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@@ -64,7 +64,7 @@
 			<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>
 			<p><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Wilson had changed her costume some time before, and was now attired in an elaborate afternoon dress of cream-coloured chiffon, which gave out a continual rustle as she swept about the room. With the influence of the dress her personality had also undergone a change. The intense vitality that had been so remarkable in the garage was converted into impressive hauteur. Her laughter, her gestures, her assertions became more violently affected moment by moment, and as she expanded the room grew smaller around her, until she seemed to be revolving on a noisy, creaking pivot through the smoky air.</p>
-			<p>“My dear,” she told her sister in a high, mincing shout, “most of these fellas will cheat you every time. All they think of is money. I had a woman up here last week to look at my feet, and when she gave me the bill you’d of thought she had my appendicitus out.”</p>
+			<p>“My dear,” she told her sister in a high, mincing shout, “most of these fellas will cheat you every time. All they think of is money. I had a woman up here last week to look at my feet, and when she gave me the bill you’d of thought she had my appendicitis out.”</p>
 			<p>“What was the name of the woman?” asked <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> McKee.</p>
 			<p>“<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Eberhardt. She goes around looking at people’s feet in their own homes.”</p>
 			<p>“I like your dress,” remarked <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> McKee, “I think it’s adorable.”</p>
@@ -114,7 +114,7 @@
 			<p>“Stay long?”</p>
 			<p>“No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”</p>
 			<p>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean⁠—then the shrill voice of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> McKee called me back into the room.</p>
-			<p>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kyke who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s ’way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.”</p>
+			<p>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s ’way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.”</p>
 			<p>“Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down, “at least you didn’t marry him.”</p>
 			<p>“I know I didn’t.”</p>
 			<p>“Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the difference between your case and mine.”</p>

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@@ -47,7 +47,7 @@
 			<p>The first supper⁠—there would be another one after midnight⁠—was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the countryside⁠—East Egg condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gaiety.</p>
 			<p>“Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.”</p>
 			<p>We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way.</p>
-			<p>The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English Oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas.</p>
+			<p>The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas.</p>
 			<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>

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@@ -152,7 +152,7 @@
 			<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 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>“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>

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@@ -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 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>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>

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 			<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 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>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>
 			<p>“It’s so hot,” she complained. “You go. We’ll ride around and meet you after.” With an effort her wit rose faintly. “We’ll meet you on some corner. I’ll be the man smoking two cigarettes.”</p>

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 				<img alt="The Standard Ebooks logo" src="../images/logo.svg" epub:type="z3998:publisher-logo se:color-depth.black-on-transparent"/>
 			</header>
 			<p><i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">The Great Gatsby</i><br/>
-			was published in 1926 by<br/>
+			was published in 1925 by<br/>
 			<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/F._Scott_Fitzgerald"><abbr class="name">F.</abbr> Scott Fitzgerald</a>.</p>
 			<p>This ebook was produced for the<br/>
 			<a href="https://standardebooks.org">Standard Ebooks project</a><br/>