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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

“Next week; I‟ve got my man working on it now.” “Works pretty slow, don‟t he?” “No, he doesn‟t,” said Tom coldly. “And if you feel that

way about it, maybe I‟d better sell it somewhere else after all.” “I don‟t mean that,” explained Wilson quickly. “I just meant

——” His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around

the garage. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs, and in a moment the thickish figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands with Tom, looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips, and without turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice: “Get some chairs, why don‟t you, so somebody can sit

down.” “Oh, sure,” agreed Wilson hurriedly, and went toward the little office, mingling immediately with the cement color of the

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