Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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“What?”

“She cut herself on that—that bowl.”

“Last night?”

“Oh, what does it matter?” she cried; “she’s got blood-poisoning. Can’t you hear?”

He looked at her bewildered—sat half-way up in bed.

“I’ll get dressed,” he said.

Her anger subsided and a great wave of weariness and pity for him rolled over her. After all, it was his trouble, too.

“Yes,” she answered listlessly, “I suppose you’d better.”

IV.

If Evylyn’s beauty had hesitated in her early thirties it came to an abrupt decision just afterward and completely left her. A tentative outlay of wrinkles on her face suddenly deepened and flesh collected rapidly on her legs and hips and arms. Her mannerism of drawing her brows together had become an expression—it was habitual when she was reading or speaking and even while she slept. She was forty-six.

As in most families whose fortunes have gone down rather than up, she and Harold had drifted into a colorless antagonism. In repose they looked at each other with the toleration they might have felt for broken old chairs; Evylyn worried a little when he was sick and did her best to be cheerful under the wearying depression of living with a disappointed man.

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