“I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.»
«I'm thirty,» I said. «I'm five years too old to lie to myself and call it honor.»
She didn't answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away.
One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes.”