Suddenly I wasn't thinking of Daisy or Gatsby anymore, but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal skepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my arm.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
What was in the bags? she asked softly.
Softly the two names lingered on the air, died away more slowly than other words, other names, slower than music in the mind.
Youth is a dream, a form of chemical madness.
Its nothing,' said Horace quietly, 'but if you can think of any nicer way of a man killing himself than taking a risk for you, why that's the way I want to die.
Into a dozen minds entered a quick suspicion, a rumour of scandal. Could it be that behind the scenes with this couple, apparently so in love, lurked some curious antipathy? Why else this streak of fire across such a cloudless heaven?