Chapter 7

Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization.

"Even alone I can't say I never loved Tom," she admitted in a pitiful voice. "It wouldn't be true."

Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don't think he had ever really believed in its existence before.

Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they had torn open her shirtwaist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped a little at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long.

"Was Daisy driving?" "Yes," he said after a moment, "but of course I'll say I was."

"Go on. He won't annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over."

The "death car" as the newspapers called it, didn't stop; it came out of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then disappeared around the next bend.

it occurred to me that there was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the well. Wilson was so sick that he looked guilty, unforgivably guilty—as if he had just got some poor girl with child.

Gatsby stood in the center of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air.

Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space. With an effort she glanced down at the table.