F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby
wanted her life shaped now, immediately — and the decision must be made by some force — of love, of money, of unquestionable practicality —that was close at hand. That force took shape in the middle of spring with the
arrival of Tom Buchanan. There was a wholesome bulkiness about his person and his position, and Daisy was flattered. Doubtless there was a certain struggle and a certain relief. The letter reached Gatsby while he was still at Oxford. It was dawn now on Long Island and we went about
opening the rest of the windows down-stairs, filling the house with gray-turning, gold-turning light. The shadow of a tree fell abruptly across the dew and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves. There was a slow, pleasant movement in the air, scarcely a wind, promising a cool, lovely day. “I don‟t think she ever loved him.” Gatsby turned around
from a window and looked at me challengingly. “You must remember, old sport, she was very excited this afternoon. He told her those things in a way that frightened her — that made it look as if I was some kind of cheap sharper. And the result was she hardly knew what she was saying.” He sat down gloomily.