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F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940) - page 46 / 51

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     The caterwauling horns had reached a crescendo and I turned away and cut across the lawn toward home.  I glanced back once.  A wafer of a moon was shining over Gatsby’s house, making the night fine as before, and surviving the laughter and the sound of his still glowing garden.  A sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from the windows and the great doors, endowing with complete isolation the figure of the host, who stood on the porch, his hand up in a formal gesture of farewell. (60)

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