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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

of intensity. Now, in the reaction, he was running down like an overwound clock. Recovering himself in a minute he opened for us two

hulking patent cabinets which held his massed suits and dressing-gowns and ties, and his shirts, piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high. “I‟ve got a man in England who buys me clothes. He sends

over a selection of things at the beginning of each season, spring and fall.” He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one

by 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. “They‟re such beautiful shirts,” she sobbed, her voice

muffled in the thick folds. “It makes me sad because I‟ve never seen such—such beautiful shirts before.” After the house, we were to see the grounds and the swimming-pool, and the hydroplane and the mid-summer

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