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On the last night, with my trunk packed and my car sold to the grocer, I went over and looked at that huge incoherent failure of a house once more. On the white steps an obscene word, scrawled by some boy with a piece of brick, stood out clearly in the moonlight, and I erased it, drawing my shoe raspingly along the stone. Then I wandered down to the beach and sprawled out on the sand. (9.147)
Nick’s compassion even extends to the house that stood for everything he despised about Gatsby. He tries to keep it clean, since the house meant much to Gatsby, and he would have wanted it that way.