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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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The
car
was
obligingly
drawn
up
at
a
curb
,
and
Amory
ran
for
the
boardwalk
.
First
,
he
realized
that
the
sea
was
blue
and
that
there
was
an
enormous
quantity
of
it
,
and
that
it
roared
and
roared
--
really
all
the
banalities
about
the
ocean
that
one
could
realize
,
but
if
any
one
had
told
him
then
that
these
things
were
banalities
,
he
would
have
gaped
in
wonder
.
"
Now
we
'll
get
lunch
,
"
ordered
Kerry
,
wandering
up
with
the
crowd
.
"
Come
on
,
Amory
,
tear
yourself
away
and
get
practical
.
"
"
We
'll
try
the
best
hotel
first
,
"
he
went
on
,
"
and
thence
and
so
forth
.
"
They
strolled
along
the
boardwalk
to
the
most
imposing
hostelry
in
sight
,
and
,
entering
the
dining-room
,
scattered
about
a
table
.
"
Eight
Bronxes
,
"
commanded
Alec
,
"
and
a
club
sandwich
and
Juliennes
.
The
food
for
one
.
Hand
the
rest
around
.
"
Amory
ate
little
,
having
seized
a
chair
where
he
could
watch
the
sea
and
feel
the
rock
of
it
.
When
luncheon
was
over
they
sat
and
smoked
quietly
.
"
What
's
the
bill
?
"
Some
one
scanned
it
.
"
Eight
twenty-five
.
"
"
Rotten
overcharge
.
