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He was married five years, had three children, lost most of the fifty thousand dollars his father left him, the balance of the estate having gone to his mother, hardened into a rather unattractive mould under domestic unhappiness with a rich wife; and just when he had made up his mind to leave his wife she left him and went off with a miniature-painter. " She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again. The dancing-club was a bal musette in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevive. When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the proprietor himself. Braddocks brought up somebody and introduced him as Robert Prentiss. "Thanks so much," he said, "I've just had one." "Have another." "Thanks, I will then." We got the daughter of the house over and each had a fine l'eau.
As he had been thinking for months about leaving his wife and had not done it because it would be too cruel to deprive her of himself, her departure was a very healthful shock. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. The daughter of the house came downstairs as we went in. He was from New York by way of Chicago, and was a rising new novelist.
He took it out in boxing, and he came out of Princeton with painful self-consciousness and the flattened nose, and was married by the first girl who was nice to him. But perhaps you have not been here very long." "I've been here long enough." "But it does have nice people in it. "You have nice friends." Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club.
Do not think that I am very much impressed by that as a boxing title, but it meant a lot to Cohn.
He cared nothing for boxing, in fact he disliked it, but he learned it painfully and thoroughly to counteract the feeling of inferiority and shyness he had felt on being treated as a Jew at Princeton. He was so good that Spider promptly overmatched him and got his nose permanently flattened. "Come on, Jake," he said, "have a drink." We walked over to the bar.
He was fairly happy, except that, like many people living in Europe, he would rather have been in America, and he had discovered writing.
He wrote a novel, and it was not really such a bad novel as the critics later called it, although it was a very poor novel.