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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

the people at the garage door made him automatically put on the brakes. “We‟ll take a look,” he said doubtfully, “just a look.” I became aware now of a hollow, wailing sound which

issued incessantly from the garage, a sound which as we got out of the coupe and walked toward the door resolved itself into the words “Oh, my God!” uttered over and over in a gaspingmoan. “There‟s some bad trouble here,” said Tom excitedly. He reached up on tiptoes and peered over a circle of heads

into the garage, which was lit only by a yellow light in a swinging wire basket overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat, and with a violent thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way through. The circle closed up again with a running murmur of

expostulation; it was a minute before I could see anything at all. Then new arrivals deranged the line, and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside. Myrtle Wilson‟s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in

another blanket, as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night, lay on a work-table by the wall, and Tom, with his back to us, was bending over it, motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking down names with much sweat

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