F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby Gatsby shouldered the mattress and started for the pool.
Once he stopped and shifted it a little, and the chauffeur asked him if he needed help, but he shook his head and in a moment disappeared among the yellowing trees. No telephone message arrived, but the butler went without
his sleep and waited for it until four o‟clock — until long after there was any one to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn‟t believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about . . . like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees. The chauffeur — he was one of Wolfsheim‟s proteges —
heard the shots — afterward he could only say that he hadn‟t thought anything much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby‟s house and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed any one. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four of