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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

as the foreign clamor on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty —the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning brief-case of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat‟s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand. So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight. The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside

the ashheaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He had slept through the heat until after five, when he strolled over to the garage, and found George Wilson sick in his office —really sick, pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go to bed, but Wilson refused, saying that he‟d miss a lot of business if he did. While his neighbor was trying to persuade him a violent racket broke out overhead. “I‟ve got my wife locked in up there,” explained Wilson

calmly. “She‟s going to stay there till the day after to-morrow, and then we‟re going to move away.”

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