Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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The music sank to a weird, threatening minor. It reminded her of something—some mood in her own childhood—and a new atmosphere seemed to open up around her. It was not so much a definite memory as it was a current, a tide setting through her whole body.

Diana jumped suddenly to her feet and groped for her slippers in the darkness. The song was beating in her head and her little teeth set together in a click. She could feel the tense golf-muscles rippling and tightening along her arms.

Running into the hall she opened the door to her father’s room, closed it cautiously behind her and went to the bureau. It was in the top drawer—black and shining among the pale anemic collars. Her hand closed around the grip and she drew out the bullet clip with steady fingers. There were five shots in it.

Back in her room she called the garage.

“I want my roadster at the side entrance right away!”

Wriggling hurriedly out of her evening dress to the sound of breaking snaps she let it drop in a soft pile on the floor, replacing it with a golf sweater, a checked sport-skirt and an old blue-and-white blazer which she pinned at the collar with a diamond bar. Then she pulled a tam-o’-shanter over her dark hair and looked once in the mirror before turning out the light.