and
her
horse
would
step
blindly
over
.
Then
some
ten
feet
from
the
edge
of
the
cliff
she
gave
a
sudden
shriek
and
flung
herself
sideways
--
plunged
from
her
horse
and
,
rolling
over
twice
,
landed
in
a
pile
of
brush
five
feet
from
the
edge
.
The
horse
went
over
with
a
frantic
whinny
.
In
a
minute
he
was
by
Eleanor
's
side
and
saw
that
her
eyes
were
open
.
"
Eleanor
!
"
he
cried
.
