Дэвид Копперфильд

My First Dissipation

           

           Aman,sittinginapigeon-hole-place,lookedoutofthefog,andtookmoneyfromsomebody,inquiringifIwasoneofthegentlemenpaidfor,andappearingratherdoubtful(asIrememberintheglimpseIhadofhim)whethertotakethemoneyformeornot.Shortlyafterwards,wewereveryhighupinaveryhottheatre,lookingdownintoalargepit,thatseemedtometosmoke;thepeoplewithwhomitwascrammedweresoindistinct.Therewasagreatstage,too,lookingverycleanandsmoothafterthestreets;andtherewerepeopleuponit,talkingaboutsomethingorother,butnotatallintelligibly.Therewasanabundanceofbrightlights,andtherewasmusic,andtherewereladiesdownintheboxes,andIdon’tknowwhatmore.Thewholebuildinglookedtomeasifitwerelearningtoswim;itconducteditselfinsuchanunaccountablemanner,whenItriedtosteadyit.

           Onsomebody’smotion,weresolvedtogodownstairstothedress-boxes,wheretheladieswere.Agentlemanlounging,fulldressed,onasofa,withanopera-glassinhishand,passedbeforemyview,andalsomyownfigureatfulllengthinaglass.ThenIwasbeingusheredintooneoftheseboxes,andfoundmyselfsayingsomethingasIsatdown,andpeopleaboutmecrying‘Silence!’tosomebody,andladiescastingindignantglancesatme,andwhat!yes!Agnes,sittingontheseatbeforeme,inthesamebox,withaladyandgentlemanbesideher,whomIdidn’tknow.

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