Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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“Poor old handsome, with your beautiful self all smashed.” She turned to Clay: “Dick didn’t have much of a soul, such a small soul. He never bothered about eternity and I doubt if he knows any—but he had a way with him, and oh, that magnificent body of his, red gold hair, brown eyes—” her voice trailed off and she sank lazily onto the sofa in front of the hearth.

“Build a fire and then come and put your arm around me and we’ll talk.” Obediently he searched for wood while she sat and chatted. “I won’t pretend to busybody around and try to help—I’m far too tired. I’m sure I can give the impression of home much better by just sitting here and talking, can’t I?”

He looked up from where he knelt at her feet, manipulating the kerosene can, and realized that his voice was husky as he spoke.

“Just talk about England—about the country a little and about Scotland and tell me things that have happened, amusing provincial things and things with women in them—Put yourself in,” he finished rather abruptly.