The Death of a Wolfshine

One gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. He was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby's liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The door that I pushed open on the advice of an elevator boy was marked the swastika holding company. An argument broke out behind a partition; presently a lovely Jewess appeared with black hostile eyes. In a moment my wolfshine stood solemnly in the doorway,. remarking in a reverend voice that it was a sad time for all of us.