Английский с Шерлоком Холмсом. Человек с рассеченной губой / Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock Holmes

Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbor. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.

As I entered (как /только/ я вошел), a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply of the drug (смуглый малаец-слуга поспешил ко мне с трубкой и порцией наркотика), beckoning me to an empty berth (кивая мне на свободную койку).

“Thank you. I have not come to stay (я не пришел, чтобы остаться = не могу остаться),” said I. “There is a friend of mine here (здесь находится мой друг), Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him (и я желаю = хотел бы поговорить с ним).”

There was a movement and an exclamation from my right (было движение и восклицание справа от меня: «с моего права»), and peering through the gloom I saw Whitney (и, вглядываясь через = во тьму, я увидел Уитни), pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me (бледного, изможденного и растрепанного, глядящего пристально на меня).

movement ['mu:vmnt], haggard ['haed], staring ['ster]

As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

“Thank you. I have not come to stay,” said I. “There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.”

There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the gloom I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me.

“My God (о, Боже)! It's Watson,” said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction (он был в жалком состоянии реакции = спада), with every nerve in a twitter (с каждым нервом в возбуждении = весь трепетал). “I say, Watson, what o'clock is it (послушайте, Ватсон, который час)?”

“Nearly eleven (почти одиннадцать).”

“Of what day (какого дня)?”

“Of Friday, June 19th.”