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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby “Did you notice Daisy‟s face when that girl asked her to put

her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic

whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose, her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven‟t been invited,” she said

suddenly. “That girl hadn‟t been invited. They simply force their way in and he‟s too polite to object.” “I‟d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted

Tom. “And I think I‟ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some

drug-stores, a lot of drug-stores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps,

where THREE O‟CLOCK IN THE MORNING, a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby‟s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside?

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