The flower she is named for, creamy white petals and center glowing gold, is plucked and plucked and plucked for love. It is a cruel name to give a girl whose eyes are fixed on the horizon, but then, what name wasn’t, in those days? What name would have been more fitting for the child reared beneath hothouse lights, cultivated in thick, rich soil, grown entire for the plucking? She thinks she would have preferred gardenia, but it’s not as thought it would be fit to mention it. It’s not as though anyone would think to ask.
He loves me, he loves me not; he loves me, he loves me not; he loves me, he loves me not; he loves me. Of course, for Daisy Buchanan, it’s not as though love was the problem.