Chapter 8

           Icouldn’tsleepallnight;afog-hornwasgroaningincessantlyontheSound,andItossedhalf-sickbetweengrotesquerealityandsavage,frighteningdreams.TowarddawnIheardataxigoupGatsby’sdrive,andimmediatelyIjumpedoutofbedandbegantodress—IfeltthatIhadsomethingtotellhim,somethingtowarnhimabout,andmorningwouldbetoolate.

           Crossinghislawn,Isawthathisfrontdoorwasstillopenandhewasleaningagainstatableinthehall,heavywithdejectionorsleep.

           "Nothinghappened,"hesaidwanly."Iwaited,andaboutfouro’clockshecametothewindowandstoodthereforaminuteandthenturnedoutthelight."

           Hishousehadneverseemedsoenormoustomeasitdidthatnightwhenwehuntedthroughthegreatroomsforcigarettes.Wepushedasidecurtainsthatwerelikepavilions,andfeltoverinnumerablefeetofdarkwallforelectriclightswitches—onceItumbledwithasortofsplashuponthekeysofaghostlypiano.Therewasaninexplicableamountofdusteverywhere,andtheroomsweremusty,asthoughtheyhadn’tbeenairedformanydays.Ifoundthehumidoronanunfamiliartable,withtwostale,drycigarettesinside.ThrowingopentheFrenchwindowsofthedrawing-room,wesatsmokingoutintothedarkness.

           "Yououghttogoaway,"Isaid."It’sprettycertainthey’lltraceyourcar."

           "Goawaynow,oldsport?"

           "GotoAtlanticCityforaweek,oruptoMontreal."