F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby “I beg your pardon,” said Mr. McKee with dignity, “I didn‟t
know I was touching it.” “All right,” I agreed, “I‟ll be glad to.” . . . I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up
between the sheets, clad in his underwear, with a great portfolio in his hands. “Beauty and the Beast . . . Loneliness . . . Old Grocery Horse
. . . Brook‟n Bridge . . . .” Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower level of the
Pennsylvania Station, staring at the morning TRIBUNE, and waiting for the four o‟clock train.