Two o'clock and the whole corner of the peninsula was blazing with light, which fell unreal on the shrubbery and made thin elongating glints upon the roadside wires. Turning a corner, I saw that it was Gatsby's house, lit from tower to cellar.

"I'm glad, Jay." Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told only of her unexpected joy.

To young Gatz, resting on his oars and looking up at the railed deck, that yacht represented all the beauty and glamor in the world.

His parents were shiftless and unsuccessful farm people—his imagination had never really accepted them as his parents at all.

For a while these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing.

He was left with his singularly appropriate education; the vague contour of Jay Gatsby had filled out to the substantiality of a man.

"She never loved you, do you hear?" he cried. "She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!"

It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over.

She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he knew a long time ago.

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