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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips,

the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why CANDLES?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped

them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it‟ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting

down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What‟ll we plan?” She turned to me

helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed

expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked —the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn‟t

mean to, but you DID do it. That‟s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a — —”

“I hate that word hulking,” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” 17

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