Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in another blanket, as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night, lay on a work-table by the wall, and Tom, with his back to us, was bending over it, motionless
The «death car» as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came out of the darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then disappeared around the next bend