Сборник лучших произведений американской классической литературы. Уровень 4

I'm going to take better care of you from now on.”

“You don't understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You're not going to take care of her any more.”

“I'm not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why's that?”

“Daisy's leaving you.”

“Nonsense.”

“I am, though,” she said with a visible effort.

“She's not leaving me!” Tom's words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby.

“Certainly not for a common swindler who'd have to steal the ring he put on her finger.

”

“I won't stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let's get out.”

“Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “I've made a little investigation into your affairs. I found out what your 'drug stores' were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He sold alcohol over the counter.”

“What about it[60 - What about it? – Р? что РёР· этого?], old sport?” said Gatsby politely.

“Don't you call me 'old sport'!” cried Tom.

I glanced at Daisy who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband and at Jordan who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby – and was startled at his expression. He looked – and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden – as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way.

It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made.

But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.

The voice begged again to go.

“PLEASE, Tom! I can't stand this any more.”

Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone.

“You two start on home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby's car.”

She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn.

“Go on. He won't annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.”

They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts even from our pity.