The Impatient Opening of a Hand

I had talked with him, perhaps six times in the past month, and found to my disappointment that he had little to say. There was always a tapping foot somewhere, or the impatient opening, in closing of a hand. He saw me looking with admiration at his car. Haven't you ever seen it before? I'd seen it. Everybody had seen it. We hadn't reached West Egg Village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished by slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-colored suit. What's your opinion of me, anyhow? A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions, which that question deserves. Well, I'm going to tell you