I’m a bond man.

It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.

“Be a man, my son,” said one priest.

The little man sat looking at Manuel.

“Better get one,” said a man in a derby hat.

He bought the blacksmith shop from old man Horton.

A little man sat behind a desk at the far side of the room.

Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?

“Plastiras is a very good man, I believe,” he said, “but frightfully difficult.”

It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man.

That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a⁠—

Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner.

He reported at Bologna, and I took him with me up into the Romagna where it was necessary I go to see a man.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”

Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction⁠—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn.

I was rather literary in college⁠—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News⁠—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea.