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This is a valley of ashes-a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens
The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust covered wreckof a ford which crouched in a dim corner.
We backed up to a gray old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John D Rockefeller. In a basket swung from his neck cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed.
Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual walker in the darkening streets.
"Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!" shouted Mrs. Wilson. "I'll say it whenever I want to! Daisy! Dai------"
With a short deft movement, Tom Buchanan broke her nose with his open hand. Then there were bloody towels upon the bathroom floor, and women's voices scolding, and high over the confusion, a long broken wail of pain.
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