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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

hovered like an ectoplasm on the wall. His wife was shrill, languid, handsome, and horrible. She told me with pride that her husband had photographed her a hundred and twenty- seven times since they had been married. Mrs. Wilson had changed her costume some time before,

and was now attired in an elaborate afternoon dress of cream- colored chiffon, which gave out a continual rustle as she swept about the room. With the influence of the dress her personality had also undergone a change. The intense vitality that had been so remarkable in the garage was converted into impressive hauteur. Her laughter, her gestures, her assertions became more violently affected moment by moment, and as she expanded the room grew smaller around her, until she seemed to be revolving on a noisy, creaking pivot through the smoky air.

“My dear,” she told her sister in a high, mincing shout,

“most of these fellas will cheat you every time. All they think of is money. I had a woman up here last week to look at my feet, and when she gave me the bill you‟d of thought she had my appendicitis out.” “What was the name of the woman?” asked Mrs. McKee. “Mrs. Eberhardt. She goes around looking at people‟s feet in

their own homes.” 41

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