F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby “She doesn‟t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She
looks like me. She‟s got my hair and shape of the face.” Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step
forward and held out her hand. “Come, Pammy.” “Good-by, sweetheart!” With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child
held to her nurse‟s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice.
Gatsby took up his drink. “They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension. We drank in long, greedy swallows. “I read somewhere that the sun‟s getting hotter every year,”
said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth‟s going to fall into the sun — or wait a minute — it‟s just the opposite —the sun‟s getting colder every year. “Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I‟d like you to
have a look at the place.” I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound,
stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby‟s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay.