![]() From East Egg, then, came the Chester Beckers and the Leeches, and a man named Bunsen, whom I knew at Yale, and Doctor Webster Civet, who was drowned last summer up in Maine. It is an old time-table now, disintegrating at its folds, and headed “This schedule in effect July 5th, 1922.” But I can still read the gray names, and they will give you a better impression than my generalities of those who accepted Gatsby’s hospitality and paid him the subtle tribute of knowing nothing whatever about him. Reach me a rose, honey, and pour me a last drop into that there crystal glass.” Once I wrote down on the empty spaces of a time-table the names of those who came to Gatsby’s house that summer. “One time he killed a man who had found out that he was nephew to Von Hindenburg and second cousin to the devil. ![]() ![]() “He’s a bootlegger,” said the young ladies, moving somewhere between his cocktails and his flowers. On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages alongshore, the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby’s house and twinkled hilariously on his lawn. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |