[Editorial] Modernize spelling and hyphenation

src/epub/text/chapter-1.xhtml

@@ -24,7 +24,7 @@
 			<p>It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York⁠—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals⁠—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end⁠—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.</p>
 			<p>I lived at West Egg, the⁠—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard⁠—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires⁠—all for eighty dollars a month.</p>
 			<p>Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.</p>
-			<p>Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven⁠—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy⁠—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach⁠—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.</p>
+			<p>Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven⁠—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy⁠—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach⁠—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.</p>
 			<p>Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it⁠—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.</p>
 			<p>And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens⁠—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of french windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.</p>
 			<p>He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body⁠—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage⁠—a cruel body.</p>
@@ -32,7 +32,7 @@
 			<p>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.</p>
 			<p>We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.</p>
 			<p>“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.</p>
-			<p>Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motor-boat that bumped the tide offshore.</p>
+			<p>Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.</p>
 			<p>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”</p>
 			<p>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by french windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.</p>
 			<p>The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.</p>
@@ -130,7 +130,7 @@
 			<p>“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so⁠—the most advanced people. And I <em>know</em>. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated⁠—God, I’m sophisticated!”</p>
 			<p>The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.</p>
 			<hr/>
-			<p>Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Saturday Evening Post</i>⁠—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.</p>
+			<p>Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Saturday Evening Post</i>⁠—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamplight, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.</p>
 			<p>When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.</p>
 			<p>“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in our very next issue.”</p>
 			<p>Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up.</p>
@@ -146,7 +146,7 @@
 			<p>“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”</p>
 			<p>“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.</p>
 			<p>“Her family.”</p>
-			<p>“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”</p>
+			<p>“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of weekends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”</p>
 			<p>Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.</p>
 			<p>“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.</p>
 			<p>“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white⁠—”</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-2.xhtml

@@ -8,8 +8,8 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="chapter-2" epub:type="chapter">
 			<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</h2>
-			<p>About half-way between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes⁠—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.</p>
-			<p>But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor <abbr class="name">T. J.</abbr> Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor <abbr class="name">T. J.</abbr> Eckleburg are blue and gigantic⁠—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a non-existent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness, or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days, under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground.</p>
+			<p>About halfway between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes⁠—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.</p>
+			<p>But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor <abbr class="name">T. J.</abbr> Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor <abbr class="name">T. J.</abbr> Eckleburg are blue and gigantic⁠—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness, or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days, under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground.</p>
 			<p>The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and, when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute, and it was because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan’s mistress.</p>
 			<p>The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular cafés with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire to meet her⁠—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon, and when we stopped by the ashheaps he jumped to his feet and, taking hold of my elbow, literally forced me from the car.</p>
 			<p>“We’re getting off,” he insisted. “I want you to meet my girl.”</p>
@@ -27,7 +27,7 @@
 			<p>“Oh, sure,” agreed Wilson hurriedly, and went toward the little office, mingling immediately with the cement colour of the walls. A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity⁠—except his wife, who moved close to Tom.</p>
 			<p>“I want to see you,” said Tom intently. “Get on the next train.”</p>
 			<p>“All right.”</p>
-			<p>“I’ll meet you by the news-stand on the lower level.”</p>
+			<p>“I’ll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level.”</p>
 			<p>She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson emerged with two chairs from his office door.</p>
 			<p>We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days before the Fourth of July, and a grey, scrawny Italian child was setting torpedoes in a row along the railroad track.</p>
 			<p>“Terrible place, isn’t it,” said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg.</p>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 			<p>“Doesn’t her husband object?”</p>
 			<p>“Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He’s so dumb he doesn’t know he’s alive.”</p>
 			<p>So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York⁠—or not quite together, for <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might be on the train.</p>
-			<p>She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin, which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. At the news-stand she bought a copy of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Town Tattle</i> and a moving-picture magazine, and in the station drug-store some cold cream and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive she let four taxicabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-coloured with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and, leaning forward, tapped on the front glass.</p>
+			<p>She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin, which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. At the newsstand she bought a copy of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Town Tattle</i> and a moving-picture magazine, and in the station drugstore some cold cream and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive she let four taxicabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-coloured with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and, leaning forward, tapped on the front glass.</p>
 			<p>“I want to get one of those dogs,” she said earnestly. “I want to get one for the apartment. They’re nice to have⁠—a dog.”</p>
 			<p>We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Rockefeller. In a basket swung from his neck cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed.</p>
 			<p>“What kind are they?” asked <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson eagerly, as he came to the taxi-window.</p>
@@ -47,7 +47,7 @@
 			<p>“No, it’s not exactly a police dog,” said the man with disappointment in his voice. “It’s more of an Airedale.” He passed his hand over the brown washrag of a back. “Look at that coat. Some coat. That’s a dog that’ll never bother you with catching cold.”</p>
 			<p>“I think it’s cute,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson enthusiastically. “How much is it?”</p>
 			<p>“That dog?” He looked at it admiringly. “That dog will cost you ten dollars.”</p>
-			<p>The Airedale⁠—undoubtedly there was an Airedale concerned in it somewhere, though its feet were startlingly white⁠—changed hands and settled down into <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson’s lap, where she fondled the weather-proof coat with rapture.</p>
+			<p>The Airedale⁠—undoubtedly there was an Airedale concerned in it somewhere, though its feet were startlingly white⁠—changed hands and settled down into <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson’s lap, where she fondled the weatherproof coat with rapture.</p>
 			<p>“Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked delicately.</p>
 			<p>“That dog? That dog’s a boy.”</p>
 			<p>“It’s a bitch,” said Tom decisively. “Here’s your money. Go and buy ten more dogs with it.”</p>
@@ -59,7 +59,7 @@
 			<p>We went on, cutting back again over the Park toward the West Hundreds. At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of apartment-houses. Throwing a regal homecoming glance around the neighbourhood, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson gathered up her dog and her other purchases, and went haughtily in.</p>
 			<p>“I’m going to have the McKees come up,” she announced as we rose in the elevator. “And, of course, I got to call up my sister, too.”</p>
 			<p>The apartment was on the top floor⁠—a small living-room, a small dining-room, a small bedroom, and a bath. The living-room was crowded to the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for it, so that to move about was to stumble continually over scenes of ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was an over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen sitting on a blurred rock. Looked at from a distance, however, the hen resolved itself into a bonnet, and the countenance of a stout old lady beamed down into the room. Several old copies of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Town Tattle</i> lay on the table together with a copy of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Simon Called Peter</i>, and some of the small scandal magazines of Broadway. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant elevator boy went for a box full of straw and some milk, to which he added on his own initiative a tin of large, hard dog biscuits⁠—one of which decomposed apathetically in the saucer of milk all afternoon. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whisky from a locked bureau door.</p>
-			<p>I have been drunk just twice in my life, and the second time was that afternoon; so everything that happened has a dim, hazy cast over it, although until after eight o’clock the apartment was full of cheerful sun. Sitting on Tom’s lap <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes, and I went out to buy some at the drug-store on the corner. When I came back they had both disappeared, so I sat down discreetly in the living-room and read a chapter of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Simon Called Peter</i>⁠—either it was terrible stuff or the whisky distorted things, because it didn’t make any sense to me.</p>
+			<p>I have been drunk just twice in my life, and the second time was that afternoon; so everything that happened has a dim, hazy cast over it, although until after eight o’clock the apartment was full of cheerful sun. Sitting on Tom’s lap <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes, and I went out to buy some at the drugstore on the corner. When I came back they had both disappeared, so I sat down discreetly in the living-room and read a chapter of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Simon Called Peter</i>⁠—either it was terrible stuff or the whisky distorted things, because it didn’t make any sense to me.</p>
 			<p>Just as Tom and Myrtle (after the first drink <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson and I called each other by our first names) reappeared, company commenced to arrive at the apartment door.</p>
 			<p>The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty, with a solid, sticky bob of red hair, and a complexion powdered milky white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more rakish angle, but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. When she moved about there was an incessant clicking as innumerable pottery bracelets jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in with such a proprietary haste, and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed immoderately, repeated my question aloud, and told me she lived with a girl friend at a hotel.</p>
 			<p><abbr>Mr.</abbr> McKee was a pale, feminine man from the flat below. He had just shaved, for there was a white spot of lather on his cheekbone, and he was most respectful in his greeting to everyone in the room. He informed me that he was in the “artistic game,” and I gathered later that he was a photographer and had made the dim enlargement of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson’s mother which hovered like an ectoplasm on the wall. His wife was shrill, languid, handsome, and horrible. She told me with pride that her husband had photographed her a hundred and twenty-seven times since they had been married.</p>
@@ -128,14 +128,14 @@
 			<p>“She really ought to get away from him,” resumed Catherine to me. “They’ve been living over that garage for eleven years. And Tom’s the first sweetie she ever had.”</p>
 			<p>The bottle of whisky⁠—a second one⁠—was now in constant demand by all present, excepting Catherine, who “felt just as good on nothing at all.” Tom rang for the janitor and sent him for some celebrated sandwiches, which were a complete supper in themselves. I wanted to get out and walk eastward toward the park through the soft twilight, but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild, strident argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I saw him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.</p>
 			<p>Myrtle pulled her chair close to mine, and suddenly her warm breath poured over me the story of her first meeting with Tom.</p>
-			<p>“It was on the two little seats facing each other that are always the last ones left on the train. I was going up to New York to see my sister and spend the night. He had on a dress suit and patent leather shoes, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, but every time he looked at me I had to pretend to be looking at the advertisement over his head. When we came into the station he was next to me, and his white shirt-front pressed against my arm, and so I told him I’d have to call a policeman, but he knew I lied. I was so excited that when I got into a taxi with him I didn’t hardly know I wasn’t getting into a subway train. All I kept thinking about, over and over, was ‘You can’t live forever; you can’t live forever.’ ”</p>
+			<p>“It was on the two little seats facing each other that are always the last ones left on the train. I was going up to New York to see my sister and spend the night. He had on a dress suit and patent leather shoes, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, but every time he looked at me I had to pretend to be looking at the advertisement over his head. When we came into the station he was next to me, and his white shirtfront pressed against my arm, and so I told him I’d have to call a policeman, but he knew I lied. I was so excited that when I got into a taxi with him I didn’t hardly know I wasn’t getting into a subway train. All I kept thinking about, over and over, was ‘You can’t live forever; you can’t live forever.’ ”</p>
 			<p>She turned to <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> McKee and the room rang full of her artificial laughter.</p>
-			<p>“My dear,” she cried, “I’m going to give you this dress as soon as I’m through with it. I’ve got to get another one tomorrow. I’m going to make a list of all the things I’ve got to get. A massage and a wave, and a collar for the dog, and one of those cute little ash-trays where you touch a spring, and a wreath with a black silk bow for mother’s grave that’ll last all summer. I got to write down a list so I won’t forget all the things I got to do.”</p>
+			<p>“My dear,” she cried, “I’m going to give you this dress as soon as I’m through with it. I’ve got to get another one tomorrow. I’m going to make a list of all the things I’ve got to get. A massage and a wave, and a collar for the dog, and one of those cute little ashtrays where you touch a spring, and a wreath with a black silk bow for mother’s grave that’ll last all summer. I got to write down a list so I won’t forget all the things I got to do.”</p>
 			<p>It was nine o’clock⁠—almost immediately afterward I looked at my watch and found it was ten. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> McKee was asleep on a chair with his fists clenched in his lap, like a photograph of a man of action. Taking out my handkerchief I wiped from his cheek the spot of dried lather that had worried me all the afternoon.</p>
 			<p>The little dog was sitting on the table looking with blind eyes through the smoke, and from time to time groaning faintly. People disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet away. Some time toward midnight Tom Buchanan and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson stood face to face discussing, in impassioned voices, whether <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson had any right to mention Daisy’s name.</p>
 			<p>“Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!” shouted <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson. “I’ll say it whenever I want to! Daisy! Dai⁠—”</p>
 			<p>Making a short deft movement, Tom Buchanan broke her nose with his open hand.</p>
-			<p>Then there were bloody towels upon the bathroom floor, and women’s voices scolding, and high over the confusion a long broken wail of pain. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> McKee awoke from his doze and started in a daze toward the door. When he had gone half-way he turned around and stared at the scene⁠—his wife and Catherine scolding and consoling as they stumbled here and there among the crowded furniture with articles of aid, and the despairing figure on the couch, bleeding fluently, and trying to spread a copy of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Town Tattle</i> over the tapestry scenes of Versailles. Then <abbr>Mr.</abbr> McKee turned and continued on out the door. Taking my hat from the chandelier, I followed.</p>
+			<p>Then there were bloody towels upon the bathroom floor, and women’s voices scolding, and high over the confusion a long broken wail of pain. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> McKee awoke from his doze and started in a daze toward the door. When he had gone halfway he turned around and stared at the scene⁠—his wife and Catherine scolding and consoling as they stumbled here and there among the crowded furniture with articles of aid, and the despairing figure on the couch, bleeding fluently, and trying to spread a copy of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.newspaper">Town Tattle</i> over the tapestry scenes of Versailles. Then <abbr>Mr.</abbr> McKee turned and continued on out the door. Taking my hat from the chandelier, I followed.</p>
 			<p>“Come to lunch some day,” he suggested, as we groaned down in the elevator.</p>
 			<p>“Where?”</p>
 			<p>“Anywhere.”</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-3.xhtml

@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="chapter-3" epub:type="chapter">
 			<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">III</h2>
-			<p>There was music from my neighbour’s house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before.</p>
+			<p>There was music from my neighbour’s house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motorboats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On weekends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before.</p>
 			<p>Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York⁠—every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler’s thumb.</p>
 			<p>At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough coloured lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby’s enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors-d’oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another.</p>
 			<p>By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing upstairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colours, and hair bobbed in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other’s names.</p>
@@ -19,7 +19,7 @@
 			<p>Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a little after seven, and wandered around rather ill at ease among swirls and eddies of people I didn’t know⁠—though here and there was a face I had noticed on the commuting train. I was immediately struck by the number of young Englishmen dotted about; all well dressed, all looking a little hungry, and all talking in low, earnest voices to solid and prosperous Americans. I was sure that they were selling something: bonds or insurance or automobiles. They were at least agonizingly aware of the easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the right key.</p>
 			<p>As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way, and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements, that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table⁠—the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone.</p>
 			<p>I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden.</p>
-			<p>Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passers-by.</p>
+			<p>Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passersby.</p>
 			<p>“Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden.</p>
 			<p>“I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up. “I remembered you lived next door to⁠—”</p>
 			<p>She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who stopped at the foot of the steps.</p>
@@ -51,7 +51,7 @@
 			<p>A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot.</p>
 			<p>“What do you think?” he demanded impetuously.</p>
 			<p>“About what?”</p>
-			<p>He waved his hand toward the book-shelves.</p>
+			<p>He waved his hand toward the bookshelves.</p>
 			<p>“About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.”</p>
 			<p>“The books?”</p>
 			<p>He nodded.</p>
@@ -83,7 +83,7 @@
 			<p>“I’m Gatsby,” he said suddenly.</p>
 			<p>“What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”</p>
 			<p>“I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.”</p>
-			<p>He smiled understandingly⁠—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced⁠—or seemed to face⁠—the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on <em>you</em> with an irresistible prejudice in your favour. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it vanished⁠—and I was looking at an elegant young rough-neck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate formality of speech just missed being absurd. Some time before he introduced himself I’d got a strong impression that he was picking his words with care.</p>
+			<p>He smiled understandingly⁠—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced⁠—or seemed to face⁠—the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on <em>you</em> with an irresistible prejudice in your favour. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it vanished⁠—and I was looking at an elegant young roughneck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate formality of speech just missed being absurd. Some time before he introduced himself I’d got a strong impression that he was picking his words with care.</p>
 			<p>Almost at the moment when <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gatsby identified himself a butler hurried toward him with the information that Chicago was calling him on the wire. He excused himself with a small bow that included each of us in turn.</p>
 			<p>“If you want anything just ask for it, old sport,” he urged me. “Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.”</p>
 			<p>When he was gone I turned immediately to Jordan⁠—constrained to assure her of my surprise. I had expected that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gatsby would be a florid and corpulent person in his middle years.</p>
@@ -118,7 +118,7 @@
 			<p>“So are we.”</p>
 			<p>“Well, we’re almost the last tonight,” said one of the men sheepishly. “The orchestra left half an hour ago.”</p>
 			<p>In spite of the wives’ agreement that such malevolence was beyond credibility, the dispute ended in a short struggle, and both wives were lifted, kicking, into the night.</p>
-			<p>As I waited for my hat in the hall the door of the library opened and Jordan Baker and Gatsby came out together. He was saying some last word to her, but the eagerness in his manner tightened abruptly into formality as several people approached him to say good-bye.</p>
+			<p>As I waited for my hat in the hall the door of the library opened and Jordan Baker and Gatsby came out together. He was saying some last word to her, but the eagerness in his manner tightened abruptly into formality as several people approached him to say goodbye.</p>
 			<p>Jordan’s party were calling impatiently to her from the porch, but she lingered for a moment to shake hands.</p>
 			<p>“I’ve just heard the most amazing thing,” she whispered. “How long were we in there?”</p>
 			<p>“Why, about an hour.”</p>
@@ -167,7 +167,7 @@
 			<p>I took dinner usually at the Yale Club⁠—for some reason it was the gloomiest event of my day⁠—and then I went upstairs to the library and studied investments and securities for a conscientious hour. There were generally a few rioters around, but they never came into the library, so it was a good place to work. After that, if the night was mellow, I strolled down Madison Avenue past the old Murray Hill Hotel, and over 33rd Street to the Pennsylvania Station.</p>
 			<p>I began to like New York, the racy, adventurous feel of it at night, and the satisfaction that the constant flicker of men and women and machines gives to the restless eye. I liked to walk up Fifth Avenue and pick out romantic women from the crowd and imagine that in a few minutes I was going to enter into their lives, and no one would ever know or disapprove. Sometimes, in my mind, I followed them to their apartments on the corners of hidden streets, and they turned and smiled back at me before they faded through a door into warm darkness. At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others⁠—poor young clerks who loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary restaurant dinner⁠—young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.</p>
 			<p>Again at eight o’clock, when the dark lanes of the Forties were lined five deep with throbbing taxicabs, bound for the theatre district, I felt a sinking in my heart. Forms leaned together in the taxis as they waited, and voices sang, and there was laughter from unheard jokes, and lighted cigarettes made unintelligible circles inside. Imagining that I, too, was hurrying towards gaiety and sharing their intimate excitement, I wished them well.</p>
-			<p>For a while I lost sight of Jordan Baker, and then in midsummer I found her again. At first I was flattered to go places with her, because she was a golf champion, and everyone knew her name. Then it was something more. I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity. The bored haughty face that she turned to the world concealed something⁠—most affectations conceal something eventually, even though they don’t in the beginning⁠—and one day I found what it was. When we were on a house-party together up in Warwick, she left a borrowed car out in the rain with the top down, and then lied about it⁠—and suddenly I remembered the story about her that had eluded me that night at Daisy’s. At her first big golf tournament there was a row that nearly reached the newspapers⁠—a suggestion that she had moved her ball from a bad lie in the semi-final round. The thing approached the proportions of a scandal⁠—then died away. A caddy retracted his statement, and the only other witness admitted that he might have been mistaken. The incident and the name had remained together in my mind.</p>
+			<p>For a while I lost sight of Jordan Baker, and then in midsummer I found her again. At first I was flattered to go places with her, because she was a golf champion, and everyone knew her name. Then it was something more. I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity. The bored haughty face that she turned to the world concealed something⁠—most affectations conceal something eventually, even though they don’t in the beginning⁠—and one day I found what it was. When we were on a house-party together up in Warwick, she left a borrowed car out in the rain with the top down, and then lied about it⁠—and suddenly I remembered the story about her that had eluded me that night at Daisy’s. At her first big golf tournament there was a row that nearly reached the newspapers⁠—a suggestion that she had moved her ball from a bad lie in the semifinal round. The thing approached the proportions of a scandal⁠—then died away. A caddy retracted his statement, and the only other witness admitted that he might have been mistaken. The incident and the name had remained together in my mind.</p>
 			<p>Jordan Baker instinctively avoided clever, shrewd men, and now I saw that this was because she felt safer on a plane where any divergence from a code would be thought impossible. She was incurably dishonest. She wasn’t able to endure being at a disadvantage and, given this unwillingness, I suppose she had begun dealing in subterfuges when she was very young in order to keep that cool, insolent smile turned to the world and yet satisfy the demands of her hard, jaunty body.</p>
 			<p>It made no difference to me. Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply⁠—I was casually sorry, and then I forgot. It was on that same house-party that we had a curious conversation about driving a car. It started because she passed so close to some workmen that our fender flicked a button on one man’s coat.</p>
 			<p>“You’re a rotten driver,” I protested. “Either you ought to be more careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.”</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-4.xhtml

@@ -10,7 +10,7 @@
 			<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">IV</h2>
 			<p>On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages alongshore, the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby’s house and twinkled hilariously on his lawn.</p>
 			<p>“He’s a bootlegger,” said the young ladies, moving somewhere between his cocktails and his flowers. “One time he killed a man who had found out that he was nephew to Von Hindenburg and second cousin to the devil. Reach me a rose, honey, and pour me a last drop into that there crystal glass.”</p>
-			<p>Once I wrote down on the empty spaces of a time-table the names of those who came to Gatsby’s house that summer. It is an old time-table now, disintegrating at its folds, and headed “This schedule in effect July 5th, 1922.” But I can still read the grey names, and they will give you a better impression than my generalities of those who accepted Gatsby’s hospitality and paid him the subtle tribute of knowing nothing whatever about him.</p>
+			<p>Once I wrote down on the empty spaces of a timetable the names of those who came to Gatsby’s house that summer. It is an old timetable now, disintegrating at its folds, and headed “This schedule in effect July 5th, 1922.” But I can still read the grey names, and they will give you a better impression than my generalities of those who accepted Gatsby’s hospitality and paid him the subtle tribute of knowing nothing whatever about him.</p>
 			<p>From East Egg, then, came the Chester Beckers and the Leeches, and a man named Bunsen, whom I knew at Yale, and Doctor Webster Civet, who was drowned last summer up in Maine. And the Hornbeams and the Willie Voltaires, and a whole clan named Blackbuck, who always gathered in a corner and flipped up their noses like goats at whosoever came near. And the Ismays and the Chrysties (or rather Hubert Auerbach and <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Chrystie’s wife), and Edgar Beaver, whose hair, they say, turned cotton-white one winter afternoon for no good reason at all.</p>
 			<p>Clarence Endive was from East Egg, as I remember. He came only once, in white knickerbockers, and had a fight with a bum named Etty in the garden. From farther out on the Island came the Cheadles and the <abbr class="name">O. R. P.</abbr> Schraeders, and the Stonewall Jackson Abrams of Georgia, and the Fishguards and the Ripley Snells. Snell was there three days before he went to the penitentiary, so drunk out on the gravel drive that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Ulysses Swett’s automobile ran over his right hand. The Dancies came, too, and <abbr class="name">S. B.</abbr> Whitebait, who was well over sixty, and Maurice <abbr class="name">A.</abbr> Flink, and the Hammerheads, and Beluga the tobacco importer, and Beluga’s girls.</p>
 			<p>From West Egg came the Poles and the Mulreadys and Cecil Roebuck and Cecil Schoen and Gulick the State senator and Newton Orchid, who controlled Films Par Excellence, and Eckhaust and Clyde Cohen and Don <abbr class="name">S.</abbr> Schwartz (the son) and Arthur McCarty, all connected with the movies in one way or another. And the Catlips and the Bembergs and <abbr class="name">G.</abbr> Earl Muldoon, brother to that Muldoon who afterward strangled his wife. Da Fontano the promoter came there, and Ed Legros and James <abbr class="name">B.</abbr> (“Rot-Gut”) Ferret and the De Jongs and Ernest Lilly⁠—they came to gamble, and when Ferret wandered into the garden it meant he was cleaned out and Associated Traction would have to fluctuate profitably next day.</p>
@@ -25,7 +25,7 @@
 			<p>He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American⁠—that comes, I suppose, with the absence of lifting work in youth and, even more, with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This quality was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape of restlessness. He was never quite still; there was always a tapping foot somewhere or the impatient opening and closing of a hand.</p>
 			<p>He saw me looking with admiration at his car.</p>
 			<p>“It’s pretty, isn’t it, old sport?” He jumped off to give me a better view. “Haven’t you ever seen it before?”</p>
-			<p>I’d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream colour, bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hat-boxes and supper-boxes and tool-boxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory, we started to town.</p>
+			<p>I’d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream colour, bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hatboxes and supper-boxes and toolboxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory, we started to town.</p>
 			<p>I had talked with him perhaps half a dozen times in the past month and found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say. So my first impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an elaborate roadhouse next door.</p>
 			<p>And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’t reached West Egg village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-coloured suit.</p>
 			<p>“Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly, “what’s your opinion of me, anyhow?”</p>
@@ -56,15 +56,15 @@
 			<p>“No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you’re taking Miss Baker to tea.”</p>
 			<p>“Do you mean you’re in love with Miss Baker?”</p>
 			<p>“No, old sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak to you about this matter.”</p>
-			<p>I hadn’t the faintest idea what “this matter” was, but I was more annoyed than interested. I hadn’t asked Jordan to tea in order to discuss <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I’d ever set foot upon his over-populated lawn.</p>
-			<p>He wouldn’t say another word. His correctness grew on him as we neared the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted ocean-going ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by.</p>
+			<p>I hadn’t the faintest idea what “this matter” was, but I was more annoyed than interested. I hadn’t asked Jordan to tea in order to discuss <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I’d ever set foot upon his overpopulated lawn.</p>
+			<p>He wouldn’t say another word. His correctness grew on him as we neared the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted oceangoing ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by.</p>
 			<p>With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half Astoria⁠—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated I heard the familiar “jug-jug-<i>spat</i>!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside.</p>
 			<p>“All right, old sport,” called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes.</p>
 			<p>“Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next time, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Gatsby. Excuse <em>me</em>!”</p>
 			<p>“What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?”</p>
 			<p>“I was able to do the commissioner a favour once, and he sends me a Christmas card every year.”</p>
 			<p>Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of nonolfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world.</p>
-			<p>A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short upper lips of south-eastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their sombre holiday. As we crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry.</p>
+			<p>A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short upper lips of southeastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their sombre holiday. As we crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry.</p>
 			<p>“Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought; “anything at all …”</p>
 			<p>Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder.</p>
 			<hr/>
@@ -146,13 +146,13 @@
 			<p>When I came opposite her house that morning her white roadster was beside the kerb, and she was sitting in it with a lieutenant I had never seen before. They were so engrossed in each other that she didn’t see me until I was five feet away.</p>
 			<p>“Hello, Jordan,” she called unexpectedly. “Please come here.”</p>
 			<p>I was flattered that she wanted to speak to me, because of all the older girls I admired her most. She asked me if I was going to the Red Cross to make bandages. I was. Well, then, would I tell them that she couldn’t come that day? The officer looked at Daisy while she was speaking, in a way that every young girl wants to be looked at sometime, and because it seemed romantic to me I have remembered the incident ever since. His name was Jay Gatsby, and I didn’t lay eyes on him again for over four years⁠—even after I’d met him on Long Island I didn’t realize it was the same man.</p>
-			<p>That was nineteen-seventeen. By the next year I had a few beaux myself, and I began to play in tournaments, so I didn’t see Daisy very often. She went with a slightly older crowd⁠—when she went with anyone at all. Wild rumours were circulating about her⁠—how her mother had found her packing her bag one winter night to go to New York and say good-bye to a soldier who was going overseas. She was effectually prevented, but she wasn’t on speaking terms with her family for several weeks. After that she didn’t play around with the soldiers any more, but only with a few flat-footed, short-sighted young men in town, who couldn’t get into the army at all.</p>
+			<p>That was nineteen-seventeen. By the next year I had a few beaux myself, and I began to play in tournaments, so I didn’t see Daisy very often. She went with a slightly older crowd⁠—when she went with anyone at all. Wild rumours were circulating about her⁠—how her mother had found her packing her bag one winter night to go to New York and say goodbye to a soldier who was going overseas. She was effectually prevented, but she wasn’t on speaking terms with her family for several weeks. After that she didn’t play around with the soldiers any more, but only with a few flat-footed, shortsighted young men in town, who couldn’t get into the army at all.</p>
 			<p>By the next autumn she was gay again, gay as ever. She had a début after the armistice, and in February she was presumably engaged to a man from New Orleans. In June she married Tom Buchanan of Chicago, with more pomp and circumstance than Louisville ever knew before. He came down with a hundred people in four private cars, and hired a whole floor of the Muhlbach Hotel, and the day before the wedding he gave her a string of pearls valued at three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.</p>
 			<p>I was a bridesmaid. I came into her room half an hour before the bridal dinner, and found her lying on her bed as lovely as the June night in her flowered dress⁠—and as drunk as a monkey. She had a bottle of Sauterne in one hand and a letter in the other.</p>
 			<p>“ ’Gratulate me,” she muttered. “Never had a drink before, but oh how I do enjoy it.”</p>
 			<p>“What’s the matter, Daisy?”</p>
 			<p>I was scared, I can tell you; I’d never seen a girl like that before.</p>
-			<p>“Here, dearies.” She groped around in a waste-basket she had with her on the bed and pulled out the string of pearls. “Take ’em downstairs and give ’em back to whoever they belong to. Tell ’em all Daisy’s change” her mine. Say: ‘Daisy’s change’ her mine!’ ”</p>
+			<p>“Here, dearies.” She groped around in a wastebasket she had with her on the bed and pulled out the string of pearls. “Take ’em downstairs and give ’em back to whoever they belong to. Tell ’em all Daisy’s change” her mine. Say: ‘Daisy’s change’ her mine!’ ”</p>
 			<p>She began to cry⁠—she cried and cried. I rushed out and found her mother’s maid, and we locked the door and got her into a cold bath. She wouldn’t let go of the letter. She took it into the tub with her and squeezed it up in a wet ball, and only let me leave it in the soap-dish when she saw that it was coming to pieces like snow.</p>
 			<p>But she didn’t say another word. We gave her spirits of ammonia and put ice on her forehead and hooked her back into her dress, and half an hour later, when we walked out of the room, the pearls were around her neck and the incident was over. Next day at five o’clock she married Tom Buchanan without so much as a shiver, and started off on a three months’ trip to the South Seas.</p>
 			<p>I saw them in Santa Barbara when they came back, and I thought I’d never seen a girl so mad about her husband. If he left the room for a minute she’d look around uneasily, and say: “Where’s Tom gone?” and wear the most abstracted expression until she saw him coming in the door. She used to sit on the sand with his head in her lap by the hour, rubbing her fingers over his eyes and looking at him with unfathomable delight. It was touching to see them together⁠—it made you laugh in a hushed, fascinated way. That was in August. A week after I left Santa Barbara Tom ran into a wagon on the Ventura road one night, and ripped a front wheel off his car. The girl who was with him got into the papers, too, because her arm was broken⁠—she was one of the chambermaids in the Santa Barbara Hotel.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-5.xhtml

@@ -35,7 +35,7 @@
 			<p>I realize now that under different circumstances that conversation might have been one of the crises of my life. But, because the offer was obviously and tactlessly for a service to be rendered, I had no choice except to cut him off there.</p>
 			<p>“I’ve got my hands full,” I said. “I’m much obliged but I couldn’t take on any more work.”</p>
 			<p>“You wouldn’t have to do any business with Wolfshiem.” Evidently he thought that I was shying away from the “gonnegtion” mentioned at lunch, but I assured him he was wrong. He waited a moment longer, hoping I’d begin a conversation, but I was too absorbed to be responsive, so he went unwillingly home.</p>
-			<p>The evening had made me light-headed and happy; I think I walked into a deep sleep as I entered my front door. So I don’t know whether or not Gatsby went to Coney Island, or for how many hours he “glanced into rooms’ while his house blazed gaudily on. I called up Daisy from the office next morning, and invited her to come to tea.</p>
+			<p>The evening had made me lightheaded and happy; I think I walked into a deep sleep as I entered my front door. So I don’t know whether or not Gatsby went to Coney Island, or for how many hours he “glanced into rooms’ while his house blazed gaudily on. I called up Daisy from the office next morning, and invited her to come to tea.</p>
 			<p>“Don’t bring Tom,” I warned her.</p>
 			<p>“What?”</p>
 			<p>“Don’t bring Tom.”</p>
@@ -115,7 +115,7 @@
 			<p>“Do you like it?”</p>
 			<p>“I love it, but I don’t see how you live there all alone.”</p>
 			<p>“I keep it always full of interesting people, night and day. People who do interesting things. Celebrated people.”</p>
-			<p>Instead of taking the short-cut along the Sound we went down to the road and entered by the big postern. With enchanting murmurs Daisy admired this aspect or that of the feudal silhouette against the sky, admired the gardens, the sparkling odour of jonquils and the frothy odour of hawthorn and plum blossoms and the pale gold odour of kiss-me-at-the-gate. It was strange to reach the marble steps and find no stir of bright dresses in and out the door, and hear no sound but bird voices in the trees.</p>
+			<p>Instead of taking the shortcut along the Sound we went down to the road and entered by the big postern. With enchanting murmurs Daisy admired this aspect or that of the feudal silhouette against the sky, admired the gardens, the sparkling odour of jonquils and the frothy odour of hawthorn and plum blossoms and the pale gold odour of kiss-me-at-the-gate. It was strange to reach the marble steps and find no stir of bright dresses in and out the door, and hear no sound but bird voices in the trees.</p>
 			<p>And inside, as we wandered through Marie Antoinette music-rooms and Restoration Salons, I felt that there were guests concealed behind every couch and table, under orders to be breathlessly silent until we had passed through. As Gatsby closed the door of “the Merton College Library” I could have sworn I heard the owl-eyed man break into ghostly laughter.</p>
 			<p>We went upstairs, through period bedrooms swathed in rose and lavender silk and vivid with new flowers, through dressing-rooms and poolrooms, and bathrooms with sunken baths⁠—intruding into one chamber where a dishevelled man in pyjamas was doing liver exercises on the floor. It was <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Klipspringer, the “boarder.” I had seen him wandering hungrily about the beach that morning. Finally we came to Gatsby’s own apartment, a bedroom and a bath, and an Adam’s study, where we sat down and drank a glass of some Chartreuse he took from a cupboard in the wall.</p>
 			<p>He hadn’t once ceased looking at Daisy, and I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes. Sometimes too, he stared around at his possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding presence none of it was any longer real. Once he nearly toppled down a flight of stairs.</p>
@@ -177,7 +177,7 @@
 					<span class="i2">In between time⁠—”</span>
 				</p>
 			</blockquote>
-			<p>As I went over to say good-bye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams⁠—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart.</p>
+			<p>As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams⁠—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart.</p>
 			<p>As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be over-dreamed⁠—that voice was a deathless song.</p>
 			<p>They had forgotten me, but Daisy glanced up and held out her hand; Gatsby didn’t know me now at all. I looked once more at them and they looked back at me, remotely, possessed by intense life. Then I went out of the room and down the marble steps into the rain, leaving them there together.</p>
 		</section>

src/epub/text/chapter-6.xhtml

@@ -87,7 +87,7 @@
 			<p>Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer.</p>
 			<p>“Well, I liked him anyhow.”</p>
 			<p>“I’d a little rather not be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly, “I’d rather look at all these famous people in⁠—in oblivion.”</p>
-			<p>Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative fox-trot⁠—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,” she explained, “or any act of God.”</p>
+			<p>Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative foxtrot⁠—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,” she explained, “or any act of God.”</p>
 			<p>Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.”</p>
 			<p>“Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any addresses here’s my little gold pencil.” … She looked around after a moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t having a good time.</p>
 			<p>We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault⁠—Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now.</p>
@@ -104,7 +104,7 @@
 			<p>“Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!”</p>
 			<p>It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek.</p>
 			<p>“I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she’s lovely.”</p>
-			<p>But the rest offended her⁠—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village⁠—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a short-cut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand.</p>
+			<p>But the rest offended her⁠—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village⁠—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand.</p>
 			<p>I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass.</p>
 			<p>“Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?”</p>
 			<p>“Where’d you hear that?” I inquired.</p>
@@ -121,11 +121,11 @@
 			<p>Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air.</p>
 			<p>“Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,” she said suddenly. “That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.”</p>
 			<p>“I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.”</p>
-			<p>“I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drug-stores, a lot of drug-stores. He built them up himself.”</p>
+			<p>“I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.”</p>
 			<p>The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive.</p>
 			<p>“Good night, Nick,” said Daisy.</p>
 			<p>Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three o’clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion.</p>
-			<p>I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guest-rooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired.</p>
+			<p>I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired.</p>
 			<p>“She didn’t like it,” he said immediately.</p>
 			<p>“Of course she did.”</p>
 			<p>“She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.”</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-7.xhtml

@@ -26,7 +26,7 @@
 			<p>“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.”</p>
 			<p>“I see.”</p>
 			<p>He was calling up at Daisy’s request⁠—would I come to lunch at her house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene⁠—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden.</p>
-			<p>The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocket-book slapped to the floor.</p>
+			<p>The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocketbook slapped to the floor.</p>
 			<p>“Oh, my!” she gasped.</p>
 			<p>I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it⁠—but every one near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same.</p>
 			<p>“Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! … Hot! … Hot! … Hot! … Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it … ?”</p>
@@ -68,7 +68,7 @@
 			<p>“She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.”</p>
 			<p>Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand.</p>
 			<p>“Come, Pammy.”</p>
-			<p>“Good-bye, sweetheart!”</p>
+			<p>“Goodbye, sweetheart!”</p>
 			<p>With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice.</p>
 			<p>Gatsby took up his drink.</p>
 			<p>“They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension.</p>
@@ -120,7 +120,7 @@
 			<p>“Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town.”</p>
 			<p>The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby.</p>
 			<p>“I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected.</p>
-			<p>“Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And if it runs out I can stop at a drug-store. You can buy anything at a drug-store nowadays.”</p>
+			<p>“Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And if it runs out I can stop at a drugstore. You can buy anything at a drugstore nowadays.”</p>
 			<p>A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in words, passed over Gatsby’s face.</p>
 			<p>“Come on, Daisy” said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby’s car. “I’ll take you in this circus wagon.”</p>
 			<p>He opened the door, but she moved out from the circle of his arm.</p>
@@ -171,8 +171,8 @@
 			<p>That locality was always vaguely disquieting, even in the broad glare of afternoon, and now I turned my head as though I had been warned of something behind. Over the ashheaps the giant eyes of Doctor <abbr class="name">T. J.</abbr> Eckleburg kept their vigil, but I perceived, after a moment, that other eyes were regarding us with peculiar intensity from less than twenty feet away.</p>
 			<p>In one of the windows over the garage the curtains had been moved aside a little, and Myrtle Wilson was peering down at the car. So engrossed was she that she had no consciousness of being observed, and one emotion after another crept into her face like objects into a slowly developing picture. Her expression was curiously familiar⁠—it was an expression I had often seen on women’s faces, but on Myrtle Wilson’s face it seemed purposeless and inexplicable until I realized that her eyes, wide with jealous terror, were fixed not on Tom, but on Jordan Baker, whom she took to be his wife.</p>
 			<hr/>
-			<p>There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind, and as we drove away Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour, until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in sight of the easy-going blue coupé.</p>
