1 A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk.
2 But there was nothing--only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence staring down from the wall.
3 I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall.
4 "Oh, sure," agreed Wilson hurriedly and went toward the little office, mingling immediately with the cement color of the walls.
5 The sharp jut of a wall accounted for the detachment of the wheel which was now getting considerable attention from half a dozen curious chauffeurs.
6 His eyes would drop slowly from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall and then jerk back to the light again and he gave out incessantly his high horrible call.
7 Finally we came to Gatsby's own apartment, a bedroom and a bath and an Adam study, where we sat down and drank a glass of some Chartreuse he took from a cupboard in the wall.
8 We pushed aside curtains that were like pavilions and felt over innumerable feet of dark wall for electric light switches--once I tumbled with a sort of splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano.
9 He informed me that he was in the "artistic game" and I gathered later that he was a photographer and had made the dim enlargement of Mrs. Wilson's mother which hovered like an ectoplasm on the wall.
10 Myrtle Wilson's body wrapped in a blanket and then in another blanket as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night lay on a work table by the wall and Tom, with his back to us, was bending over it, motionless.