F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby
“Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” I inquired. “Several years,” he answered in a gratified way. “I made the
pleasure of his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to myself: „There‟s the kind of man you‟d like to take home and introduce to your mother and sister.‟.” He paused. “I see you‟re looking at my cuff buttons.” I hadn‟t been looking at them, but I did now. They were composed of oddly familiar pieces of ivory. “Finest specimens of human molars,” he informed me. “Well!” I inspected them. “That‟s a very interesting idea.” “Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah,
Gatsby‟s very careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend‟s wife.” When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the
table and sat down Mr. Wolfsheim drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his feet. “I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I‟m going to run
off from you two young men before I outstay my welcome.” “Don‟t hurry, Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm.
Mr. Wolfsheim raised his hand in a sort of benediction. “You‟re very polite, but I belong to another generation,” he announced solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and