hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A 

momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray’s understudy from the FOLLIES. The party has begun."

bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous 

length with triumphant hat-boxes and supper-boxes and tool-

boxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of wind-shields that 

mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down behind many layers of 

glass in a sort of green leather conservatory, we started to 

town."

one, before us, shirts of sheer linen and thick silk and fine flannel, which lost their folds as they fell and covered the table in 

many-colored disarray. While we admired he brought more and the soft rich heap mounted higher — shirts with stripes and 

scrolls and plaids in coral and apple-green and lavender and faint orange, and monograms of Indian blue. Suddenly, with a strained sound, Daisy bent her head into the shirts and began to cry stormily."

warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel 

into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon."

loved her, old sport. I even hoped for a while that she’d throw me over, but she didn’t, because she was in love with me too. She thought I knew a lot because I knew different things from her... . Well, there I was, ‘way off my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute, and all of a sudden I didn’t care. What was the use of doing great things if I could have a better time telling her what I was going to do?” On the last afternoon before he went abroad, he sat with Daisy in his arms for a long, silent time. It was a cold fall day, with fire in the room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and he changed his arm a little, and once he kissed her dark shining hair. The afternoon had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory for the long parting the next day promised. They had never been closer in their month of love, nor communicated more profoundly one with another, than when she brushed silent lips against his coat’s shoulder or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she were asleep." (pg 115 (kami))

the cemetery I heard a car stop and then the sound of someone splashing after us over the soggy ground. I looked around. It 

was the man with owl-eyed glasses whom I had found marvelling over Gatsby’s books in the library one night three months 

before. I’d never seen him since then. I don’t know how he knew about the funeral, or even his name. The rain poured down his thick glasses, and he took them off and wiped them to see the protecting canvas unrolled from Gatsby’s grave." (pg 133 (kami))