The Street of the First Shell, Chapter 2

⁠​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌⁠West, standing in the doorway of a house in the rue Serpentine, was speaking angrily. He said he didn’t care whether Hartman liked it or not; he was telling him, not arguing with him.

“You call yourself an American!” he sneered; “Berlin and hell are full of that kind of American. You come loafing about Colette with your pockets stuffed with white bread and beef, and a bottle of wine at thirty franc