The Great Gatsby

That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face.

“That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly,
“but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me
about.”

I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her
husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but
absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to
Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said
in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had
“killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in
just that fantastic way.

It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying
everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been
made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into
herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the
afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible,
struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across
the room.

The voice begged again to go.

“Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.”

Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage