1 I love New York on summer afternoons when every one's away.
2 I was going up to New York to see my sister and spend the night.
3 As for Tom, the fact that he "had some woman in New York" was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book.
4 In the early morning the sun threw my shadow westward as I hurried down the white chasms of lower New York to the Probity Trust.
5 All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New York.
6 About this time an ambitious young reporter from New York arrived one morning at Gatsby's door and asked him if he had anything to say.
7 I would have accepted without question the information that Gatsby sprang from the swamps of Louisiana or from the lower East Side of New York.
8 Well, he wasn't always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people.
9 She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York.
10 It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land.
11 I began to like New York, the racy, adventurous feel of it at night and the satisfaction that the constant flicker of men and women and machines gives to the restless eye.
12 Wild rumors were circulating about her--how her mother had found her packing her bag one winter night to go to New York and say goodbye to a soldier who was going overseas.
13 I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon and when we stopped by the ashheaps he jumped to his feet and taking hold of my elbow literally forced me from the car.
14 About half way between West Egg and New York the motor-road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land.
15 For several weeks I didn't see him or hear his voice on the phone--mostly I was in New York, trotting around with Jordan and trying to ingratiate myself with her senile aunt--but finally I went over to his house one Sunday afternoon.
16 The other car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred yards beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick, dark blood with the dust.
17 The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing upstairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors and hair shorn in strange new ways and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile.
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