I was struck by the beauty of Fitzgerald’s imagery.

… drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam …

It was dawn now on Long Island and we went about opening the rest of the windows downstairs, filling the house with grey-turning, gold-turning light. The shadow of a tree fell abruptly across the dew and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves. There was a slow, pleasant movement in the air, scarcely a wind, promising a cool, lovely day.

He stretched out his hand desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of the spot that she had made lovely for him.

Usually her voice came over the wire as something fresh and cool, as if a divot from a green golf-links had come sailing in at the office window …

… the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow.

So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. 

And this surprising line.

She thought I knew a lot because I knew different things from her…