F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby
follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my
way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.
“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear
wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there‟s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let‟s go back, Tom. To-morrow!” Then she
added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I‟d like to.” “She‟s asleep. She‟s three years old. Haven‟t you ever seen
her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She‟s——”