You're white as a ghost." Amory considered the question.

He tried to look at himself in the mirror but even by squinting up one eye could only see as far as the row of bottles behind the bar.
"Like som'n solid.

We go get some--some salad." He settled his coat with an attempt at nonchalance, but letting go of the bar was too much for him, and he slumped against a chair.
"We'll go over to Shanley's," suggested Carling, offering an elbow.
With this assistance Amory managed to get his legs in motion enough to propel him across Forty-second Street.
Shanley's was very dim.

He was conscious that he was talking in a loud voice, very succinctly and convincingly, he thought, about a desire to crush people under his heel.

He consumed three club sandwiches, devouring each as though it were no larger than a chocolate-drop.
Then Rosalind began popping into his mind again, and he found his lips forming her name over and over.