Читать книгу The Lost Weekend онлайн

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It could go on forever, he could sit here all night, hiding the bag; he could even put it on the table in front of him and examine its contents then and there, for all that anyone would notice. How careless people were, and unobserving--how crafty, subtle, all-seeing himself. An idea struck him. It might be fun, after he got out in the street, say half an hour later--it would be fun to come back, ascend the stairs again, approach the surprised couple and address them, saying, "Here is your bag, see how easy it was, you didn't even know it was gone, did you?" The young man would half rise, the girl would look down at the bench beside her and exclaim, "Well of all--!" What would be the fun of getting away with it if you couldn't tell about it, show how clever you were, how easy it had been? Otherwise it would all be wasted. But he needed the money too, he wanted it now; and afterward his only concern would be to get rid of the bag, leave it in some impossible fabulous place where it would never turn up, never again, in his or anyone else's life.