Carelessness and Moral Decay

"We're getting off," he insisted. "I want you to meet my girl."

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

A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity—except his wife, who moved close to Tom.

He was a blond, spiritless man, anaemic, and faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes.

The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do.

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.

It made no difference to me. Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply—I was casually sorry, and then I forgot.

"They'll keep out of my way," she insisted. "It takes two to make an accident."