Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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She shook her head.

“And the last time I kissed you was down by that gate ten thousand years ago.”

He took her hand, and they went out and sat side by side on the broken stoop. The sun was painting the west with sweeping bands of peach bloom and pigeon blood and golden yellow.

“You’re married,” she said. “I saw in the paper—years ago.”

He nodded.

“Yes, I’ve been married,” he answered gravely. “My wife went away with someone she cared for many years ago.”

“Ah, I’m sorry.” And after another long silence—“It’s a gorgeous evening, John Jackson.”

“It’s a long time since I’ve been so happy.”

There was so much to say and to tell that neither of them tried to talk, but only sat there holding hands, like two children who had wandered for a long time through a wood and now came upon each other with unimaginable happiness in an accidental glade. Her husband was poor, she said; he knew that from the worn, unfashionable dress which she wore with such an air. He was George Harland—he kept a garage in the village.