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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever

courage, she had had, were definitely gone. “You two start on home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby‟s

car.” She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with

magnanimous scorn. “Go on. He won‟t annoy you. I think he realizes that his

presumptuous little flirtation is over.” They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made

accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity. After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the

unopened bottle of whiskey in the towel. “Want any of this stuff? Jordan? . . . Nick?” I didn‟t answer. “Nick?” He asked again. “What?” “Want any?” “No . . . I just remembered that to-day‟s my birthday.” I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing

road of a new decade. It was seven o‟clock when we got into the coupe with him

and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me

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