The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans. "Get us a cold drink!" Cried Daisy.
Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; "The rumor is," whispered Jordan, "that that's Tom's girl on the telephone.
The "death car" as the newspapers called it, didn't stop; it came out of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then dissapeaaered around the next corner. "Beat me!" he heard her cry. "Throw me down and beat me, you dirty little coward!"