Jordan Baker, the woman who was just as much a harbinger of Tom Buchanan’s nightmares as I was. Jordan Baker, the woman passing as white just as successfully and probably with just as much effort as Daisy. “Oh, Jordan,” I breathed out. “Oh, stop,” she said. “I don’t want your pity. Would you want mine?” “It’s not pity,” I said. “Well, I don’t want your admiration either,” she said.
