Дэвид Копперфильд

My First Dissipation

           Iwasverypaleinthelooking-glass;myeyeshadavacantappearance;andmyhaironlymyhair,nothingelse—lookeddrunk.

           Somebodysaidtome,‘Letusgotothetheatre,Copperfield!’Therewasnobedroombeforeme,butagainthejinglingtablecoveredwithglasses;thelamp;Graingeronmyrighthand,Markhamonmyleft,andSteerforthopposite—allsittinginamist,andalongwayoff.Thetheatre?Tobesure.Theverything.Comealong!ButtheymustexcusemeifIsaweverybodyoutfirst,andturnedthelampoff—incaseoffire.

           Owingtosomeconfusioninthedark,thedoorwasgone.Iwasfeelingforitinthewindow-curtains,whenSteerforth,laughing,tookmebythearmandledmeout.Wewentdownstairs,onebehindanother.Nearthebottom,somebodyfell,androlleddown.SomebodyelsesaiditwasCopperfield.Iwasangryatthatfalsereport,until,findingmyselfonmybackinthepassage,Ibegantothinktheremightbesomefoundationforit.

           Averyfoggynight,withgreatringsroundthelampsinthestreets!Therewasanindistincttalkofitsbeingwet.Iconsidereditfrosty.Steerforthdustedmeunderalamp-post,andputmyhatintoshape,whichsomebodyproducedfromsomewhereinamostextraordinarymanner,forIhadn’thaditonbefore.Steerforththensaid,‘Youareallright,Copperfield,areyounot?’andItoldhim,‘Neverberrer.

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