F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbors for four
years, and Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement. Generally he was one of these worn-out men: when he wasn‟t working, he sat on a chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars that passed along the road. When any one spoke to him he invariably laughed in an agreeable, colorless way. He was his wife‟s man and not his own. So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened,
but Wilson wouldn‟t say a word — instead he began to throw curious, suspicious glances at his visitor and ask him what he‟d been doing at certain times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting uneasy, some workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant, and Michaelis took the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he didn‟t. He supposed he forgot to, that‟s all. When he came outside again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation because he heard Mrs. Wilson‟s voice, loud and scolding, down-stairs in the garage. “Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me,
you dirty little coward!” A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her
hands and shouting —before he could move from his door the business was over.