1 Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder.
2 Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.
3 I had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear alone before any words came through.
4 I waited but she didn't say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.
5 There was something pathetic in his concentration as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more.
6 A man named Klipspringer was there so often and so long that he became known as "the boarder"--I doubt if he had any other home.
7 At least a dozen men, some of them little better off than he was, explained to him that wheel and car were no longer joined by any physical bond.
8 He didn't say any more but we've always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that.
9 You can hold your tongue and, moreover, you can time any little irregularity of your own so that everybody else is so blind that they don't see or care.
10 After that she didn't play around with the soldiers any more but only with a few flat-footed, short-sighted young men in town who couldn't get into the army at all.
11 Some time toward midnight Tom Buchanan and Mrs. Wilson stood face to face discussing in impassioned voices whether Mrs. Wilson had any right to mention Daisy's name.
12 Jordan Baker instinctively avoided clever shrewd men and now I saw that this was because she felt safer on a plane where any divergence from a code would be thought impossible.
13 Suddenly I wasn't thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more but of this clean, hard, limited person who dealt in universal skepticism and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my arm.
14 At any rate Miss Baker's lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped her head back again--the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright.
15 When I came back they had disappeared so I sat down discreetly in the living room and read a chapter of "Simon Called Peter"--either it was terrible stuff or the whiskey distorted things because it didn't make any sense to me.
16 This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the "creative temperament"--it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again.
17 As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table--the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone.
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