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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby The nature of Mr. Tostoff‟s composition eluded me, because

just as it began my eyes fell on Gatsby, standing alone on the marble steps and looking from one group to another with approving eyes. His tanned skin was drawn attractively tight on his face and his short hair looked as though it were trimmed every day. I could see nothing sinister about him. I wondered if the fact that he was not drinking helped to set him off from his guests, for it seemed to me that he grew more correct as the fraternal hilarity increased. When the JAZZ HISTORY OF THE WORLD was over, girls were putting their heads on men‟s shoulders in a puppyish, convivial way, girls were swooning backward playfully into men‟s arms, even into groups, knowing that some one would arrest their falls — but no one swooned backward on Gatsby, and no French bob touched Gatsby‟s shoulder, and no singing quartets were formed with Gatsby‟s head for one link. “I beg your pardon.” Gatsby‟s butler was suddenly standing beside us. “Miss Baker?” he inquired. “I beg your pardon, but Mr.

Gatsby would like to speak to you alone.” “With me?” she exclaimed in surprise. “Yes, madame.”

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