Max Gatsby couldn’t really sit still. It was meant as a time of contemplation, but her concentration was furtively sneaking out of her mind. Examining her soul, she found an abyss of dark mess that formed a gulf between her bone and marrow. Breathing out of it was a greater pull of determination. His face was a blur. She was bent on recalling that face, hoping for details to surface in her vision soon. Time was not in her favour. It was time to unleash herself. Her thoughts began to waft, and her soul glided along the coast of consciousness. She had forgotten loneliness.
Through the window, she was the guise of an invalid on the bed. She was cursing on her husband's face with words of unforgettable reproach. He made a nervous circuit of his house and ran for that thick tree trunk with leaves hanging like capes top down. The gates were rusty with age. There was no escape, except for a flung towards the atream downhill. No time to lit a pipe or stain his teeth with coffee,only one minute before she climbs down the ladder and wakes the entire Greenwich town up with her violent curses.
When every vestige of embarrassment over the gold ring was over, she heaved a breath in the crowd of ladies nibbling on cookies and men bristling over the Nordics. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the gloomy moonlight. At that moment, she saw him. A familiar figure leisurely walking towards her indifferent embrace.