So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York—or not quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might be on the train.
�She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in New York. At the news-stand she bought a copy of ‘Town Tattle’ and a moving-picture magazine and, in the station drug store, some cold cream and a small flask of perfume.

Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive she let four taxi cabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-colored with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she turned sharply from the window and leaning forward tapped on the front glass.
‘I want to get one of those dogs,’ she said earnestly. ‘I want to get one for the apartment. They’re nice to have—a dog.’

We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John D. Rockefeller. In a basket, swung from his neck, cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed.

就这样，汤姆·布坎农和他的情人还有我，三人一同上纽约去——或许不能说一同去，因为威尔逊太太很识相，她坐在另一节车厢里。汤姆做了这一点让步，以免引起可能在这趟车上的那些东卵人的反感。她已经换上了一件棕色花布连衣裙，到了纽约汤姆扶她下车时那裙子紧紧地绷在她那肥阔的臀部。她在报摊上买了一份《纽约闲话》和一本电影杂志，又在车站药店里买了一瓶冷霜和一小瓶香水。在楼上，在那阴沉沉的、有回音的车道里，她放过了四辆出租汽车，然后才选中了一辆新车，车身是淡紫色的，里面坐垫是灰色的。我们坐着这辆车子驶出庞大的车站，开进灿烂的阳光里。可是马上她又猛然把头从车窗前掉过来，身子向前一探，敲敲前面的玻璃。“我要买一只那种小狗。”她热切地说，“我要买一只养在公寓里。怪有意思的——养只狗。”我们的车子倒退到一个白头发老头跟前，他长得活像约翰·D·洛克菲勒，真有点滑稽。他脖子上挂着一个篮子，里面蹲着十几条新出世的、难以确定品种的小狗崽子。