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By Alfred (Eugene Jolas, trans.) Doblin

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Who else’s? I knocked that tart’s ribs to pieces, that’s why I had to go to the jug. Now she’s got what she wanted, the wench is dead, and here I am. And he snivels to himself and races along the streets in the cold. Where to? Where she had lived with him, at her sister’s. Through the Invalidenstrasse, into Ackerstrasse, right into the house like a whirlwind, second courtyard. Prison had never existed, nor the conversation with the Jews in the Dragonerstrasse. Where is the wench, it’s her fault.

Didn’t you talk about feet and eyes? I’ve still got them all right. Nobody’s chopped ‘em off for me yet. ” And across the narrow, obstructed courtyard he went; the two men looked down the stairs after him. He had his stiff hat down over his face, mumbled, as he stepped over a puddle of gasoline: “Lotta poison. Now for a cognac. The first man who comes along gets one in the jaw. ” Market dull, later Bears very active, Hamburg depressed, London weaker It was raining. To the left in Munzstrasse signs sparkled in front of the movies.

Rumbledy, bumbledy, bumbledy, bee. Rumbledy. A piece of twine on my tongue; got to spit it out. He is standing in the hallway, she shuts the door behind him. ” “Too bad, eh. Let ‘em see me. ” He walks along to the left, swings into the room. Rumbledy, bumbledy. That piece of twine on my tongue won’t come off. He scrapes it with his fingers. But it’s nothing, just a lousy feeling on the tip of my tongue. So that’s the room, the stiff-backed sofa, the Kaiser hanging on the wall, a Frenchman in red trousers giving him his sword.

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