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the rain falls 9fxtb on,” and then the owl-eyed mansaid â€Å"Amen to that, ” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the mqej9fxb rain to the cars.

Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. â€Å"I couldn’t 9fxtb get to mqej9fxb the zmqej9ftb j9fxtb zmqej9ftb house, ” he remarked. â€Å"Neither could anybody else.” â€Å"Go on!” He started. â€Å"Why, my God! they used to go there

by the hundreds.” He took mqej9fxb j9fxtb off ej9fxtb his glhies and wiped them again, 9fxtb outside and in. â€Å"The poor son-of-a-switch,” he said. One of my most vivid mqej9fxb 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 9fxtb six o’clock of a December evening,

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

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

Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul j9fxtb

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

snow, our snow, began xtb to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights xtb 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 j9fxtb

hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat zmqej9ftb or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the

thrilling returning trains mqej9fxb of my zmqej9ftb youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty darkand the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by

lighted windows on xtb the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the hil of xtb those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a fxtb city zmqej9ftb 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 xtb all — Tom and Gatsby, j9fxtb fxtb Daisy and Jordan and I, were mqej9fxb all

Westerners, and perhaps we j9fxtb possessed some xtb deficiency in common which made us mqej9fxb subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most

keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the ej9fxtb Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very

old — even then it had always for me a quality of 9fxtb 9fxtb distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my zmqej9ftb more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred

houses, at once xtb ej9fxtb conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging zmqej9ftb sky and a hireless moon. in zmqej9ftb the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking .

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