Irony

The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular cafés with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew.

"Well, they say he's a nephew or a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm's. That's where all his money comes from."

"I married him because I thought he was a gentleman," she said finally. "I thought he knew something about breeding, but he wasn't fit to lick my shoe."

"Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He's so dumb he doesn't know he's alive."

Taking my hat from the chandelier, I followed.

Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the elaborateness of the lie.

Sometimes they came and went without having met Gatsby at all, came for the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission.

And I like large parties. They're so intimate. At small parties there isn't any privacy.

It was testimony to the romantic speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those who had found little that it was necessary to whisper about in this world.

I had taken two finger-bowls of champagne, and the scene had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental, and profound.