the-great-gatsby-pdf

“Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly. “What’s
youropinionofme,anyhow?”Alittleoverwhelmed,Ibeganthe
generalized evasions which that question deserves.
“Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he in-
terrupted.“Idon’t wantyoutogetawrongideaofmefromall
these stories you hear.”
Sohewasawareofthebizarreaccusationsthatflavoredcon-
versation in his halls.
“I’lltellyouGod’struth.”Hisrighthandsuddenlyordereddi-
vine retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy
peoplein theMiddle West—alldeadnow.Iwasbroughtupin
America but educated at Oxford, because all my ancestors
have been educated there for many years. It is a family
tradition.”
He looked at me sideways — and I knew why Jordan Baker
hadbelievedhe waslying. He hurriedthephrase “educatedat
Oxford,” or swallowed it, or choked on it, as though it had
botheredhimbefore. Andwith thisdoubt, hiswholestatement
felltopieces, andIwonderediftherewasn’tsomethingalittle
sinister about him, after all.
“What part of the Middle West?” I inquired casually.
“San Francisco.”
“I see.”
“My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.”
His voice was solemn, as if the memory of that sudden ex-
tinction of a clanstill haunted him. For a moment Isuspected
thathe was pulling my leg, but a glance at himconvinced me
otherwise.
“After that I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of
Europe — Paris,Venice, Rome— collecting jewels, chiefly ru-
bies,huntingbig game,paintingalittle,things formyselfonly,
and trying to forget something very sad thathad happenedto
me long ago.”
With an effort I managed to restrain my incredulous
laughter.Thevery phraseswere wornso threadbarethat they
evokednoimageexceptthatofaturbaned“character.”leaking
sawdust at every pore ashe pursued a tiger through the Bois
de Boulogne.
“Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief, and I
triedveryhardtodie,butIseemedtobearanenchantedlife.I