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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms.

“Come to your own mother that loves you.” The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the

room and rooted shyly into her mother‟s dress. “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your

old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say —How-de-do.” Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small,

reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don‟t think he had ever really believed in its existence before. “I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning

eagerly to Daisy. “That‟s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her

face bent into the single wrinkle of the small, white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.” “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan‟s got on a

white dress too.” “How do you like mother‟s friends?” Daisy turned her

around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they‟re pretty?” “Where‟s Daddy?”

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