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the rain falls xq5e3 on,” and then the owl-eyed mansaid â€Å"Amen to that, ” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the 4hl1xq53 rain to the cars.

Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. â€Å"I couldn’t xq5e3 get to 4hl1xq53 the 04hl1xqe3 1xq5e3 04hl1xqe3 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 4hl1xq53 1xq5e3 off l1xq5e3 his glhies and wiped them again, xq5e3 outside and in. â€Å"The poor son-of-a-switch,” he said. One of my most vivid 4hl1xq53 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 xq5e3 six o’clock of a December evening,

with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday hieties, to 5e3 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 5e3 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 1xq5e3

railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real q5e3

snow, our snow, began 5e3 to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights 5e3 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 1xq5e3

hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat 04hl1xqe3 or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the

thrilling returning trains 4hl1xq53 of my 04hl1xqe3 youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty darkand the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by

lighted windows on 5e3 the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the hil of 5e3 those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a q5e3 city 04hl1xqe3 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 5e3 all — Tom and Gatsby, 1xq5e3 q5e3 Daisy and Jordan and I, were 4hl1xq53 all

Westerners, and perhaps we 1xq5e3 possessed some 5e3 deficiency in common which made us 4hl1xq53 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 l1xq5e3 Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very

old — even then it had always for me a quality of xq5e3 xq5e3 distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my 04hl1xqe3 more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred

houses, at once 5e3 l1xq5e3 conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging 04hl1xqe3 sky and a hireless moon. in 04hl1xqe3 the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking .