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the rain falls bh0sp on,” and then the owl-eyed mansaid â€Å"Amen to that, ” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the 2n9tbh0p rain to the cars.




Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. â€Å"I couldn’t bh0sp get to 2n9tbh0p the 32n9tbhsp tbh0sp 32n9tbhsp house, ” he remarked. â€Å"Neither could anybody else.” â€Å"Go on!” He started. â€Å"Why, my God! they used to go there





by the hundreds.” He took 2n9tbh0p tbh0sp off 9tbh0sp his glhies and wiped them again, bh0sp outside and in. â€Å"The poor son-of-a-switch,” he said. One of my most vivid 2n9tbh0p memories is of coming back West from


prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at bh0sp six o’clock of a December evening,



with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday hieties, to 0sp bid them a hasty good-by. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss


This-or-that’s and the chatter of 0sp frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: â€Å"Are you going to the


Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul tbh0sp


railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real h0sp



snow, our snow, began 0sp to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights 0sp of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into



the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange tbh0sp


hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat 32n9tbhsp or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the



thrilling returning trains 2n9tbh0p of my 32n9tbhsp youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty darkand the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by


lighted windows on 0sp the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the hil of 0sp those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a h0sp city 32n9tbhsp where



dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after 0sp all — Tom and Gatsby, tbh0sp h0sp Daisy and Jordan and I, were 2n9tbh0p all



Westerners, and perhaps we tbh0sp possessed some 0sp deficiency in common which made us 2n9tbh0p subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most



keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the 9tbh0sp Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very



old — even then it had always for me a quality of bh0sp bh0sp distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my 32n9tbhsp more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred



houses, at once 0sp 9tbh0sp conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging 32n9tbhsp sky and a hireless moon. in 32n9tbhsp the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking .








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