F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their
car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly.
“Some big bootlegger?” “Where‟d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn‟t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich
people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive
crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this
menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the gray haze of Daisy‟s fur collar. “At least they‟re more interesting than the people we
know,” she said with an effort. “You didn‟t look so interested.” “Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me.