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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

out into the spring fields, where a yellow trolley raced them for a minute with people in it who might once have seen the pale magic of her face along the casual street. The track curved and now it was going away from the sun,

which as it sank lower, seemed to spread itself in benediction over the vanishing city where she had drawn her breath. He stretched out his hand desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too fast now for his blurred eyes and he knew that he had lost that part of it, the freshest and the best, forever. It was nine o‟clock when we finished breakfast and went

out on the porch. The night had made a sharp difference in the weather and there was an autumn flavor in the air. The gardener, the last one of Gatsby‟s former servants, came to the foot of the steps. “I‟m going to drain the pool to-day, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves‟ll

start falling pretty soon, and then there‟s always trouble with the pipes.” “Don‟t do it to-day,” Gatsby answered. He turned to me

apologetically. “You know, old sport, I‟ve never used that pool all summer?” I looked at my watch and stood up.

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