“Oh we’re all being so very silly,” Daisy said mechanically. “Do let’s go home, won’t we?” “No,” Gatsby said, in the manner of a man who has not been listened to enough in the last quarter hour. “No, Tom. Daisy’s not going home with you. She loves me, only me.” His mistake, I thought in a distant kind of way, was watching Tom in that moment and not Daisy. Daisy looked untethered to the world, as if she might suddenly take a step and go flying, tumbling through the air like a piece of dandelion fluff. She gazed between Gatsby and Tom, and she looked unsure, her footing wrong.
