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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby “The master‟s body!” roared the butler into the mouthpiece.

“I‟m sorry, madame, but we can‟t furnish it —it‟s far too hot to touch this noon!” What he really said was: “Yes . . . yes . . . I‟ll see.” He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening

slightly, to take our stiff straw hats. “Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly

indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life. The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool.

Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans. “We can‟t move,” they said together. Jordan‟s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a

moment in mine. “And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired. Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at

the hall telephone. Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed

around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air.

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