Vladimir Nabokov. La pelea
I drank the rest of my beer and ran out too, feeling a gust of moist wind rush pleasantly over my face.
They were standing face-to-face on the black, rain-lustrous sidewalk, and both were yelling. I could not catch all the words in the crescendo of this roaring ruckus, but there was one word that was distinctly and continually repeated: twenty, twenty, twenty. Several people had already stopped to have a look at the quarrel—I myself was enthralled by it, by the reflections of the streetlamp on the distorted faces, the strained sinew in Krause's naked neck; for some reason it brought back a splendid scuffle I had once had in a seaport