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F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940) - page 25 / 51

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   “I love to see you at my table, Nick.  You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose.  Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation.  “An absolute rose?”

      This was untrue.  I am not even faintly like a rose.  She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words.  (19)

The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. . . . . I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind.  To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police. (20)

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