-			<p>“Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool,” suggested Jordan. “I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it⁠—over-ripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.”</p>
+			<p>There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind, and as we drove away Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour, until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in sight of the easygoing blue coupé.</p>
+			<p>“Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool,” suggested Jordan. “I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it⁠—overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.”</p>
 			<p>The word “sensuous’ had the effect of further disquieting Tom, but before he could invent a protest the coupé came to a stop, and Daisy signalled us to draw up alongside.</p>
 			<p>“Where are we going?” she cried.</p>
 			<p>“How about the movies?”</p>
@@ -291,13 +291,13 @@
 			<p>“I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.”</p>
 			<p>“Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem⁠—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs⁠—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.”</p>
 			<p>“You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily.</p>
-			<p>“I found out what your ‘drug-stores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drug-stores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.”</p>
+			<p>“I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.”</p>
 			<p>“What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.”</p>
 			<p>“And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of <em>you</em>.”</p>
 			<p>“He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.”</p>
 			<p>“Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing. “Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.”</p>
 			<p>That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face.</p>
-			<p>“That drug-store business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.”</p>
+			<p>“That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.”</p>
 			<p>I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby⁠—and was startled at his expression. He looked⁠—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden⁠—as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way.</p>
 			<p>It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.</p>
 			<p>The voice begged again to go.</p>
@@ -315,7 +315,7 @@
 			<p>“Want any?”</p>
 			<p>“No … I just remembered that today’s my birthday.”</p>
 			<p>I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade.</p>
-			<p>It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamour on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty⁠—the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning brief-case of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.</p>
+			<p>It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamour on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty⁠—the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning briefcase of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.</p>
 			<p>So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside the ashheaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He had slept through the heat until after five, when he strolled over to the garage, and found George Wilson sick in his office⁠—really sick, pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go to bed, but Wilson refused, saying that he’d miss a lot of business if he did. While his neighbour was trying to persuade him a violent racket broke out overhead.</p>
@@ -335,7 +335,7 @@
 			<p>“There’s some bad trouble here,” said Tom excitedly.</p>
 			<p>He reached up on tiptoes and peered over a circle of heads into the garage, which was lit only by a yellow light in a swinging metal basket overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat, and with a violent thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way through.</p>
 			<p>The circle closed up again with a running murmur of expostulation; it was a minute before I could see anything at all. Then new arrivals deranged the line, and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside.</p>
-			<p>Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in another blanket, as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night, lay on a work-table by the wall, and Tom, with his back to us, was bending over it, motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking down names with much sweat and correction in a little book. At first I couldn’t find the source of the high, groaning words that echoed clamorously through the bare garage⁠—then I saw Wilson standing on the raised threshold of his office, swaying back and forth and holding to the doorposts with both hands. Some man was talking to him in a low voice and attempting, from time to time, to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Wilson neither heard nor saw. His eyes would drop slowly from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall, and then jerk back to the light again, and he gave out incessantly his high, horrible call:</p>
+			<p>Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in another blanket, as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night, lay on a worktable by the wall, and Tom, with his back to us, was bending over it, motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking down names with much sweat and correction in a little book. At first I couldn’t find the source of the high, groaning words that echoed clamorously through the bare garage⁠—then I saw Wilson standing on the raised threshold of his office, swaying back and forth and holding to the doorposts with both hands. Some man was talking to him in a low voice and attempting, from time to time, to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Wilson neither heard nor saw. His eyes would drop slowly from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall, and then jerk back to the light again, and he gave out incessantly his high, horrible call:</p>
 			<p>“Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od!”</p>
 			<p>Presently Tom lifted his head with a jerk and, after staring around the garage with glazed eyes, addressed a mumbled incoherent remark to the policeman.</p>
 			<p>“M-a-<span epub:type="z3998:roman">v</span>⁠—” the policeman was saying, “⁠—o⁠—”</p>
@@ -350,7 +350,7 @@
 			<p>“She ran out ina road. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even stopus car.”</p>
 			<p>“There was two cars,” said Michaelis, “one comin’, one goin’, see?”</p>
 			<p>“Going where?” asked the policeman keenly.</p>
-			<p>“One goin” each way. Well, she’⁠—his hand rose toward the blankets but stopped half-way and fell to his side⁠—“she ran out there an” the one comin’ from N’York knock right into her, goin’ thirty or forty miles an hour.”</p>
+			<p>“One goin” each way. Well, she’⁠—his hand rose toward the blankets but stopped halfway and fell to his side⁠—“she ran out there an” the one comin’ from N’York knock right into her, goin’ thirty or forty miles an hour.”</p>
 			<p>“What’s the name of this place here?” demanded the officer.</p>
 			<p>“Hasn’t got any name.”</p>
 			<p>A pale well-dressed negro stepped near.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-8.xhtml

@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 	<body epub:type="bodymatter z3998:fiction">
 		<section id="chapter-8" epub:type="chapter">
 			<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">VIII</h2>
-			<p>I couldn’t sleep all night; a fog-horn was groaning incessantly on the Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage, frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive, and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress⁠—I felt that I had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning would be too late.</p>
+			<p>I couldn’t sleep all night; a foghorn was groaning incessantly on the Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage, frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive, and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress⁠—I felt that I had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning would be too late.</p>
 			<p>Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep.</p>
 			<p>“Nothing happened,” he said wanly. “I waited, and about four o’clock she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned out the light.”</p>
 			<p>His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable feet of dark wall for electric light switches⁠—once I tumbled with a sort of splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable amount of dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as though they hadn’t been aired for many days. I found the humidor on an unfamiliar table, with two stale, dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the french windows of the drawing-room, we sat smoking out into the darkness.</p>
@@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
 			<p>“Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal.”</p>
 			<p>He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and I couldn’t bear to shake him free.</p>
 			<p>It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody⁠—told it to me because “Jay Gatsby” had broken up like glass against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy.</p>
