We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space,
fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The
windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside
that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through
the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags,
twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then
rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on
the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an
enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an
anchored balloon. They were both in white and their dresses were
rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a
short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments
listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a
picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear
windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and
the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.
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