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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

a thing I know it. It was the man in that car. She ran out to speak to him and he wouldn‟t stop.” Michaelis had seen this too, but it hadn‟t occurred to him

that there was any special significance in it. He believed that Mrs. Wilson had been running away from her husband, rather than trying to stop any particular car. “How could she of been like that?” “She‟s a deep one,” said Wilson, as if that answered the

question. “Ah-h-h ——” He began to rock again, and Michaelis stood twisting the

leash in his hand. “Maybe you got some friend that I could telephone for,

George?” This was a forlorn hope — he was almost sure that Wilson

had no friend: there was not enough of him for his wife. He was glad a little later when he noticed a change in the room, a blue quickening by the window, and realized that dawn wasn‟t far off. About five o‟clock it was blue enough outside to snap off the light. Wilson‟s glazed eyes turned out to the ashheaps, where

small gray clouds took on fantastic shape and scurried here and there in the faint dawn wind.

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