F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already
four o‟clock, opening the windows admitted Only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It‟s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and
every one laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without
turning around. “There aren‟t any more.” “Well, we‟d better telephone for an axe ——” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom
impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.”
He unrolled the bottle of whiskey from the towel and put it
on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby.
“You‟re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped
from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me.”—but this time no one laughed. “I‟ll pick it up,” I offered. “I‟ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.