I remember running through the wet grass

But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential.

So Wilson was reduced to a man вЂњderanged by griefвЂќ in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too-looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. When MichaelisвЂ™s testimony at the inquest brought to light WilsonвЂ™s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade- but Catherine, who might have said anything, didnвЂ™t say a word. Most of those reports were a nightmare-grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression вЂњmadmanвЂќ as he bent over WilsonвЂ™s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of GatsbyвЂ™s front door.

I remember running through the wet grass