1 Know you next time, Mr. Gatsby.
2 By the next autumn she was gay again, gay as ever.
3 "We'll all come over to your next party, Mr. Gatsby," she suggested.
4 The next April Daisy had her little girl and they went to France for a year.
5 I called up Daisy from the office next morning and invited her to come to tea.
6 The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer.
7 A dim background started to take shape behind him but at her next remark it faded away.
8 Probably it had been tactful to leave Daisy's house, but the act annoyed me and her next remark made me rigid.
9 By the next year I had a few beaux myself, and I began to play in tournaments, so I didn't see Daisy very often.
10 The afternoon had made them tranquil for a while as if to give them a deep memory for the long parting the next day promised.
11 When we came into the station he was next to me and his white shirt-front pressed against my arm--and so I told him I'd have to call a policeman, but he knew I lied.
12 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 disappeared around the next bend.
13 So my first impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an elaborate roadhouse next door.
14 After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby's front door.
15 Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression "mad man" as he bent over Wilson's body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning.
16 The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry.
17 Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth--but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.
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