He felt vaguely uncomfortable. A peculiar mental irk possessed him. He wondered what it was. It was rather as if he had drunk a glass of really bad hooch—as if his stomach was turning over. Actually, because inside Berg there was some peculiar feeling of pride, he was infuriated with himself because of Ingrid, although he did not care to admit the implication.
He said to himself: Are they goddam funny—these dames! A babe like Ingrid—good-looking—a young kid—so she lays a guy because she wants to find out about him, not because she likes him. Berg, who had been in his own way fond of Ingrid, did not like this thought.
The mental process continued. He said to himself: But you got to have something sticking around here, being kicked around by these Heinies—and they’re not so hot either—they
