The Great Gatsby. Francis Scott Fitzgerald

in the spring of 1922.

      The sensible thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees. So when a young man at the office suggested we should rent a house together just outside the city, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a small weather-beaten place at eighty dollars a month, but at the last minute the company ordered him to move to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog – at least I had him for a few days until he ran away – and an old car, and a woman from Finland, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and whispered darkly to herself in Finnish in the kitchen.