F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby
damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.” We shook hands. “Oh, and do you remember.”— she added ——” a
conversation we had once about driving a car?” “Why —not exactly.” “You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another
bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn‟t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” “I‟m thirty,” I said. “I‟m five years too old to lie to myself
and call it honor.” She didn‟t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and
tremendously sorry, I turned away. One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was
walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewelry store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand.