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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocket-book slapped to the floor. “Oh, my!” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her,

holding it at arm‟s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it — but every one near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same. “Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather!

hot! hot! hot! Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it . . . ?” My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain

from his hand. That any one should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pajama pocket over his heart! . . . Through the hall of the Buchanans‟ house blew a faint

wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door.

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