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Hunger by Knut Hamsun
page 76 of 226 (33%)
violently.

I railed at myself for my poverty, called myself abusive names, invented
furious designations--rich, rough nuggets--in a vein of abuse with which I
overwhelmed myself. I kept on at this until I was nearly home. On coming
to the door I discovered I had dropped my keys.

"Oh, of course," I muttered to myself, "why shouldn't I lose my keys? Here
I am, living in a yard where there is a stable underneath and a tinker's
workshop up above. The door is locked at night, and no one, no one can
open it; therefore, why should I not lose my keys?

"I am as wet as a dog--a little hungry--ah, just ever such a little
hungry, and slightly, ay, absurdly tired about my knees; therefore, why
should I not lose them?

"Why, for that matter, had not the whole house flitted out to Aker by the
time I came home and wished to enter it?" ... and I laughed to myself,
hardened by hunger and exhaustion.

I could hear the horses stamp in the stables, and I could see my window
above, but I could not open the door, and I could not get in.

It had begun to rain again, and I felt the water soak through to my
shoulders. At the Town Hall I was seized by a bright idea. I would ask the
policeman to open the door. I applied at once to a constable, and
earnestly begged him to accompany me and let me in, if he could.

Yes, if he could, yes! But he couldn't; he had no key. The police keys
were not there; they were kept in the Detective Department.
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