The Great Gatsby

Well, about six weeks ago, she heard the name Gatsby for the first
time in years. It was when I asked you—do you remember?—if you knew
Gatsby in West Egg. After you had gone home she came into my room and
woke me up, and said: “What Gatsby?” and when I described him—I was
half asleep—she said in the strangest voice that it must be the man
she used to know. It wasn’t until then that I connected this Gatsby
with the officer in her white car.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza
for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park.
The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in
the West Fifties, and the clear voices of children, already gathered
like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight:

 “I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when
 you’re asleep Into your tent I’ll creep—”

“It was a strange coincidence,” I said.

“But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.”

“Why not?”

“Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.”

Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that