For Daisy was young and her artificial world was redolent of orchids and pleasant, cheerful snobbery and orchestras which set the rhythm of the year, summing up the sadness and suggestiveness of life in new tunes.  All night the saxophones wailed the hopeless comment of the “Beale Street Blues” while fresh faces drifted here and there like rose petals blown by the sad horns around the floor.

        Through this twilight universe Daisy began to move again with the season; suddenly she was again keeping half a dozen dates a day with half a dozen men and drowsing asleep at dawn with the beads and chiffon of any evening dress tangled among dying orchids on the floor beside her bed.  And all the time something within her was crying for a decision.  She wanted her life shaped now, immediately--and the decision must be made by some force--of love, of money, of unquestionable practicality--that was close at hand.

What is written?

How is this written?

This was a forlorn hope--he was almost sure that Wilson was no friend: there was not enough of him for his wife.  He was glad a little later when he noticed a change in the room, a blue quickening by the window, and realized that dawn wasn’t far off.  About five o’clock it was blue enough outside to snap the light.  

Wilson’s glazed eyes turned out to the ashheaps, where small grey clouds took on fantastic shape and scurried here and there in the faint dawn wind.

“I spoke to her,” he muttered, after a long silence.  “I told her she might fool me but she couldn’t fool God.  I took her to the window--”  With an effort he got up and walked to the rear window and leaned with his face pressed against it, “--and I said ‘God knows what you’ve been doing, everything you’ve been doing.  You may fool me but you can’t fool God!’”

Standing behind him, Michaelis saw with a shock that he was looking at the eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg which had just emerged pale and enormous from the dissolving night.

“God sees everything,” repeated Wilson.  

What is written?

How is this written?