F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in
from the pantry, “I‟m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in
the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got
done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small- breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her gray sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I
know somebody there.” “I don‟t know a single——” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was
announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.