F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby The “death car.” as the newspapers called it, didn‟t stop; it
came out of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then disappeared around the next bend. Michaelis wasn‟t even sure of its color — he told the first policeman that it was light green. The other car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred yards beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark blood with the dust. Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they had
torn open her shirtwaist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long.
We saw the three or four automobiles and the crowd when
we were still some distance away. “Wreck!” said Tom. “That‟s good. Wilson‟ll have a little
business at last.” He slowed down, but still without any intention of stopping, until, as we came nearer, the hushed, intent faces of