-			<p>She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers from Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him⁠—he had never been in such a beautiful house before. But what gave it an air of breathless intensity, was that Daisy lived there⁠—it was as casual a thing to her as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it, a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s shining motor-cars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered. It excited him, too, that many men had already loved Daisy⁠—it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant emotions.</p>
+			<p>She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers from Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him⁠—he had never been in such a beautiful house before. But what gave it an air of breathless intensity, was that Daisy lived there⁠—it was as casual a thing to her as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it, a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s shining motorcars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered. It excited him, too, that many men had already loved Daisy⁠—it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant emotions.</p>
 			<p>But he knew that he was in Daisy’s house by a colossal accident. However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby, he was at present a penniless young man without a past, and at any moment the invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. So he made the most of his time. He took what he could get, ravenously and unscrupulously⁠—eventually he took Daisy one still October night, took her because he had no real right to touch her hand.</p>
 			<p>He might have despised himself, for he had certainly taken her under false pretences. I don’t mean that he had traded on his phantom millions, but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he let her believe that he was a person from much the same strata as herself⁠—that he was fully able to take care of her. As a matter of fact, he had no such facilities⁠—he had no comfortable family standing behind him, and he was liable at the whim of an impersonal government to be blown anywhere about the world.</p>
 			<p>But he didn’t despise himself and it didn’t turn out as he had imagined. He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go⁠—but now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a grail. He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn’t realize just how extraordinary a “nice” girl could be. She vanished into her rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby⁠—nothing. He felt married to her, that was all.</p>
@@ -53,12 +53,12 @@
 			<p>We walked slowly down the steps.</p>
 			<p>“I suppose Daisy’ll call too.” He looked at me anxiously, as if he hoped I’d corroborate this.</p>
 			<p>“I suppose so.”</p>
-			<p>“Well, good-bye.”</p>
+			<p>“Well, goodbye.”</p>
 			<p>We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I remembered something and turned around.</p>
 			<p>“They’re a rotten crowd,” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”</p>
-			<p>I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of colour against the white steps, and I thought of the night when I first came to his ancestral home, three months before. The lawn and drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his corruption⁠—and he had stood on those steps, concealing his incorruptible dream, as he waved them good-bye.</p>
+			<p>I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of colour against the white steps, and I thought of the night when I first came to his ancestral home, three months before. The lawn and drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his corruption⁠—and he had stood on those steps, concealing his incorruptible dream, as he waved them goodbye.</p>
 			<p>I thanked him for his hospitality. We were always thanking him for that⁠—I and the others.</p>
-			<p>“Good-bye,” I called. “I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.”</p>
+			<p>“Goodbye,” I called. “I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.”</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>Up in the city, I tried for a while to list the quotations on an interminable amount of stock, then I fell asleep in my swivel-chair. Just before noon the phone woke me, and I started up with sweat breaking out on my forehead. It was Jordan Baker; she often called me up at this hour because the uncertainty of her own movements between hotels and clubs and private houses made her hard to find in any other way. Usually her voice came over the wire as something fresh and cool, as if a divot from a green golf-links had come sailing in at the office window, but this morning it seemed harsh and dry.</p>
 			<p>“I’ve left Daisy’s house,” she said. “I’m at Hempstead, and I’m going down to Southampton this afternoon.”</p>
@@ -73,7 +73,7 @@
 			<p>“Very well.”</p>
 			<p>“It’s impossible this afternoon. Various⁠—”</p>
 			<p>We talked like that for a while, and then abruptly we weren’t talking any longer. I don’t know which of us hung up with a sharp click, but I know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-table that day if I never talked to her again in this world.</p>
-			<p>I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was being kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my time-table, I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon.</p>
+			<p>I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was being kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my timetable, I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon.</p>
 			<hr/>
 			<p>When I passed the ashheaps on the train that morning I had crossed deliberately to the other side of the car. I supposed there’d be a curious crowd around there all day with little boys searching for dark spots in the dust, and some garrulous man telling over and over what had happened, until it became less and less real even to him and he could tell it no longer, and Myrtle Wilson’s tragic achievement was forgotten. Now I want to go back a little and tell what happened at the garage after we left there the night before.</p>
 			<p>They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine. She must have broken her rule against drinking that night, for when she arrived she was stupid with liquor and unable to understand that the ambulance had already gone to Flushing. When they convinced her of this, she immediately fainted, as if that was the intolerable part of the affair. Someone, kind or curious, took her in his car and drove her in the wake of her sister’s body.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-9.xhtml

@@ -124,7 +124,7 @@
 			<p>“He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.”</p>
 			<p>He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Hopalong Cassidy</i>.</p>
 			<p>“Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.”</p>
-			<p>He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last fly-leaf was printed the word <b>schedule</b>, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath:</p>
+			<p>He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word <b>schedule</b>, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath:</p>
 			<table>
 				<tr>
 					<td>Rise from bed</td>
@@ -207,13 +207,13 @@
 			<p>He took off his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in.</p>
 			<p>“The poor son-of-a-bitch,” he said.</p>
 			<hr/>
-			<p>One of my most vivid 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 six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gaieties, to bid them a hasty good-bye. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “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 <abbr>St.</abbr> Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate.</p>
+			<p>One of my most vivid 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 six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gaieties, to bid them a hasty goodbye. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “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 <abbr>St.</abbr> Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate.</p>
 			<p>When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights 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 hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again.</p>
 			<p>That’s my Middle West⁠—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city 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 all⁠—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.</p>
 			<p>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 Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old⁠—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house⁠—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares.</p>
 			<p>After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home.</p>
 			<p>There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair.</p>
-			<p>She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say good-bye.</p>
+			<p>She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye.</p>
 			<p>“Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.”</p>
 			<p>We shook hands.</p>
 			<p>“Oh, and do you remember’⁠—she added⁠—“a conversation we had once about driving a car?”</p>