Tender is the Night. 10 see her. Beyond her was a fine man in a jockey cap and red- striped tights; then the woman Rosemary had seen on the raft, and who. Download our free ePUB, PDF or MOBI eBooks to read on almost any device — your desktop, iPhone, iPad, Android phone or tablet, Tender is the Night. Title: Tender is the Night () Author: F. Scott Fitzgerald * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: terney.info Edition: 1 Language: English.
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Free PDF, epub, Kindle ebook. Tender Is the Night was F. Scott Fitzgerald's fourth and final completed novel, and was first published in Scribner's Magazine. Tender is the Night. F. Scott Fitzgerald. This web edition published by [email protected] Adelaide. Last updated Wednesday, December 17, at To the best of . Tender is the Night By F. Scott Fitzgerald () Published by Planet eBook. Visit the site to download free eBooks of Tender is the night · Tender is the night.
Before eight a man came down to the beach in a blue bathrobe and with much preliminary application to his person of the chilly water, and much grunting and loud breathing, floundered a minute in the sea.
When he had gone, beach and bay were quiet for an hour. Merchantmen crawled westward on the horizon; bus boys shouted in the hotel court; the dew dried upon the pines.
Tender is the Night F. Scott Fitzgerald, Copyright notice These books are published in Australia and are out of copyright here.
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They wanted high excitement, not from the necessity of stimulating jaded nerves but with the avidity of prize-winning schoolchildren who deserved their vacations. When they were installed on the ground floor she walked into the glare of the French windows and out a few steps onto the stone veranda that ran the length of the hotel. When she walked she carried herself like a ballet- dancer, not slumped down on her hips but held up in the small of her back.
Out there the hot light clipped close her shadow and she retreated — it was too bright to see. Fifty yards away the Mediterranean yielded up its pigments, moment by moment, to the brutal sunshine; below the balustrade a faded Buick cooked on the hotel drive. Indeed, of all the region only the beach stirred with activity. Three British nannies sat knitting the slow pattern of Victorian England, the pattern of the forties, the sixties, and the eighties, into sweaters and socks, to the tune of gossip as formalized as incantation; closer to the sea a dozen persons kept house under striped umbrellas, while their dozen children pursued unintimidated fish through the shallows or lay naked and glistening with cocoanut oil out in the sun.
As Rosemary came onto the beach a boy of twelve ran past her and dashed into the sea with exultant cries. Feeling the impactive scrutiny of strange faces, she took off her bathrobe and followed.
She floated face down for a few yards and finding it shallow staggered to her feet and plodded forward, dragging slim legs like weights against the resistance of the water.
When it was about breast high, she glanced back toward shore: a bald man in a monocle and a pair of tights, his tufted chest thrown out, his brash navel sucked in, was regarding her attentively. As Rosemary returned the gaze the man dislodged the monocle, which went into hiding amid the facetious whiskers of his chest, and poured himself a glass of something from a bottle in his hand. Rosemary laid her face on the water and swam a choppy little four- beat crawl out to the raft.
The water reached up for her, pulled her down tenderly out of the heat, seeped in her hair and ran into the corners of her body.