F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby
picture, and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together. As I tiptoed from the porch I heard my taxi feeling its way
along the dark road toward the house. Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in the drive. “Is it all quiet up there?” he asked anxiously. “Yes, it‟s all quiet.” I hesitated. “You‟d better come home
and get some sleep.” He shook his head. “I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old
sport.” He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back
eagerly to his scrutiny of the house, as though my presence marred the sacredness of the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight —watching over nothing.