F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby
“No, thanks.” I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone. But
Jordan lingered for a moment more. “It‟s only half-past nine,” she said. I‟d be damned if I‟d go in; I‟d had enough of all of them for
one day, and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of this in my expression, for she turned abruptly away and ran up the porch steps into the house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head in my hands, until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler‟s voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from the house, intending to wait by the gate. I hadn‟t gone twenty yards when I heard my name and
Gatsby stepped from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird by that time, because I could think of nothing except the luminosity of his pink suit under the moon. “What are you doing?” I inquired. “Just standing here, old sport.” Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I
knew he was going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn‟t have been surprised to see sinister faces, the faces of „Wolfsheim‟s people,‟ behind him in the dark shrubbery.