F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby
meet you on some corner. I‟ll be the man smoking two cigarettes.” “We can‟t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a
truck gave out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza.” Several times he turned his head and looked back for their
car, and if the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side street and out of his life forever. But they didn‟t. And we all took the less explicable step of
engaging the parlor of a suite in the Plaza Hotel. The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by
herding us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy‟s suggestion that we hire five bath-rooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea.”— we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny. . . .