The sheer, horrible worst of this was the immovable feeling of obligation. Just this side of sympathy but not entirely without regret, it was a weighty pulse behind Jordan's eyes, like the preface to a headache that felt more oppressive than painful. Gatsby'd always been like this: Over polite, practiced charm; trying so hard to fit into a role he had no true understanding of. He was too pleasant to be moneyed, too courteous to aspire to the aristocracy. But of course, he had anyway, and Daisy had loved him despite the subterfuge, and Jordan hadn't many genuine friends but Daisy was one of the few.
She felt bad. Not for Gatsby, but herself, in being obligated without her consent. But the feeling was impossible to turn away from.
Sighing, she motioned him toward the stairs instead of the front desk, the originally intended destination.
"Come on, then," she said, the expression she turned back to him less harsh than the moment before, more softly confounded. "You can stay in my room while I fetch you something reasonable to wear."
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Date: 2013-12-18 09:28 pm (UTC)She felt bad. Not for Gatsby, but herself, in being obligated without her consent. But the feeling was impossible to turn away from.
Sighing, she motioned him toward the stairs instead of the front desk, the originally intended destination.
"Come on, then," she said, the expression she turned back to him less harsh than the moment before, more softly confounded. "You can stay in my room while I fetch you something reasonable to wear."