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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

realized that her eyes, wide with jealous terror, were fixed not on Tom, but on Jordan Baker, whom she took to be his wife. There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind,

and as we drove away Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour, until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in sight of the easy- going blue coupe. “Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool,”

suggested Jordan. “I love New York on summer afternoons when every one‟s away. There‟s something very sensuous about it —overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.” The word “sensuous” had the effect of further disquieting

Tom, but before he could invent a protest the coupe came to a stop, and Daisy signaled us to draw up alongside. “Where are we going?” she cried. “How about the movies?” “It‟s so hot,” she complained. “You go. We‟ll ride around and meet you after.” With an effort her wit rose faintly, “We‟ll

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