“You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you to the story of that little spree.”

Gatsby walked over and stood beside her.

“Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter any more. Just tell him the truth⁠—that you never loved him⁠—and it’s all wiped out forever.”

She looked at him blindly. “Why⁠—how could I love him⁠—possibly?”

“You never loved him.”

She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing⁠—and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late.