"We've met before," muttered Gatsby. His eyes glanced momentarily at me and his lips parted with an abortive attempt at a laugh. Luckily the clock took this moment to tilt
dangerously at the pressure of his head, whereupon he turned and caught it with trembling
fingers and set it back in place. Then he sat down rigidly, his elbow on the arm of the sofa and
his chin in his hand.
"I'm sorry about the clock," he said.
My own face had now assumed a deep tropical burn. I couldn't muster up a single
commonplace out of the thousand in my head.
"It's an old clock," I told him idiotically
I think we all believed for a moment that it had smashed in pieces to the floor.